Children can be a whiny, needy bunch. But is it just me or are parents using that to their advantage? Every day, I notice that more and more parents are exploiting the fact that we servers will hop to it when a little kid wants a refill or an extra side.

I absolutely love it when their kids call them out on it too.

Last night, I gave a little girl her lemonade when the mom, sounding angry for no good reason, demands that her little princess gets some extra cherries.

Mom: “My little girl wanted cherries. Why didn’t you get her cherries.”
Me: “I’m sorry, I must not have…”
Little Girl: “I didn’t ask for cherries, Mommy. I wanted…”
Mom: “Yes, you did.”

And then, in a whisper…

Mom: “We talked about this.”
Little Girl: (loudly) “But I don’t like cherries, Mommy. Why do I have to eat the ch…”
Mom: “She’ll have some cherries.”

That jerk of a woman. If you want cherries, lady, just ask for some. Why you’d want them to go with your Corona (at four-thirty in the afternoon, no less) is beyond me, but at least have the cajones to ask for them yourself.

So I come back with some cherries. Three to be exact.

Mom: “Only three?”
Me: “Would your daughter like some more?”
Mom: “Yes.”
Me: “And how many more would your daughter like?”
Mom: “Umm…five more.”

That tart bitch.

Customer service in America is nearly impossible.

In America, there is a sense of entitlement that is unmatched by any other country in the world. Americans believe that America is the greatest country in the world, so naturally Americans believe they are the greatest PEOPLE in the world and deserve the greatest SERVICE in the world.

And it’s not just adults, although middle-aged Americans can be some of the most self-centered people in the world. No, this sense of entitlement is being passed down to younger generations every day by mothers and fathers who feel that just because they have a little money to wave around, they deserve to be treated as though they were divinely-appointed kings and queens.

For example, a seven-year-old boy was drinking some pineapple juice the other day. We were out of the larger glasses (as this restaurant does quite frequently, we’re terribly-stocked) and so I brought the child his juice in a 16oz. glass instead of an (adult-size, mind you) 24oz. glass.

Sounds harmless, right? Not to this seven-year-old.

The kid: “Ummm…sir…why am I receiving a smaller glass than that of my parents?”
Me: (Shocked at his grammar and diction) “Oh, all the larger glasses are dirty. I’m sure that by your next refill the adult glasses will be…”
The kid: “That is unacceptable.”
Me: “That’s what?”
The kid: “That is unacceptable.”
Me: “Okay, well, what I can do is…”
The kid: “Take this glass (he hands me a cup from an adjacent table) and clean it. It’s not that hard.”

Are you kidding me? I wanted to scream at this little boy. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t deserve to be treated like a prince. I wanted to yell at him about how Santa wasn’t real and how the Easter Bunny would stab him in his sleep if he had the chance and how the Tooth Fairy was really a mass murderer, but I didn’t. I took the moral high road.

Against a seven-year-old. I shouldn’t have to be making the decision to take the moral high road when dealing with a seven-year-old.

Instead, I just put on my fake-happy grin, looked at the parents for some support and received none. Absolutely none. These parents just had some sort of satisfying grin like their little Johnny had done exactly as he’d been taught by his two sorry excuses for parents.

There you have it. Here sitting next to little Johnny were two parents who had instilled in this seven-year-old a sense of entitlement so deep and so ingrained that he will always be treating people as though they are beneath him. It is the parents’ faults. It has to be.

So I go and get the seven-year-old a new glass. I personally wash a larger glass, go to the restaurant’s bar, take out some juice and fill it up for the kid. As I’m walking back to the table all I can think is that the glass is far too large for a child as young as seven. It’s almost too large for me and I’m 22.

I drop off the glass and before I can get my pad out to take their order, the child interjects a little more entitlement into the situation:

Him: “Was that so hard?”
Me: “Excuse me? Listen, if I can just say something here…”
The kid’s father: “I think you’ve said enough.”

I am stunned. I am boiling hot mad and there’s not a thing I can do about it. I can’t get mad or I run the risk of being fired. And I can’t let it go because, well, I’m far too prideful a person.

Me: “Sir, can I just take you all’s orders?”
The kid’s mother: “We should have stayed in New York. This trip to Florida is just daunting.”
The kid’s father: “You’re probably right.”
Me: “You guys look like you all need some more time. Let me give you all just one more minute or two.”

So I give them two minutes. I use the time to go to the bathroom, splash some cold water on my face and regain my composure. It’s going to take every bit of strength I have to look as though I’m even remotely enjoying serving these people.

I walk back up to the table. With eyes rolled, they give me their orders and then proceed to complain that their sushi is too dry and that their filet mignon is too wet. (Who ever heard of a “wet” steak? In all my years as a waiter, I have NEVER heard of a “wet” steak.)

