Last weekend, we had a party of older women and who I’m guessing were their grandchildren. They sat at one of those tables that seats anywhere from 8 to 10 people and the chef cooks in front of them.

When you get your meal cooked in front of you, the chef likes to talk to the customers. Joke, talk about where the customer is from, why they like their meat medium rare; stupid shit that gets a better tip for them and us.

A running joke among most of our chefs is to make the noise of the animal from where the meat came from (filet mignon: moo, chicken: cluck, etc…). When you get to the last person, you “meow” to imply that we’re serving you cat. Cute joke, huh?

Anyway, Kevin, one of our better chefs, does the joke every single night. People laugh every single night. Last weekend?

Kevin: (Passing out chicken) “Meow.”
Old Woman: “Excuse me?”
Kevin: “Oh, I’m just kidding around, you know?”
Old Woman: “There’s no kidding around with that.”

She then makes her way up to the bar and proceeds to bitch at our manager, April, about how that’s the “most inappropriate joke [she’d] heard in a long time.” So my friend (and co-worker) John cozy up next to the credit card machine and eavesdrop on the conversation.

Old Woman: “I’ve been in third-world countries and that’s a real reality.”
April: “Ma’am…this isn’t a third-world…”
Old Woman: “And I’m a cat enthusiast.”
April: “A cat enthusiast.”
Old Woman: “A cat enthusiast. And that joke…it just…just sickens me. I’m never coming back here again.”
April: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Guess it didn’t sicken you enough. You stayed at the bar until 45 minutes after closing. A little hint, Mrs. Cat Enthusiast: our sake is really cat urine. We’re living in a third-world country after all.

Every now and again, I’m going to bring back an older post that many of you frequenting my site may not have had the opportunity to read. Here is one of them now:

Let me tell you a little bit about what the restaurant industry does to a person: it makes them a racist/bigot/stereotype-ist. I hate to say it, but white people, on average, tip better than black people. Hispanics don’t tip at all. And the closer you get to death, the less you tip.

That’s why when I see a group of four or five old people, I groan. They are horribly bad tippers. Nothing you do changes your destiny. If the guy or gal uses Bengay, they’re tipping 8% or less. Guaranteed.

Of course, I get such a table early on in my shift tonight. Whatever. I’ve got another table of three thirty-year-old douchebags getting drunk on drinks I’d never even heard of so I figure my tips will even out.

The table of old people is surprisingly going smoothly so I’m not even really worried about the shit tip I’m about to receive when I overhear one of the older women saying:

“You know Blanch’s youngest son…John I think it was…well…he just came out of the closet yesterday!”

Then another woman replies, “Oh, goodness…a homosexual? I just spoke with him last week!”

Now, I’m no gay-rights activist, but “I just spoke with him last week”? The guy wasn’t in a plane crash. He just likes holding other dude’s hands. And when he pats a guy on the ass during football, he means it.

Throughout their entire dinner, I couldn’t get those two lines of dialogue out of my head. When the two couples asked for their checks, I decided to do something about it. Just below the total, I wrote a little note to one of the guys saying:

“Hey cutie! Give me a call! ***.***.****”

Don’t believe me?

P.S. Another stereotype I learned tonight: Old people that can’t take a joke tip even less than regular old people.

Note: I don’t want to turn this into a pro- or anti-Christian debate. Personally, I can find the beauty in most religions/ways of life. Any comments that I deem offensive to ANYONE (fans of Marilyn Manson not included) will be deleted and I’ll have you banned from reading the site. In short, don’t be douches.

Happy Easter, boys and girls. In lieu of the day we use to remember Christ’s rising from the dead and participating in the world’s very first Easter egg hunt, I thought I’d share a story centering on those that made chocolate bunnies and marshmallow peeps a fixture in Western culture.

The other night I had a kindly old man and woman. They were pretty decent people and fairly good customers. They had a lot of questions, but they were nice about asking questions (i.e. not demanding answers).

At the end of the meal, the man said “Thank you so much for your service. Keep the change.” And then they were gone. Inside were two things:

1. A three dollar tip on a 51 dollar bill.
2. A Christian tract.

For those that don’t know what a tract is, visit here. I’ll wait.

Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but according to these 3 x 5 reminders on how to live my life, Christ’s message was one of love. Not bad tipping, jackasses. Hell, you people didn’t even give me 10%. You gave the 70 year old preacher who told you a couple of bad jokes, washed your forehead with some water and put a piece of bread on your tounge a frickin’ Jackson.

