From the Archives | 10 Pet Peeves as Told by a Waitress

"I’ve been a waitress for about ten years now, on and off, so I’ve experienced most of what one does when one works in the service industry."

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I have some very fun, more service industry focused content planned for 2024, so in honor of that, I thought I’d pull one of my first waitressing posts from the archives this week. This list was originally published on February 10, 2023, and apparently, I was in a feisty, and sarcastic mood while writing it. Must have written it after a shift. I hope you enjoy.

If you like the pictures and cover images I add to all my newsletters, I started a Pinterest that will feature accompanying mood boards with each post. Follow along here <3

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image from pinterest

I’ve been writing a lot of restaurant scenes for my novel lately. It’s been interesting to think of every scene in terms of the worst thing that could happen on the dining room floor or how this event in the kitchen moves the story forward. I also have the added task of making these experiences specific to a waitress working in a country club, which comes with its own rules and challenges.

I’ve been a waitress for about ten years now, on and off, so I’ve experienced most of what one does when one works in the service industry. So, with my senior status, I decided to make a list of my top 10 pet peeves as a waitress.  And while I do enjoy waiting tables for the most part, it’s much more fun to complain.

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The Stone Walls

I’ve always found it interesting that when folks see me coming armed with their hot plates or with a tray on my shoulder, when I then hover in their personal space, they don’t move out of the way. They keep leaning with their elbows on the table in the very spot where I’m supposed to place their food, like they are holding down the fort in a military operation. It leads me to question if they are really that oblivious or if they think I have a third or fourth arm that will soon reach around like those fighting tripods in War of the Worlds and clear the space for them.

The Bill Fighters

Have you ever had credit cards thrown at you before?

I have.

Like a Western showdown, Platinum Discover cards are drawn and ready to fire. At me, no less.  

“Just put it on my card!” they yell. I typically raise my hands in surrender, back away slowly, and tell them to sort it out themselves. I’m sure they don’t realize how uncomfortable it is to have your head bobbing back and forth like a dog watching a tennis match, waiting to see which card I can finally grab, run through the machine and wrap this up.  

The Story Tellers

So, there I am at a table, ready with my pad and pen to take a table’s order. They are in the middle of a conversation, but instead of pausing to tell their waitress their order and then resuming the conversation, they keep talking. I’ve had people even flicker a glance at me with an edge of annoyance while continuing the riveting story they can’t keep their mouths from telling. This leaves me to stand there, half listening, while the other folks at the table watch to see what I’ll do. I’ll confess, as I’ve gotten older, I simply walk away. If they aren’t ready for me, I’ve got other tables to attend. This typically leaves the storytellers to flag me down with open menus and booze soaked scowls, an arched eyebrow that suggests I forgot them.

The Flaggers

Speaking of flagging, for the love of God, don’t do this. Your waitress is not a New York City cab. Don’t take your beer bottle and raise it over your head. Don’t yell his or her name and point to your empty glass. Better yet, don’t raise anything above your head while in a restaurant.

The Know It All’s

Recently, I was waiting on a party of 6. When I came to the old patriarch of the family to take his order, he said he would like the Lemon Caper Chicken.

“What would you like for sides?” I asked. “We have mashed potatoes or basmati rice tonight. Our vegetable is broccoli.”

“It doesn’t come with sides,” he snapped.

“Yes, all our dishes come with sides,” I said.

“No, they don’t,” he said, challenging me under his bushy gray brows.

“Yes, they do.” My waitressing smile sickly sweet, stuck on like a wade of bubble gum.

“I specifically chose this dish because it didn’t come with sides!”

First of all, what kind of monster chooses a meal based on its LACK of food? But also, why challenge the waitress? Why not just say I would prefer not to have mashed potatoes or broccoli with my chicken? Why are you telling me I don’t know something?

Later as the man left, scowling (most likely because he was still hungry!!), my coworker taking in his checkered fedora from 1934 and old timey trench coat said, “Aww, what a cute old man!”

“No,” I said, “He isn’t.”  

The Inexperienced Restaurateurs

Look, I get it. Not everyone knows the names of drinks like a bartender does. But I do find it quite annoying when I’m in the weeds, the bar two deep, and when I ask what I can get them, they look at my stocked bar of liquor bottles and say, “I don’t know. What do you have?” We have everything, sweetie. Literally everything.

That goes for food, too. I don’t mind giving suggestions or letting people know what is the most popular on the special menu that night. But when someone splays out their menu and asks me to choose for them, I’m immediately peeved. I have no idea what their likes and dislikes are, plus if they order what I say and don’t like it, who is at fault? I know a lot of options can be overwhelming, but I also know that their life experience can guide them through the menu better than I can.

The Lingerers

The restaurant lights have dimmed to almost darkness, but there table 10 still remains. I’ve walked by and cleared as many of their plates and glasses as possible without actually ripping the tablecloth out from under them. The bartender is now sitting at the bar, as well as the staff. The kitchen is completely dark, all the line cooks have gone home. But the lingerers don’t see any of this. They remain steadfast in their right to occupy a table until they decide to leave. And yes, that is a fundamental human right, but I get paid in tips, so yeah, I want to go home now.

The Walking Wounded

Not everyone can afford to eat at a restaurant, so, in my opinion, folks should be grateful when they are able to go out to eat.  But since I work in a country club, entitlement and gratitude often get flip flopped. There is this one member, I’ll call her Mrs. M, who looks as though her husband has marched her to her impending death every time she walks through the dining room doors. She addresses me curtly, balks when I ask if she would like a drink (she’ll just stick with water, thanks), and looks so miserable throughout dinner that I often have to hold back from laughing.   

My favorite story to tell about dear old Mrs. M is when we had ahi tuna on the menu. She told me she would like the typically raw dish to be pan seared. That was no problem at all for the chef, but her and her husband were very concerned that I would not input this information correctly, so they repeated themselves several times. When their order was up, I placed the dish in front of her and paused.

“Is this what you were envisioning?”  I asked. I wasn’t being a smart ass, I genuinely wanted to make sure this is how she wanted the fish to be cooked. She looked up at me, mouth twisted in disgust, and said,
“I wasn’t envisioning anything.”

The Pop-a-Squatters

I get it, they want to claim a table and start the night. But if the tablecloth is stained, if there are crumbs on the chairs, or glasses sticky with lipstick, the table is dirty – don’t sit there. If someone does, they are about to get their personal space invaded by me as I spread out a fresh cloth that sends their hair flying back and brushes against their upper thighs. There will be lots of leaning on my part as I divvy out bread and butter plates and water glasses, too. It would be better to just wait for a clean table.  

SINGING HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Okay, I’m sorry. I’m glad people are out celebrating their birthdays with cocktails and fancy food. That’s how I celebrate most things. But when someone from the table whispers in my ear that it’s so and so’s special day and they want me to come out with a dessert and candle, or worst, they rush in before the rest of their party, holding a secret cake that I have to find room for in the walk-in AND come out with candles, my celebratory spirit is quickly blown out. Ask anyone I work with, they have all heard me piss and moan while lighting a cheap pink candle on top of a melting lava cake. I will not start the birthday song. I’m sorry, that’s where I draw the line.

If you have worked in the service industry, I’m dying to know what your peeves and annoyances are! Leave a comment below.