• Fri, Apr 2 2010

An Open Letter From A Waitress to Brandy Alexander, My Least Favorite Customer

My Name Is Scotch.

Hey, Brandy Alexander. It’s me. Your waitress. From the steakhouse! Fun piece there about how I ignore you while paying attention to your boyfriend. It’s because I like your boyfriend more than you.

I mean, not just now. Obviously I like him more now that you’ve bitched inanely about how you are not being served precisely the way you want because you are a very special princess. But in general, I like him more because I stand to make more money from him.

Not that that actually influences who I pour the wine for, or who I hand the check to, or any of that. I do that because it’s restaurant protocol. My manager has told me to do it that way, so I do it that way, because otherwise I would seem as though I wasn’t following the restaurant’s rules and might get fired. The fact that that didn’t occur to you just makes you a jackass, but that’s cool.

But beyond that, the thing is, I’m not here to serve your feminist agenda. I’m not all about “sisters keeping it together” or whatever bullshit theory you’re invoking to have me pour you wine before your boyfriend. No, the only reason I’m here is to make money, so I can graduate with a degree that insures that I’ll never need to work in the food service industry ever again.

Why? Because the food service industry sucks. My arms hurt from carrying trays around all the time. I live in perpetual terror of dropping stuff. The cook is, arguably, a great cook, but is also a religious fanatic who somehow happens to be spouting off lines about sinners every time I go into the kitchen, and I’m convinced that one day he’s going to snap and poison everyone.  And for extra special funsies, I get to deal with girls like you, Brandy Alexander who complain over things that are not actually issues (these are the girls who worry that the white napkin will leave lint on their black dresses and why can’t I make the napkin different because it is unacceptable and ohmyfuckinggodIhateyou. Incidentally, groups of men never put me through that shit. Ever). The only real perk is that when the tips are good, they’re really good.

So I pay more attention to the man at the table because at the restaurant I work at 9 times out of 10 the man will be paying. God help me for saying this, because this should not be the case, but tables of men also always tip better than tables of women (to be fair, maybe that’s because I snarl at them when they want me to magically make the napkins different colors). In general though, sure I want to keep everyone at the table very happy. Sure, if you seem like a genuinely great couple I might actually really like both of you. I mean, we’re not going to hang out, because that would be creepy and you have no idea what my name is, but I will actively discourage anyone in the kitchen from spitting in the proximity of your food. Sort of. But sweets, by and large, I’m going to get more out of taking extra special care of the man at the table than I am the woman. That’s just how it goes.

In conclusion, and I think I’ve said this three times, but you don’t seem all that quick on the uptake, Brandy, I’m going to try to cater to whoever I think will be paying the bill at the end of the evening. Experience has taught me that it will generally be the man. You want extra special treatment? Make it clear at the beginning that you’ll be footing the bill. Hell, you want really, really good treatment, I will dance like a monkey for you if you promise me a 25% tip. It’s that simple.

Oh, and until then? Shut the fuck up.

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  • brandyalexander

    Oh god, here we go, making all of these wild assumptions that I’m the same woman who needs a new napkin and whines about the service. And assumes that I’m not toiling away at a job that’s beneath me. And assumes that I fear you have a hard-on for my boyfriend when I’m simply pointing out what you yourself admitted: that you think the men tip more, and have also been instructed to cater to their whims as the expense of my dignity.

    Poor, poor, down and out Scotch. You’re the sort of person who uses the phrase Feminist Agenda like other people say the word Calculus or Taxes or Gonorrhea, I can tell. No sense of humor.

    No wonder women don’t leave you good tips.