Restaurant over 1/2 full by 11:55 a.m. We open at noon.
I think that gives you an idea.
Sir, English is obviously your native language.
So why do you call about our Volcano Roll and say it was completely inedible because it was very spicy and you had no idea it’d be so spicy?
Even when on our menu, there’s a little notation that says, “Very, very spicy roll” right there. See? Right by the menu entry? VERY. Not even a little spicy, or slightly so. “Very, very”.
It’s a VOLCANO ROLL. SERIOUSLY. A Volcano Roll that is labeled to be very hot and spicy.
Just get a damned California roll if you can’t handle it.
Or better yet, don’t bother coming here. Y’know.
Douche comes in here, he’s training for one week and then transferring to our other location (thank GOD). We introduce, lalala.
First thing he does is start quizzing me on our phone number, address, happy hour, list all of the specials. I breeze by that, until he starts correcting me.
“No happy hour on Saturdays. How long have you been working here?” he says with a disapproving frown.
“Longer than you. Happy hour was previously not on Saturdays. That’s changed. Go check with our GM if you don’t believe me. And make sure you’ve learn our policies before you start lecturing ME on not knowing them,” I respond coldly.
I’m probably going to hear crap later, but I don’t give a fuck.
Arrogant asshole.
The bar I work behind is a straight bar, 17 seats. It is not incredibly long or spacious, and there’s only one way in or out, so you can’t really avoid people you don’t like. It’s very much like a cage, especially when they have three bar tenders back there.
From here out I shall refer to the following customer as Douche Lord. So DL’s friend arrives first, he’s a super nice, chatty guy, tells me the guy he’s meeting is a little loud, but is genuinely a nice guy—unsolicited advice, but alright.
So Douche Lord comes in and is joking around, nothing over the top. At some point DL asks me if I have had what he is eating. The conversations goes as follows:
The Russian’s bill was $55, and they left me $4 and a handful of Rubles- not sure how much, though, but at least it wasn’t chuckie cheese coins or a movie ticket stub like my teenage table last week left me.
A customer nearly flipped their shit because a high chair was unavailable…on a Saturday night.
THEN after I busted my butt to aquire a high chair the kid refused to sit in it -_-
Gotta see how mad they get when we don’t have slings.
Stop bitching about being at a four-top when you have two adults, two small children, and a baby in a high chair. There’s enough room, I promise. Hell, I even offered another table that was larger, so don’t even act like you were forced into it. (The other table was too sunny, FYI.)
And while you’re at it, stop giving your server shitty glaress and passive-aggressive comments about your unhappiness with everything because of your table. You chose it, you suck it up.
Your husband thinks you’re a bitch, too.
(:
THE PARENTS WERE AT THE TABLE.
NO FUCKS BEING GIVEN.
I’m a waiter and busboy at said restaurant, which is usually pretty simple. Clean tables, take orders, check on patrons, sweep and mop when necessary. But sometimes…it’s just not that easy.
A kid literally attempted to swim in sweet and sour sauce tonight. He wasn’t older than four, and I just watched in horror as he took an entire bowl of sweet and sour sauce and …happily pours it on the table. Then spreads it around. For those of you unfamiliar to Asian food in general, sweet and sour sauce has a habit of congealing when left spread out. Horribly.
That was just not okay, Sweet and Sour Kid. The table looked like it was covered in freakin’ jello. And while you may have thought it funny, that is just cruel and unusual punishment for your poor servicepeople.
I’m calling in all of my pick-up favors. I’m always picking up and closing for my coworkers, specifically so I can get a whole week off without actually requesting it off.
Fuck yeah.
