Before I begin this post, I must admit, I liked our “secret sauce” before I started working at our restaurant. I didn’t slather it on every morsel of food I ate, mind you. But, I would always take a portion of it, put it in my fried rice, and eat. Simple as that. It was fairly creamy, and was a good alternative to all the salty soy sauces and bitter ginger sauces we have to offer.

What I witnessed the other night will force me to never, EVER eat our “secret sauce” ever again.

A morbidly obese woman made her way into our restaurant. Now let’s stop right there. When I see a somewhat overweight man or woman, the words “morbidly obese” don’t come to the forefront of my mind. I know we’re an overweight nation and for me to describe someone as “morbidly obese”, you’ve got to have a problem.

So the woman comes in, sits down and orders a couple of rolls of sushi. Nothing out of the ordinary yet, right?

When she gets her sushi, she asks if she can have some of our “secret sauce” (commonly referred to as “shrimp sauce”, “orange sauce”, etc…). I tell her, “Sure,” and proceed to fetch her a saucer to put some of the “secret sauce” in.

Lo and behold, when I return, I am greeted with a furrowed brow and a disappointed look. With a mouthful of sushi, she exclaims that she wants a “bowl of the stuff”.

For those that don’t know, our bowls hold about 24 ounces. I get her a little under half a bowl (10-12 ounces) which should be more than enough for her and her three rolls of sushi. I thought wrong because what I heard next almost made me retch.

Her: “I like to dip my sushi in the sauce and eat the sauce a couple of times before eating the sushi. Can I have a full bowl?”

Jesus H. Christ. She likes to use her pieces of sushi as some sort of “Fun Dip” so that she can literally suck the sauce off the sushi a couple of times before she eats the sushi itself.

I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in.

After downing the entire bowl of sauce, she asked “What’s in that special sauce?”

Me: “It’s mostly butter and milk, I believe.”
Her: “I should have known. I absolutely LOVE butter.”

Yes, ma’am. Yes you do.

Note: I’m revising my last post in this entry for the simple fact that I keep forgetting you guys aren’t familiar with what city I’m in, where my restaurant is located in the city, the racial/cultural/economic boundaries in my city and, as a writer, that’s all my fault. I’ll try my best in the future to give you guys some decent background when I’m writing from now on.

Every now and again, a family will come in and bring their loud-mouthed son or daughter into the restaurant. And every now and again, they will say something so socially awkward, so incredibly uncomfortable, I have to remove myself from the table, print out a blank receipt and write it down.

Case in point:

A family of four came in. In the city I live, there are obvious boundaries in town in terms of economic and racial diversity. For example, in one part of town, the population “diversity” goes as follows:

1. 90% white
2. Small percentage of hispanics, blacks and asians.

It’s near a major interstate and as a result is also filled with low-income housing. This is the section of town that is closest to our restaurant and naturally we see a lot of families from the closest section of town to our restaurant.

Anyways, the family of four is all by themselves at the table so far. It is painfully obvious this table is from the closest section of town. The father is wearing a shirt with a rebel flag on the back of it with a portrait of Dale Earnhardt strewn across like some Nascar/bald eagle hybrid. He’s talking into his cell phone and hangs up rather quickly as I come by their table.

Maybe he hung up because of the subject of the conversation. Maybe it was that he is a consicentous customer at restaurants. The only thing I know were the words that came out of his daughter’s mouth next:

Little Girl: “Daddy, what’s a ‘nigger’?”
Me: “Holy crap.”

Parents, if you’re going to be throwing around words like “nigger” at home or in restaurants, at least have the common decency to tell your four year old girl what it means. For example:

Dad: “Oh man, this nigger at work the other day was…oh, gotta call you back, Jim. Susie’s in the room.”
Susie: “Daddy, what’s a ni…”
Dad: “Whoa whoa whoa there, Susie. I didn’t mean to say ni…uh…that word.”
Susie: “But what is one?”
Dad: “Well, Susie. It’s an evil demon that lives in the cracks of sidewalks and if you ever…and I mean EVER fucking say that word, it will come out of the ground and rip your frickin’ eyes out. Do I make myself clear?”
Susie: (trembling) “Yes, Daddy.”
Dad: “Now run along, little Susie and go develop an eating disorder so the kids at school will like you.”

See how easy that was, parents?

Guys and girls, tell me if I’m wrong.

I’m just about finished with cleaning the women’s bathroom last night when a girl came rushing in.

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll be right out.”
Her: “No, it’s okay. I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”
Me: “Uh…no…I’ll be right outside.”
Her: “No, it’s…”
(Sound of door closing)

When I went outside, my co-workers John and Yuki asked what was going on. I informed them that a girl had gone into the restroom and didn’t mind that I stay in there. Yuki, drunk on flavored-sake, replied that he would peep over the door and ask if “everything was alright in there.”

Yuki is an 18 year old in a 29 year old’s body.

John sarcastically remarked that he loved listening to the sound of a girl going to the bathroom echoing off the hollow walls of a restroom. At least I hope it was sarcastic.

My question is: Should I have stayed in there? Was I justified in leaving? And to the girls, does it really not matter if someone is in the bathroom. A guy can go no problem with someone else in the bathroom, but I think the rules are a bit different for the ladies. Let me know your opinion.

Last night at work, I was serving another one of those douchebag families with a couple of douchebag kids that seemed to always cross the line between “precocious” and “arrogant little shit”.

Backstory: The mother ordered not one, not two, not three but FOUR FRICKIN’ DRINKS AT THE SAME TIME. All you other servers know about the “Multiple-Drink-Orderer”. Usually it’s only two…maybe three drinks. Oh no. This bitch was working overtime: Water. Diet Coke. Sweet Tea. Sayonara (rum-based speciality drink). Even the kids ordered three drinks each. That’s how frickin’ above everyone else these people were.

Anyway, I’m done taking their drink orders and start back to the kitchen to get the THIRTEEN DRINKS FOR THE FAMILY OF FOUR when the mother turns around and shrieks, “Excuse me!?”

Me: “Oh…I’m sorry ma’am? I didn’t…uh…”
Her: “How dare you ignore my child like that.”
Me: “Ummm…ignore? He wanted the shirley temple, water and…”
Her: “No, smart ass. He said, ‘Hi’ to you and you just ignored him!”
Me: “Oh. Well, hello there.”
Her: “It’s too late now. The moment is gone.”

“The moment is gone”? “Smart ass”? What the hell? Where do you people come from?