October 13, 2008...9:01 pm

A few months’ notice

Jump to Comments

I’m no good at being a waitress. There, I admitted it. I don’t care if your food gets to you on time, I don’t care if you like your meal, and I don’t want to chit chat about what my favorite dish is, or gush about my recent celebrity sightings. I do try, but because only 75% of you are going to tip me at all I think it’s only fair I put in a 75% effort. That being said, the following story is not at all related to my sub par efforts but is a direct result of my clumsiness and shit luck.

Last night I had a table of six pretty unremarkable British people. They were polite, dry and boring. The worst I can say about them is they were a little impatient while awaiting their drinks when they could clearly see me running around like crazy taking care of the giant table next to them as well as another couple. It took me a while to bring their bottle of wine, but I can only move so fast when members of the giant table continually pull me over and loudly whisper at me “It’s his birthday!” while dramatically pointing their fingers at the same guy over and over again who acted like he couldn’t hear this repeated exchange. “Got it,” I’d say “Your friend already told me.”

So I finally deliver the over-priced bottle of chilled white wine and as I’m sliding the final glass down I slipped into my bad habit of extending the tray behind me a bit, putting it way out of my range of vision. And who would have guessed? Somebody walking by swung their arm in my direction, tossing the bottle off the tray and sending it tumbling towards the back of this poor boring British woman’s chair where it smashed open and sent a waterfall of chilled wine and flecks of glass down her side and into her shoes.

There is really no way to apologize for this. I was stunned, she was stunned and soaked, and her dining companions were pretty horrified. I just sort of crouched down, picked up the shards of glass with shaking hands and said I was sorry, as if that made it any better. Then I ran away to get a pile of rags and ask my manager to come kiss their asses and offer them free things in exchange for them not murdering me. Next I counted down the minutes until they left and tried my best to pretend to be a great waitress for the rest of their meal.

For the good of the diners of New York City, my days faking it at this shit job are numbered.

Leave a Reply