Before I get to the ride, consider this the relatively short line to get into the actual seat.
I had a terrible day at the pub thanks to a very rude table. If I was “Bon Qui Qui”, then getting rid of them would be as easy as calling “seh-cuuurity”. Instead, my eyes watered and I almost cried. Rude.
I woke up from the past few days events already teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown. I was hoping for a smooth brunch shift, but trying to serve people is kind of like a crap shoot—you never know who or how nice your next table will be. This specific group of people will go down as one of the worst tables I’ve ever had in the service industry. It also made me wonder if having a second job is worth the crap (more specifically caca del toro) I have to put up with no matter how sporadic that feces may be.
It began with one of the ladies ordering a mimosa with no orange juice, i.e. she only wanted champagne. Our brunch special is for 50¢ mimosas and inventory/alcohol costs do not allow for a full glass of champagne at that price. Despite knowing this, I went to the bartender and asked if he would do it anyway. He says, “Nope. Can’t. I’ve been told not to.”
“Alright, man, I’ll tell ‘em.” I dread the walk back to the table for good reason. I expect a tantrum and am not disappointed. All three adults, two women and one man, join in on the complaining. “We come here every weekend, and she always gets it like that.”
“She can’t have the orange juice because the acid and sugar upsets her stomach.”
“Ugh, they always do this for me. I don’t understand why they will not do it today.”
“I apologize ma’am, but I asked the bartender and he said he cannot. Is there something else I can get for you to drink?”
Obviously annoyed she snaps, “No. I guess I will be having water, rather than the drink I actually want.”
“Okay, ma’am. I’ll be right back with your water.”
Then the other woman asks for a full bottle of champagne instead and to put it on a separate bill that she will personally take care of. Anything that gets me away from dealing with them is fine by me. I run off to ring in the bottle. The bartender asks, “We’re they upset?”
“Uh, yeah. Pretty safe bet they were more than upset.”
