Last night, an older couple came into my restaurant and ordered some sushi. The woman just wanted some soup and salad. That’s cool. We weren’t busy and I could care less.

A few minutes after bringing the soup, the lady was done and asked if she could have another one. A few minutes later she asked again for another one. Then, when the guy was done with his meal, she asked for one to go. Ma’am, it’s just chicken broth and some french onion bits. You can make it yourself for less money than four soups at our place.

When I gave them the check, she grabbed me by the arm and asked “I thought you said you were going to give me some soup.”

Me: (pointing at empty soup bowls and to-go soup) “Umm…I did?”
Her: “No. I thought you were going to give them to me.”
Me: “I don’t think that’s how restaurants work, ma’am.”
Her: “Well, you’re just a smart-ass, aren’t you?”
Me: “You can take it up with my manager if you feel you weren’t treated fairly.”
Her: “Maybe I will.”
Me: “Okay, I’ll go get her for y..”
Her: (interrupting) “No, no, no. Don’t do that! I’ll just pay the damn bill.”

Sorry, ma’am. I know how confusing today’s world is compared to your freeloading generation of decades ago where young people could get soup in restaurants and not pay for it. I blame making old people pay for the food THEY ASKED FOR IN THE FIRST PLACE on the degradation of society as a whole.

P.S. Yes, ma’am. I agree that I should go to Hell for making you pay for the food you ate at our restaurant.

As I walk into the bathroom, I hear someone talking very excitedly into the phone in the closed-door stall. Curious, I listen in as I use the urinal.

Him: “Listen, baby, I’m here with my wife. How’s an hour sound?…Okay…Yea…Yea…No, that won’t work…Yea!…Okay, see you then.”

The look he gave me as he walked out of the stall and saw me washing my hands was one of first confusion and then fear. My expression nearly matched his as I realized this was the same man who just minutes ago I was serving onion soup and two Philadelphia sushi rolls to. I didn’t know this dude was my customer.

For the rest of the meal, the knot in my stomach made its way up into my throat as I saw this man affectionately kiss his wife, hold her hand with his left and feed his infant daughter steamed rice and cheerios with his right. I wonder if she had any idea. I wonder if their marriage was any good. I wonder if they laid in bed until 2 in the morning talking like my girlfriend and I do. I wonder if when he came back to the house he’d made a home, he showered before kissing his wife hello.

As they left, I heard the man say, “Okay, honey. I’ll catch up with you two at the house. I’ve gotta help Donald with something with his car.” She kissed him, smiled and walked out the front door and into her car. He stayed at the bar a few extra minutes and then jumped into his own car. I guess he’d thought ahead and brought two.

He was smiling too.

Last week this douche comes in forty minutes late for his reservation demanding he and his party of twelve be seated immediately. But not until he told our hostess, Liz, how he felt about her.

Him: “What’s up, sweet cheeks?”
Liz: “Excuse me?”
Him: “You heard me.”

So he sits down and not five minutes into my serving, he asks to speak with a manager.

Him: “If I don’t get a new server soon, my party and I are leaving.”
Manager: “Umm…is something the matter?”
Him: “You heard me.”

With that exchange, April (the manager) informs me what’s up and that she’s going to have to give the party to Laisay (pronounced Lay-Say). As Laisay’s about to take the table, Liz informs Laisay and I of this guy’s sexist exchange with her.

Not only that, but this guy’s been in our restaurant before and refused to be waited on by a dude. He literally pitches a fit until he gets a female server that he can sexually harass. Management just caves because he’s a regular and spends a lot of money.

So April gives me the choice: Take the guy and endure his abuse or give him to Laisay. Screw him. It’s a party of 6 or more so I can automatically tip them 18% AND I hate creepies. That, and Laisay’s a cool chick and doesn’t deserve his sexual harassment.

I go back over to the table, look the guy in the eye and say, “I’m sorry that I’m not serving up to your level of standard, sir. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.” No smile. No wisecrack. No look. I said it with a straight face and a level gaze. With trepidation in his voice and a nervous smile, he replies, “Oh…I’m sorry…I…well…I…” and trailed off.

It has begun.

From that moment on, I did everything above and beyond the call of duty. Drinks were refilled before they got below halfway. I checked on every person at that table at least every ten minutes. Of course, this guy found some way to still fuck with me.

As their appetizers, the party of twelve put in seven seperate sushi orders. When I brought each one to the table, I memorized what was on the plate (since sushi rolls all look the frickin’ same) so as to make it easier for me to find out who had what.

Me: “Okay. Who had the three pieces of white tuna and the California roll?”
Him: “Do you really expect allof us to remember what we ordered seperately?”
Me: “Yea. Kind of.”
Everyone else at the table: Hahahahahahahaha! (At him.)

Everyone’s on my side. WHAT NOW?

At the end of the meal, without any more incidents, the guy has the balls to go up to my manager and (drunkenly) complain about me. I asked April what he said. She had no idea and just nodded when appropriate. As he left, his last words were:

Him: “I’m not coming back here until this is fixed!”
April: “Well, I guess we won’t see you for a little while then.”

Until whatis fixed? We stop letting men serve tables? Try “Hooters” across the parking lot, sir. They’re use to the harassment.

Girlfriend: “Yea, just wash the shirt I gave you in cold water before you wear it.”
Me: “I wash all my colors in cold water.”
Girlfriend: “Okay, Andrew Jackson.”