Waitressing has its highs and lows and yesterday's shift had both. I got busy to the point where a line is crossed between aiming to provide a quality dining experience and aiming to avoid a complaint. At the peak of the frenzy I had a table of Francophones (a departure from the tourist/business tourist clientele) in for happy hour. I went around the table taking drink orders and came to a particularly miserable looking woman.
She was sporting what could only be explained as a drunken, left-handed application of mascara extending far beyond the reach of her eyelashes, an insubordinate mess of badly over bleached hair and a caffeine addled expression of the stale-pot-of-Folgers-at-the office variety: Feral … Approach with caution.
She asked for something pretty basic - A side of fries. The Quebecois tendency to hork and/or effect a mucous-y pronunciation of many words turned frites into something entirely unrecognizable in this case, and threw me for a loop. I politely asked her to repeat herself. She turned 180 degrees in her seat to face me and with as much acid as can possibly be inflicted into a single sentence, spat “In Quebec, we speak French!”
The C word came to mind, but I kept it to myself. She refused to look at me for the duration of her stay, answering my queries as to whether she would like another beer with disdainful snorts. I let off some steam with another server by extolling the virtues of tactics such as drawing penises or writing “fuck you” in sauce under a patron’s dessert, then seething with satisfaction while they take unsuspecting bites of your chocolatey expression of disgust.
When presented with the bills they complained about the price of the Sangria (which I would agree is grossly overpriced, but in accordance with the “tourist tax” that affects prices in most areas of downtown, especially Crescent Street – as a local you should know better, no excuse). Asking for exact change on each of their seven bills, they stared me down with beady eyes as I fumbled for nickels. There is a special place in hell for people like this, and it’s called salmonella poisoning. Or, should I say, salmonelle. Agh.
Things took a turn for the better by the end of the night, however. My last table was a group of pervy business men from Toronto. One of them ordered a Captain Morgan’s and coke, and when I asked him if he’d like dark or spiced he said that he liked ‘em dark and spicy. I said that I regrettably could not help him in that area, but I’d heard that such things can be found in Montreal for the right price. We spent some time debating whether the girl at the next table with two older men was a “rental” (his words, not mine). I got an earful of old man perspective on guage piercings, of which a striking example was being sported by a nearby patron. This guy that they kept calling Dot Com for some unknown reason (maybe he’s bankrupt?) asked me if I knew where they could find some pot. I asked him what his wife would think. They tipped me $40 on a bill for $120. All was suddenly right in the world, Franco lady eat your heart out.
If only all tables were like this. My word of advice to that lady, however misguided her anger may have been, is watch out. Like in the server cult classic “Waiting”, we will have our revenge. And when it comes, it will rain down on you and your frites in a vicious, unrelenting storm. No but really, I’m over it. Really.
