Fucking guy with a black button down shirt that says Wrangler on one side and Jack Daniels on the other and a big black cowboy hat on his mustached head walks into the restaurant tonight.
It's amazing how with the different seasons come the different flows of restaurant-goers. Mid summer, there were sophisticated, wine drinking 20% tippers packing the lobby. Lately it's table after table of foreigners with their fresh American dollars, so new that they stick together like pieces of sandpaper, ordering Berringer white Zinfindels and appertizers for entrees. "Oh we're just gonna do a few starters for our meals, mate."
"Oh are you? The bread is free. The water is free. And if you tell me it's your birthday you'll get a free dessert, too."
Sometimes I love waiting tables because it gives me the freedom to live the lifestyle I enjoy. And sometimes I feel like it will drive me into a misanthropic, downward spiral leading to my working at a gas station, going to law school or something equally as backward.
I schlepp soup, muthafucka! What do you do?
No comments:
Post a Comment