We are a small restaurant (when compared to giants such as Applebee’s, Chili’s and Outback). Our maximum occupancy is somewhere just above 100. (Go and count how many people are at Red Lobster next time you’re there.)

That said, we remember a lot of faces. It’s easy when you only see 150 of them any given night. And regulars are even easier to remember. We have a limited menu and they usually order the same thing. It’s hell remembering John Smith for his name but if you ask me how many helpings of shrimp sauce that dude wants, I won’t even blink before I tell you “three”.

My co-worker, Sami, had a gentleman (and I use that term loosely) sitting all alone at one of our hibachi tables. He had applied to be a chef six months prior but had been rejected for two reasons:

1. He couldn’t cook to save his life.
2. He couldn’t do knife tricks to save his life.

He thought is was because:

1. He was black.

We’ve got three chefs: one guy from Ohio, one from Florida and a guy from Indonesia. I don’t think race had much to do with it.

Anyway, he came in with a chip on his shoulder and proceeded to order some of the most expensive stuff on the menu. When he was done, he ordered not one but two desserts. As Sami went into the back to prepare his desserts, he walked out of the restaurant without saying a word to anyone.

Let’s back up a minute. We have this dude’s current address on file, social security number, phone number and whatever it is interviewers collect from applicants.

Not only that, but he works as a cook at the restaurant right across the street.

So the next day, we call the police, tell them he skipped out on a sixty dollar bill and we get a check from him that week.

Of course there was no tip.

Last week, I had a Russian family of four that looked like they had just jumped off the last potato wagon coming to America. The father had the thickest Russian accent I had encountered in my time at my Japenese restaurant and the mother had an even thicker aroma of vodka coming from lips. The family huddled around their bowls of fried rice like they were bonfires in downtown Moscow on a winter night.

And if this family is indicative of Russian hospitality it’s no wonder Hitler turned his back on those guys halfway through World War II. This family was beyond rude. “Is dis ze only vod-KA you have?! That is incomprehensible!” They rang up a bill of 65 dollars and tipped me two.

Listen, guys. You went to space first. You developed nuclear weapons and built a civilization on a huge sheet of ice. I know you guys can figure that’s no better than a 3% tip.

As they left, my manager April informed me that one of them had left their jacket. My initial reaction was to throw that thing away in the server’s trash can behind the kitchen curtain. But then I had a better idea.

I went outside, tracked down the mother and father, and said:

“When you left your three percent tip you also left your jacket. Have a great night.”

The mother looked confused. The father looked furious. The kids were eating turnips or whatever it is small Russian children do. I just walked inside.

I thought about saying “Don’t tread on me” but I thought that a bit too much.

In our restaurant, we get a lot of “regular couples”; men and women that come in at least once a week, sit at the same table and order relatively the same thing.

We have a “regular couple” that sits at the sushi bar every Friday just about. The man has a ponytail longer than Barbie’s and the wife is always drunk and kissing on her husband like Mr. Ed on Wilbur Post.

Well, only one half of the “regular couple” came in: the husband. He was escorted by a woman that, in her 30’s probably looked mightily hot but in her late 40’s looked like she had a leather wallet for a vagina. Her face was torn up from all the cigarettes she’d smoked and her forehead was in complete juxtaposition to the rest of her wrinkled body from what I’m guessing was three-too-many Botox injections.

They also entered the building and proceeded to kiss each other as sloppily as a horse would kiss another horse.

In short, she was ugly. Sadly she looked better than his wife.

As they sat down, our waitress who had served there the longest, Sami, came up and asked me:

Sami: “Where’s his wife? Who’s that woman?”
Me: “I have no idea. At least she looks better than his wife.”
Sami: “He has new girlfriend. Cheating?”
Me: “I guess. Are they good tippers?”
Sami: “No.”
Me: “Damn.”

So I took their order and as I was serving them, I noticed something:

He was wearing his wedding ring. On the same hand that she was kissing.

You women want to know why men cheat? There’s no deep sociological or psychological meaning. It has nothing to do with upbringing or class or race or economic level. Men cheat for the simple fact that they can. Men cheat because there are desperate enough women with leather-y enough vaginas that ruin it for the rest of you girls. Men cheat because they know they can have it both: a woman at home to always rely on and a woman to have an exciting and nervous fuck with.

So the two left and as they drunkenly stumbled out of the restaurant, I saw the man get a phone call. I sincerely hope it wasn’t his wife at home. With their two kids. Counting the minutes until she’d have him home to provide the steady breathing on her neck so that she could fall asleep as comfortably as she had for however many years they’d been together.

Kind of sickening when I think about it that way.

Old Man: “You don’t look Japanese. Can we get a different server?”
Me: “You don’t look Japanese. Can I get a different customer?”