Happy Thanksgiving!

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for all of the shenanigans that take place in my restaurant…for without them, I wouldn’t enjoy my job nearly as much, and I certainly wouldn’t have any entertaining stories to tell on this lovely blog of mine.  I spent the whole day over-indulging on delicious homemade Thanksgiving dishes and desserts surrounded by those I love most.  These adorable little turkey cake pops made by yours truly were a huge hit

I hope you all had a fantastic Thanksgiving!  Gobble gobble!

Delusional Thoughts…From Fantasy Island*

The restaurant I work in is located in a large urban city. I’m sure we’ve all seen movies or TV shows that have instilled in us the idea that within such a large urban city, there are certain districts or streets where certain “underground” types of activities go on. You know, activities such as drug trafficking and usage, gang life, and prostitution. In this particular city in which my restaurant is located, there is a well known street called London Avenue that is notorious for all three things. The one that this Tip/Check story is most interested in is the last – prostitution. And not just any old kind of prostitution…London Avenue is known for transsexual prostitutes. Yep that’s right. He-she hookers.

So where am I going with this? There is a male server named Anton who works at my restaurant. He’s a bit of an oddball – he’s always angry, socially awkward, cross eyed, and most importantly, he is a self-proclaimed heterosexual. And most of the time, he passes for a straight guy. He’s in a relationship with a woman who has two kids. He takes great care of the kids and seems to be happy in said relationship. Well, that is until the other day.

This day, Anton came into work in an usually upbeat mood. His demeanor was quite opposite from what us servers are used to from him, so naturally, we were all curious as to what was going on with him. I approached him first, “What’s up Anton? You sure are dapper today!”

Anton smiled and said, “Not much Tip! I know! I had an awesome night!”

“Wow, that’s great, Anton! I’m glad you had a good night. Anything…worth sharing?”

“Let’s just say that I was online chatting with this chick. She sent me some pictures and turns out she’s bad as hell. So she said to meet her on London Ave, so I went down there and we fucked.”

I don’t think my extreme facial expressions of shock and disgust were disguised at all because he immediately added, “Dude, she was bad. Like so bad. Like Michael Jackson bad.”

I faked a smile and stammered, “ITHINKIGOTSAT—BYEANTON.” I quickly ran away to find the other servers to fill them in. Based on the public knowledge of London Avenue, we all held mixed feelings of giddiness, shock, disgust, and curiosity…did self-proclaimed straight boy Anton knowingly have paid intercourse with a he-she?? We swore that by the end of the night, we will know the truth!

About thirty minutes later, Ramon – one of the ringleaders of the restaurant pulled me aside and said, “Yo Tip, Anton told me what happened.”

Wide eyed, I asked, “So it’s true? He paid for a sexual encounter with a dude?”

Ramon put his arm around me and whispered, “Yea, but that’s not the best part. I told him he’s gotta be gay if he had intercourse with a chick with a dick…guess what he said?”

I couldn’t begin to even guess what kind of defense there was. Before I could try, Ramon said in a voice of disbelief, “Anton said that if you pretend the dick isn’t there, then it’s not really there!”

I didn’t know whether to crack up at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation…or to feel really bad for how delusional this kid was.

*Bonus: Who can tell me what movie the title of this post came from??

Society At Its Prime

II’m sure we’re all aware of the heat wave that’s been sweeping over us these past few days. I don’t know about your neck of the woods, but around the northeast, temperatures have been reaching the mid-nineties. Today was no exception.

Around noon time, I discovered that the outside temperature was 97 degrees Fahrenheit. I was lazing around the restaurant doing absolutely nothing when all of a sudden, the host informed me that I was to pick up a table by the window in the bar. She said that I was next in rotation to be seated, but the couple specifically wanted to sit by the window so they could keep an eye on their car. Thinking that this may mean that the couple had a fancy car and hoping that this will equate to a large tip, I pranced on over to the table.