As they pay their check and exit the restaurant, I can’t help but think that these parents are really doing their child a disservice. They’re teaching him that it’s okay to be rude. You’re the customer, you have the money, you can complain to management if you want. You hold all the cards. You hold this waiter’s job and livelihood in your hand.

Those parents are telling their child that you can come into a restaurant and think you are entitled to treat a server like garbage because THEY’RE the service. YOU’RE the ones with the money and you can dangle it in front of them for the duration of your time in the restaurant. You should think you’re doing lucky them a favor by being the ones they service.

Unlucky for them, I had already made about a hundred bucks on the night and didn’t need their “favor”.

Suffice to say, that kid was thirsty as hell when he left our restaurant.

Last night at work, there was this little douchebag kid who looked like he’d been home schooled by an equally douche-y mom. (Not to say home schooled kids are bad as I have really good friends who were home schooled from kindergarten to 5th or 6th grade and they’re cool as hell…they’re all just much paler than the rest of my friends).

Anyway, this kid had little to no social skills and went absolutely crazy when he downed his first soda. Does anyone remember in “The Simpsons” when Bart gives Flanders’ kids some pixie sticks and they taste sugar for the first time? That’s what this kid was like. Except it wasn’t a cartoon and I couldn’t punch this kid in the face like Homer does to Flanders. Frickin’ cartoons.

A little background before I go on: At our restaurant, the chefs come out to the tables and grill right in front of you. We only had two chefs last night to cook for the tables and there were three servers, each with one table. You do the frickin’ math.

And guess who was odd man out? Yea. Me.

So they’re waiting, and I’m apologizing to everyone at the table about the wait and explaining the situation when this kid, out of nowhere, looks me square in the eye and asks:

Him: “Yes. Waiter. When exactly will our chef be coming out?”
Me: “Oh, well…I’m sorry, but like I said…there’s only two chefs and as you can see, there’s three…”
Him: “I didn’t ask for excuses.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Him: “Are we going to have to cook this meal ourselves?”

I look at the mom, but she has a look on her face like she agrees with this little punk. Well screw her too. This kid couldn’t have been older than eight years old. I’m not gonna take crap from someone a decade and a half younger than me.

Me: “Ma’am…”
Her: “When is our chef coming out?”
Me: “Goodbye.”

Life Lesson #1: Talking back is a frickin’ learned behavior. And it seems this kid his had fill of homework from his overly-snarky mother.

After the chef came out and the kid had eaten his fill, he asked for another soda. The mom didn’t want him having sugar or caffeine, so she asked he have a Diet Coke. After emptying about six packets of sugar into that kid’s cup, I gladly obliged.

Listen up, you stuck-up, douchey windbags under the age of 18 who enter MY restaurant and frickin’ DEMAND that I treat you with the respect and admiration I would treat the frickin’ Queen of England:

If you want to get treated like adults, ACT. LIKE. ADULTS.

The other night, I had a party of eight teenagers come in. They all wanted sushi, but since we didn’t have any dining tables big enough for eight people (they usually sit three, maximum four), we sat them at a larger table intended for grill use. Because they said they wanted sushi (and not chef-cooked grill food) we obliged. As soon as they frickin’ sat down, some of them decided they wanted a chef (who is only there to cook grilled food) to cook some of their meals.

Me: “Sorry, guys. We can’t do that. We only have three chefs on tonight. You guys said you wanted sushi. If you’d like some grill food, it’ll be an hour and a half or so before a chef can come out here.”
Birthday Girl: “Well, it’s my birthday and I feel entitled to a chef coming out and cooking my food.”

I actually cringe as I remember it to write it down.

Me: “Well, like I said, there’s nothing I can do.”
Birthday Girl: “Well, can we at least get some drinks? Alcoholic drinks?”
Me: “Well, can I at least get some ID’s?” Over 21 ID’s?”
Birthday Girl: “We don’t have them with us.”
Me: “Would you like Coke or Sprite then?”
Birthday Girl: “This is the worst 18th-birthday ever!”
Me: “How many 18th-birthdays have you had?”

This went on for a few more minutes until they got the picture that I wasn’t going to just roll over like those pansies at Applebee’s down the street. When they got the message I wasn’t some doormat waiter, the girl went to go complain to my manager, April, about my “bad” service.

April: “Those girls said you rolled your eyes at them.”
Me: “They asked for drinks and didn’t have an ID on them. They also felt they were ‘entitled’ to a chef because it was their 18th birthday or something.”
April: “Yea, when the girl came up and started complaining, I think I rolled my eyes too. That’s probably what set her off.”

I don’t understand where kids…frickin’ kids…got the idea in their head that they were entitled to anything. What do you contribute to society? A healthy dose of “Laguna Beach” viewership? Sorry, I think we could all do without that.