But not me. Let’s look at the similarities between me and my restaurant and your pastor/rabbi/etc… and place of worship.

Me - Busting my ass and sweating bullets for an hour to get you what you need.
Church - Not so much “busting ass”, but the sweating and hour thing match up.

Me - When you were thirsty, I gave you something to drink. When you were hungry, I fed you.
Church - This has to be a verse in Matthew or Mark or something, right?

Me - You complain about the music.
Church - Yup.

How can you possibly justify this to God when you reach the pearly gates?

God: “10 percent is 10 percent, guys.”
You: “We thought it just meant church.”
God: “Shoulda rented the movie. See ya.”
Satan: “You bitches tipped 3 bucks on how much?! Stick ‘em with Judas. That shit ain’t kosher, guys.”

At least that’s how I think it’d go down.

This is Part IV in a four-part series designed to inform the public on how to be better customers. You can read Part I here, Part II here or Part III here.

I warned you last week that this is the part of the series that gets a little dicey. Some might even go so far as to say that I’m being offensive or racist, but I genuinely don’t care. All I care about is bringing you the truth and I’m not going to veil it in false compassion or tolerance. If you are offended by what I say next then I suggest you look within yourself to ask why you’re offended. Is it because you’re an upstanding citizen that shudders at the thought of judgment, or is it because you truly do exhibit the stereotypes I’m about to describe.

The only thing I ask is that you read this in its entirety before jumping to any judgments or conclusions of your own. Here goes.

White People:
This is the general demographic I wait on the most and boy are you guys uppity. White people, on the whole, have generally been in restaurants more than blacks, hispanics, asians, etc… and as a result have much more knowledge about possible drinks, appetizers, meals you can order.

That’s both good and bad.

Good because for some that means you know what you want and you’re quick to order. No fuss, no nothing. You want this meal with this drink and this appetizer and it’s relatively quick and painless.

Bad because since you’ve had more restaurant experience than any other demographic, you’re more likely to argue with me because our restaurant doesn’t make it a certain way. “I’ve had it done this way at a hundred restaurants,” you’ll exclaim. “Why can’t you do it here?”

Your experience in more restaurants than anyone else gives you an air of expectation that is unmatched by any other race. You believe you deserve better because you believe you are better.

That just doesn’t fly with me.

We, as a restaurant, try to serve the same food to everyone regardless of experience in other restaurants. And by you trying to coerce us into bending the rules tells me, as a server, that you think you’re above 99% of the other customers in this place that compromise their tastes to the restaurant setting they’re given.

And from what I can ascertain, white people are also the thirstiest. I get an average of four refills on sweet teas, sodas and alcoholic-drinks per customer. Sweet Jesus, it’s like our front doors are the gates to the Sahara or something.

Sparknotes version: White people are know-it-alls that believe they deserve preferential treatment and infinite refills because they’ve been to oh-so-many restaurants.

Black People:
This is the second-largest demographic I come in contact with as a server. Bring on the hate for what I’m about to say:

Black people, on the whole, don’t tip worth anything.

Take that above statement any way you’d like. Take it as black people trying to get back at “The Man”. Take it as black people not knowing societal tipping rules. Take it as black people not having the resources to shell out a 20% tip every time. Take it as ignorance, arrogance or downright revenge, but please, for the love of God, take it.

I cannot begin to tell you how many black couples I’ve had come in to my restaurant, get fairly good service and leave 4 dollars on a $100 bill. One man even asked me to break a hundred for “the sake of the tip”.

He then proceeded to leave me 2 dollars and change.

Black people are also the most likely to come into the restaurant with outside food from McDonalds and Chick-Fil-A and order minimally from our menu for whatever reason.

On a more positive note, black people will rarely, if ever, ask for a refill. They have their drink and they ration that bad boy out to the end of the meal.

Sparknotes version: Black people don’t tip but they’re not as thirsty as white people. They don’t require the amount of service most other demographics do and tip proportionate to the amount of service they ask for.

P.S. I will delete any and all comments pertaining to SPECIFIC examples of black people tipping wonderfully. One detailed anecdote’s not going to change my, or the people who read my site’s, mind. Give me a more general view of how black people tip in your area.