When I approached the table, the couple was staring out the window at a beat up 1997 Ford Escort. Well, there goes my hope for a large tip, I thought to myself. I saw that the couple seemed to be around their early thirties. They had a small boy child with them, presumably a 4-year-old son. The couple continued staring out the window for a moment before I interrupted their intrigue by introducing myself to them. They turned out to be quite nice and fairly low maintenance…but strangely obsessed with staring out the window at their vehicle…

…I dropped off the check for the couple about 45 minutes into their meal because it seemed to me like they were starting to slow down. I hung out with the bartender for a few moments after dropping off the check so I could keep an eye on the couple.

In a flash, two police cars with sirens blaring pulled up next to the couple’s Ford Escort. Two officers jumped out of the cars and swept through the restaurant’s lobby towards the couple at my table. “You’re under arrest!” One of them bellowed as the other grabbed the woman and cuffed her. The 4-year-old son cried in horror as the father tried to shield him from the ensuing chaos.

At this point, I, along with all my fellow servers crowded around the window to see what the deuce was going on. We watched in awe and with curiosity as the woman was escorted to one of the police cars. Then, out of nowhere, a third police officer emerged from the couple’s Ford Escort with an infant in her arms.

Silence fell over us all as we stood mouths agape with sheer shock and astonishment. That folks, is society at its prime.

Happy Father’s Day

Before work today, I was in a Hallmark store browsing Father’s Day cards for my father.  I began my adventure at the beginning of the Father’s Day card aisle and browsed through a few of the ordinary “Happy Father’s Day Dad, you are my hero” type of cards.  Then I got to the more specific cards like “Happy Father’s Day from your spoiled little girl”, “Happy Father’s Day to one red hot lover from your sexy wife”, “Happy Father’s Day from the pooch woof woof!”…you know, cards catered towards all types of card-givers.  Next came the “Feliz Dia De Los Padres” cards for the Spanish speaking card givers.  Hmmm, to be expected, I thought, America really is becoming a melting pot.  I quickly glanced over them so I could have a little idea of how to wish the male kitchen crew at my restaurant happy father’s day.  When I felt that my arsenal was sufficiently full of Spanish phrases praising dads, I drew my attention to the cards at the end of the aisle.  DID YOU KNOW THAT HALLMARK HAS AN ENTIRE SELECTION OF CARDS SPECIFICALLY MARKETED TO AFRICAN AMERICANS???  I was astounded.  Overcome with curiosity, I picked up a card with a nice looking African American family pictured on the front with the words, “You go dad!” across the top.  When I opened up the card, I read, “Today’s your day, dad.  Can’t nobody hold you down today!”  I flinched and immediately returned the card to its home on the rack.  Not sure whether I felt awkward or proud of my multicultural country, I buried the memory, chose an appropriate card for my own father and proceeded to work.

When I walked into my inner city restaurant, I was immediately bombarded by hosts begging me to clock in so they could seat me ASAP.  Already dressed and ready to make some cash money, I told them all to fill up my section with anything and everything. After mulling over the racially diverse selection of Father’s Day cards available for Americans earlier on in the day, I decided that I felt good.  I felt empowered and privileged to be working in such a multicultural restaurant setting in which diversity was very apparent.  I was ready to start wishing all the fathers at my tables a happy day!

First table was a large party that consisted of one fatherly figure, one motherly figure and seven children ranging in age from newborn to fourteen years of age.  Shit show.  Thank goodness for gratuity.  Second table was a church going family who preached to me about the importance of a strong father to head the household.  Great, but uh, your prayer card does not pay my bills or buy me nice things.  Third table was a fairly young foreign couple on a date.  After my first two tables, I was fairly hopeful that this couple would be the type to over tip because they don’t know any better.  False hopes it turned out — two dollars.  Great.  I was on a roll.

