At my restaurant, our manager April encourages us to ask the customer if we or the chef did something wrong if we receive an incredibly low tip or are stiffed. And I’m not talking 5%-low…I’m talking 2 dollars on a $100 tab.

Most of the time, the family feigns ignorance and thinks that the tip is included. Other times, they think they left an extra 20 and promptly drop a Jackson to rectify the problem. Very rarely is the family upset with something the restaurant did.

Last week a family of five orders up over $100 worth of food and then leaves $103 in tip book and says, “Keep the change.”

They stay a few extra minutes so I take this opportunity to ask if anything was wrong. In truth, I’ve only asked a customer about the tip two or three times.

So I walk up to the table with a smile on my face and not a trace of frustration in my voice.

Me: “Hey, guys. Was there anything wrong with the chef or my service tonight?”
Father: “No, why?”
Me: “Oh…well…just because you left me a little less than 3 dollars on over a $100 tab.”
Father: “Oh. That.”
Me: “Yea.”
Father: “We’re just cheap.”

At least they were honest. I can’t imagine coming to a mid- to high-priced restaurant with your family of five if you’re “cheap” though. You can order 100 dollars worth of food (complete with appetizers and drinks from the bar) yet stiff the server. Doesn’t make much sense to me.

Me: (In the bathroom, washing my hands)
Customer: “Oh, wow. Sorry.”
Me: “No, it’s okay. I’m almost done washing my hands.”
Customer: “You shouldn’t do that on the clock.”
Me: “Do what?”
Customer: “Be in the bathroom washing your hands.”
Me: “I think the people I just dropped food off for might disagree with you on that one.”

The other night, I got a group of boys and girls that made it their mission to piss me off as much as possible.

Thinking they were better than everyone else in the restaurant (as teenagers are wont to do) one young man wanted a beer. When I asked him for his ID, he responded with, “Dude, don’t you know me?”

All of his girl friends giggled as if he was some important dude. To me, he was just another metrosexual-looking douche with Fallout Boy-hair, a lip-ring and jeans that looked like my little sister couldn’t even fit into.

Me: “Uh…know you? Do you go to (name of my school)?”
Him: “Naw, man. I’m in Bury The Hatchet. We play around here all the time.”
Me: “A band?”
Him: “Yea. I play drums.”
Me: “Unless you can show me an over-21 ID or you’re John Bonham’s grandson, you’re not getting a beer.”
Him: “John Bonham? Who’s John Bonham?”
Me: “Are you kidding me?”
Girl 1: “Isn’t he the drummer for New Found Glory?”
Girl 2: “No, he’s the drummer for Blink-182.”

Go. Fuck. Yourself.

Me: “How about this…three minutes each. Drum-off. You beat me, I’ll buy you a beer every time you come into (name of restaurant). Here’s my address. Oh, and you got your cell phone on you? My number is (my number).”
Him: “How long you been playing?”
Me: “Should it matter? You’re in Bury The Hatchet, right? You’ve gotta be good!”
Him: “I don’t drum for just anyone.”
Me: “You should make it far in the music industry.”

April (My manager): “Hey, can these two move to another table? They have some friends over there and want to sit next to them.”
Customer: “Yea, it’s nothing against you, it’s just that we…”
Me: “Dude, it’s alright. I’d do the same thing.”

(They leave)

Female Customer at table: “I thought that was very rude.”
Me: “Uh…huh?”
Wife: “The way you and your manager talked about them in front of them.”
Me: “I…uh…don’t get it?”
Wife: “And you gave them a thumbs up when they left. Very rude.”
Me: (Confused)
Wife: “And that LOOK you’re giving me! That’s rude TOO!”
Me: “Ma’am, I’m giving you the same look your husband is.”
Wife: “You can’t back me up just once, can you?”
Husband: “Check, please.”