Women:
You are the thirstiest of every single demographic and you let us in on it from the get-go by ordering three drinks at once.

“Yes, I’d like an unsweet tea, a margarita and a water with two limes, not lemons.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you paid more attention to the drink menu than the food menu.

Women are also the loudest. Louder than teenagers, louder than rednecks, louder than elephants. If they’ve had half a beer, you can bet the scream you heard across the restaurant is a middle-aged woman agreeing in the merits of the show “America’s Next Top Model”.

On the plus side, women usually know what they want from a menu and are the quickest to be in and out of their seats as they take a lot of their food home with them in to-go boxes. Quick turn around equals more customers, so more power to you, ladies.

Sparknotes version: Women are damn thirsty and their volume raises in relation to 1) how much alcohol they’ve consumed and 2) how many friends are with them.

Rednecks:
I’m going to start this by saying that I don’t believe all Southern people to be “rednecks”. “Rednecks” implies some sort of sub-standard intelligence. Most Southerners I’ve encountered are smart and quick-witted and well-versed in the art of cooking, music, agriculture and conversation.

Rednecks also don’t tip anything. I swear, Richard Petty could be serving you and you’d STILL only give him two quarters on a forty-dollar tab.

Rednecks are also most likely to be the ones with inappropriate Southern-slogans on the back of their shirt or a portrait of Dale Earnhardt with his hair blowing in the wind with the words “I Wanna Be With Dale Someday” under it on the back of their stained, white t-shirt.

But rednecks are generally nice, hospitable people that, while loud, will call you (no matter your age) “ma’am” and “sir”. That’s a nice change of pace.

But I’d trade that southern “hospitality” for a few more dollars any day of the week. Treat me like garbage and give me five more bucks. I’m begging you. I’ll even pretend to like NASCAR!

Me: “I like Jeff Gordon. He’s handsome.”
You: “Here’s five more dollars, my boy!”

And what is with the sweet tea? The more syrupy, the better. I will never understand you all’s fascination with that brown sugar water you guys call “sweet tuh”.

Sparknotes version: Rednecks are genuinely polite and tip as well as they brush their teeth.

Teenagers (regardless of race or economic class):
Your sense of entitlement goes through the roof. You frickin’ asshats believe that just because you scored on prom night that means anything to me. You scored the winning touchdown last night? Great. But that doesn’t mean you’re getting your drink any faster.

And what is up with thinking you can trick me into an alcoholic drink? When you walk through that door, the only thing a server sees is a low potential for a good tip and a high potential for getting mad at us for not giving you a drink from the bar.

What I’m about to say is morally and ethically inappropriate, but I don’t frickin’ care:

We’ll give you a drink if you show us an ID. No ID, no drink. ANY ID AT ALL, YES DRINK. I’m not going to study the thing like a textbook, and I’m going to spare myself the potential embarrassment of saying “That’s not you” only for it to actually be you.

So as long as you cover our ass, we’ll cover yours.

And another stereotype we servers hold over teenagers: dirt poor. We know you don’t have money. I sure as hell didn’t. But don’t blame us if we hold it against yourselves for ordering 4 bucks worth of food in a semi-classy joint at 7:00 on Friday night.

One last thing. It is NOT okay to order an appetizer for dinner. Go sit at the bar if all you want is our soft-shell crab and a water.

Sparknotes version: They’re poor, but whatever money they have will be spent on appetizers and alcohol.

Senior Citizens: The older they get, the slower they read their Reader’s Digest at my table and the less they tip.

As opposed to women, you will sit at a table, all by yourself as if it’s a requirement to the AARP or something. Why do you think it’s okay for you to bring a newspaper to a table in my section and sit there, munching on your appetizer-for-dinner and drinking your hot tea as if it’s your last meal.

Do you get served raw fish at a library? No. Do you read books for hours at a sushi restaurant? Yes. See the problem?

And you guys tip like there’s a second Great Depression right around the corner. It’s not 1929, people! Get it out of your heads that two dimes and a penny will buy you anything other than a swift kick in the pants.

Sparknotes version: I pay into Social Security. They spend their checks as if it’ll be their last. (And, hey, it might. But that doesn’t mean you have to act like it!)

I hope you all are not too disgusted with me after this.

This is Part IV in a four-part series designed to inform the public on how to be better customers. You can read Part I here, Part II here or Part III here.