The rest of the night consisted of long ticket times because the kitchen was backed up, angry customers because the hosts drastically underestimated their wait time, lack of toilet paper in the restroom because whatever manager orders the restaurant supplies clearly forgot that it was Father’s Day weekend, melted ice cream because someone decided to turn the ice cream freezer off, and a seemingly endless flow of baby daddies who just did not know how to tip.  Or maybe they just read a greeting card that empowered them to not let nobody hold them down — including the American system of tipping wait staff.

All in all, the day was a complete fail.  I put up with way more bullshit than on a usual inner city restaurant day, but made half the money despite the double volume.  I love my job!

I hope you had a fantastic Father’s Day!

The Odd Couple

Today was a rainy-foggy-sticky-humid kind of day.  The kind of day that makes you feel like you’re underwater because the air is just so damp and heavy.  Gross right?  Now imagine that in a restaurant.  What a nice setting to this true story.

It was just your average night today at my restaurant; not too busy or slow.  I had a steady flow of tables all night with mediocre tips and guests — nothing really noteworthy.  I was pretty much bored out of my mind when I glanced over to my section and noticed that I had been sat a new table.  What excitement!  I immediately headed towards the new table to introduce myself.

Upon first impression, the couple seemed to be of the typical sort.  I observed the guy being way more into the girl than she was into him, but who was I to judge?  This is a snip-it of the conversation I overheard while checking over my other tables:

Guy: Baby, you can have whatever you want.
Girl: (while texting) I don’t even wanna be here.
Guy: (touches her hand) But baby, tonight is such an important night.
Girl: (snatches hand away and resumes texting, avoiding eye contact) Let’s just go.
Guy: No no no no no, let’s just have a good night, like old times.

Clearly the girl has little to no interest.  The guy was trying super hard.  Poor guy.  Their date was pretty much like this all night.

After I served them dinner and cleared away the plates, I asked if they would like dessert.  They both said no, but the guy told me that they’d need at least twenty minutes before they would like the check.  I raised my eyebrow at the request, but didn’t question him. Maybe it’d help my tip.  Since I had nothing to do, I decided to slink down into a neighboring booth in a closed section to secretly catch up on my twenty games of Words With Friends.

Just a few moments after doing so, I peer up at look at my table.  The guy was now on his knee, kneeling beside the girl in the booth.  Oh no, I thought, this is gonna be either great or a disaster. I looked around the restaurant.  The few guests who were dining were all eagerly watching, along with all my fellow servers.  An audience!

The guy took the girl’s hand seemingly against her will into his hand (yep, there was definitely resistance on her part).  The girl immediately grabbed her phone and began texting.  The guy kissed her hand, held out a ring and said in the most desperate sounding voice, “Baby, I love you.  So much.  And I know that we have problems and that tonight hasn’t been the best, but baby, I need you.  Please baby.  Will you marry me?”

The girl pretended she didn’t hear him and continued texting away.  She retracted her hand.

The guy even more desperate now, took her hand again and asked, “Baby, did you hear me?  I just proposed to you.”

The girl regained herself, put her phone down and said, “Oh.  Yea I heard you, but um…we need to think about this.”

The guy’s eyes darted around nervously.  I think this was the point that he realized that he had an audience.  And that he was just rejected in front of this audience.  “Please baby, don’t do this to me.  Not in front of everyone.  Please marry me.”

Heartlessly, the girl said, “Nope.  We gotta think about it.  Now get up, put that ring away and pay the bill.  Stop embarrassing yourself.”

The guy awkwardly got up, put the ring into his pocket and looked around for me to bring the check.  I  immediately jumped up and brought it to him. He quickly dropped a $100 bill into the check presenter and before I could even process the events that just took place, the couple was gone.

Poor awkward guy.  I appreciated his hasty $70 tip, but damn, his life sucks!

Tip/Check Returns! Yeah Boy!

