I’m currently working in two very different restaurants. One is a dirty sports bar that slangs oversized drinks to very young kids, and the other is a foodie mecca so cutting edge that it isn’t even open yet. One elicits a certain level of disrespect from beer drinking, football loving frat boys and the ladies drunk enough to stick around while the other generates excitement as well as desperation from the kind of folks who pride themselves on being “in the know.”
The other day at said sports bar, these two worlds collided.
I was minding my business, doing my usual waitress shtick, getting bits and pieces of the tableside conversation between bringing them round after round of well vodka greyhounds. Comments like, “Have you been to x restaurant downtown, well, you have got to try the bla bla martini. It is just TO DIE.” And, I’m not kidding, “I was at Macy’s the other day, and I don’t mean to be rude but, I know, I know I make more money than every other family there.” Then, they got into a very heated debate over which one of them had the most expensive mattress.
All the while, these men were calling me “sweety”, and treating me with a noticeable amount of disregard. All good. I’ve been working in restaurants a long time, and have learned to ignore the standard douchebaggery of these kinds of people. As far as I care, I’m there to bring the drinks, get my cash and leave.
As I was bringing them the check I sarcastically suggested they come see me at super new, hip restaurant and the particularly pretentious ones lit up like Christmas trees. Not only had they heard of this restaurant, they went on to mention the chefs by name, and then felt the need to let me know about every encounter they’ve ever had with popular chefs in Los Angeles. Stories about the last night at SONA with David Myers and nights they stumbled into Lucques when Suzanne Goin was on the line. Suddenly, eager for my approval the men were begging me not to forget their names. They wanted to know they’d have no problem scoring a table and having a better environment in which to compare mattresses I’m sure.
The moral of the story is, whether we’re bringing you twelve-dollar pitchers of bud light, or a twenty-five dollar glass of boutique whiskey—be polite. Bring your manners and your class, and tip your waitress.