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.

Before I begin, did I just put “black people” and “whipping boy” in the same sentence?

Anyway, I’m just wondering why when someone says “bad tippers” their thoughts immediately turn to “black person”? Is it because there’s simply more blacks than in any other restaurant-going minority, thereby more examples to reinforce this stereotype? Is it because whites make up the largest ethnic group in America that it’s easier to compare blacks and whites? Is it something deeper? I really don’t know.

I know that in most of my articles (especially the one where I called out every demographic’s frickin’ downfall) I’ve tried to paint a fair picture. I call out old people who can’t tip. I call out rednecks who can’t tip. I call out finicky asians who can’t tip. I call out teenagers who can’t tip.

But I say the same thing about blacks and the debate gets heated.

I’ve read around and whenever I post an article that involves a black family not tipping well, it’s lauded and supported with emails and comments as “truth”. But when I rail a family of rednecks, bros who listen to way too much Dave Matthews, or teenagers who wouldn’t know good music if it came up and sang “Golden Slumbers” right in front of their face, it gets quiet. No comments. No discussions. No debate. No nothing.

What is it with us? Do we so crave the black vs. white thing so much that we will ignore idiot-bashing until it’s about black people?

I’ve written almost five times as many articles poking fun at white yuppie soccer moms who wouldn’t know how to fill their Hummer with gas if their life depended on it and yet I have TEN TIMES as many comments on the articles bashing idiots who are black.

I even called a 14-year-old girl hot. Two comments. Accidental pedophilia, people!

The title of the website is I Serve Idiots. Not “I Serve Black Idiots”. Not “Black People Tip Terribly”. This is a place where we can come together as a community of people who hate idiots and…well…hate idiots. Regardless of class, gender, race, economic level, etc…

Please, guys. Tell me what’s up. Help me gain some perspective. I’m begging y’all.

Dear Mr. Red-Headed Bucktooth Man,

Thank you so much for banging on our front door as loudly as you could twenty minutes before we even started serving. I know it’s my fault that I didn’t explain this before, but those little numbers next to the days of the week outside…well, those are to indicate to potential customers what times we open and what times we close. I’m sure most people aren’t familiar with this concept, so let me explain: The “4:30pm” just to the right of the word “Monday” means we open at 4:30pm. I apologize profusely as I see it upset you enough to almost knock my teeth out when I started to open the door to let you in out of the cold at 4:10pm.

Thank you so much for asking to sit at the farthest possible table from the sushi bar, kitchen and servers hallway. I’m glad you sat next to the bar as it allowed you to sample any beverage of your liking. Unfortunately we didn’t have what you wanted. While I know that most restaurants carry Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can, we, unfortunately, do not. I’m sorry this made you so sad you were forced to act younger than the child sitting directly to your right.

And while we’re on the subject of your children, thank you so much for not teaching him how not to throw his food, silverware, cup and…oh, yes…our candle holders on the ground. I was, in reality, incredibly bored without much else to do.

Thank you so much for your snaggletooth of a wife complaining to the manager that we did not serve bread. I know it’s complimentary in most Asian restaurants to offer bread, but we just didn’t get our shipment in from Osaka this week.

Thank you so much for asking me to split the check between you and your wife and then complaining when one check was a penny more. I know it’s my fault that odd numbers don’t divide evenly. I’ll get right on lobbying Congress to have the Federal Reserve start issuing half-cent coins. That way, you can save that penny for a very rainy day.

And most of all, thank you for your 4% tip. You know, the restaurant standard is 2%, but you…you just went so far beyond what is merely average and did something above average. I get a tear in my eye just thinking about it. I wish I could see you on the street and buy you a Coke or something.

Kisses,
Ryan

Why is it that some customers feel as though they can trick us servers into giving them food/drinks/desserts/etc on the house? And why is it that people feel as though they’re going to get closer to that free fill-in-the-blank with irrational anger and frickin’ uncalled for hostility?

Probably because most servers work at a Nationally Franchised Restaurant. A Nationally Franchised Restaurant is a downright scary thing to think about because it’s at a Nationally Franchised Restaurant that the customer can get away with thinking that he or she is always right.

A Nationally Franchised Restaurant has so much food and money at its disposal because of its status as a Nationally Franchised Restaurant that it can hurry angry and/or disgruntled customers out the door with nothing more than a free ticket and a fake smile.

…reminds me of the Baptist church, but I digress.

Lucky for me, I work at a small, independently-owned restaurant that has only one sister restaurant ninety miles away. The owner of my store has to think twice before giving away free stuff. A customer can’t expect to get their meal for free just because they are willing to act like a five year old and throw a temper tantrum at me or my manager for a few minutes.

For example, the other night a mother and her six-year-old child were sitting comfortably at their table, empty plates pushed ahead of them. The mother even had her napkin on her plate. Any server reading this worth their order booklet knows that a napkin on the plate is the plate’s way of telling the server, “Hey, the lady eating off me is done now. I can now go through the wonderfully fanciful process of being washed and put in front of another hungry customer!”

Not so with this lady.

I go up, put on my shit-eating grin and ask, “May I take that up for you?” Of course the lady was on her cell phone. Of course she doesn’t know how to act at a restaurant. So I ask again. I am looked at sternly and then given a wave that I thought meant “I’m too dumb and ignorant to know how to respond to another human being so I’ll wave like a frickin’ ape instead.” I take up the two plates.

You’d think I’d sold Jesus for thirty shekels of silver or something.

Her: “Why did you take up my child’s plate?”
Me: “Uh…I thought he was done?”
Her: “Never mind what you thought! He had a full plate of food there!”

I’ve taken tens of thousands of plates from the back of our restaurant out to the dining floor and I’ve never seen one that looked as barren and empty as the one I took from in front of that six-year-old.

There were literally a few grains of rice on that plate. Ethiopians could have overlooked that.

So of course she freaks the frick out and goes into a whirlwind of rice-loving, server-hating fury and tries to get (I kid you not) an ENTIRELY NEW MEAL because of it.

April on the other hand is smarter than that. She asks me what happened and if there was enough food left on the plate to warrant a free to-go meal.

Me: “There wasn’t enough food on that plate to fill a shot glass.”
April: “I see.”
Me: “If you want to give her a to-go shot glass of fried rice, I’d be more than happy to do that.”
April: “I…uh…don’t think so.”

When she learned she wasn’t getting her free meal, she paid her bill (with exact frickin’ change) and stormed out.

I only had one thought as she left: Who still carries pennies in their wallets?