July 21, 2011.  That is the date of the last Tip/Check post.  It’s now been almost a year and quite frankly, I miss my blog.  I miss sharing the crazy stories of my waitress life with you, so I’ve decided that today marks the day of THE RETURN OF TIP/CHECK!  …Or as a well known former Public Enemy member would say…YEAH BOY!

Two weeks ago in my restaurant, I was waltzing around the dining room doing pretty much nothing.  It’s been super slow the past few weeks so I’ve become accustomed to showing up to work, making about $20-60 over the span of 4 hours in between doing a whole lot of silverware rolling and staring out the windows.  I was just starting to accept my horrible lot in life when all of a sudden, I see the young 17 year old male host run towards me with an ecstatic expression on his face.

“Tip!  Tip!” He calls frantically, “There’s an important party of like 19 here!  They requested a server who looks like a video chick so I immediately came running for you!  Can you take the table??”

“What?!” I exclaimed, “I look like a video chick??  What the deuce does that mean??”

“It means that you’re gonna take the table.  Thanks Tip!  I’m gonna sit them in the private room for you!” The host enthusiastically says after catching his breath.

Bewildered, I wondered who could possibly be in this party of 19 that had the audacity to make such a request.  A video chick.  I once heard The Game call Melissa Ford a video vixen in one of his rap songs.  Anyway.

When the host gave me the okay to approach the party, I gathered myself and walked into the private room as sexily as I knew how (which I imagine looked something like a 4 year old boy child trying on his mother’s stilettos for the first time and realizing that he liked them).  As soon as I caught a glimpse of the head of the party, I was astounded to find that it was none other than Flava Flav himself!

Mr. Flav was dining in my restaurant in all his glory surrounded by 18 of his ghetto fabulous entourage and groupies.  He was wearing his signature giant clock pendant and looked old as ever but boy was he friendly.  I had a grand ol’ time bringing Flava all his Heinekens, shots of Henessey, plastic utensils and extra condiments.  I enjoyed hearing him ask over and over again what time it was, exclaiming “Yeah boy!” every few moments, and acting gaily with his comrades and my fellow coworkers who sneaked into the private room to snap photos with Flava. Not once was Mr. Flav rude or overbearing — he even told me I had potential to be a video chick if I took off my server clothes and rubbed oil all over my naked self!  Overall, it was a good time.

The party of 19 stayed for a total of 3 hours, leaving behind an unruly mess of cigar insides and smuggled bottles of Belvedere and Red Stripe beer.  It was totally worth it though because now I get to add to the Work Experience section of my resume: Celebrity Server/Video Chick, Waited on rapper Flava Flav and entourage.

Where do people come from?

Sometimes I wonder where people come from.  I don’t mean where the origin of species is, or where that exotic looking young lady’s parents must have immigrated from.  I mean…where do people come from?  Like, where are they raised and where do they learn their social standards?  I’m not looking for some deep anthropological or sociological type of answer.  I guess what I’m getting at is this: everyone has a pretty common idea of what’s socially acceptable behavior and what’s not.  Everyone has a pretty common idea of what can be said or done in a public setting and what cannot be said or done.  For example, everyone (I hope) would generally agree with the notion that it is not socially acceptable for a person to topple an elderly person over and laugh as this helpless elderly person lays spread eagle on the ground, desperately trying to reach for their walking cane.

There must be some sort of socialization process that occurs in every person’s life where he or she gradually learns how to behave in everyday society.  There’s got to be a set of norms that we all abide by.  I’m sure that when we’re in the comforts of our own homes that we may carry ourselves otherwise, but I’m also sure (well….) that when we’re within view/judgement of our peers and other members of society, that we carry ourselves in a certain way.  So, why is Tip/Check devoting an entry to this after having gone missing for so long?  Well….let me tell you this story.  You make of it what you want.

It was a fairly steady dinner at my restaurant of employment.  There was a decent flow of customers, and the kitchen was running smoothly so for the most part, the atmosphere in the restaurant was upbeat and positive.  After working a double shift, management was kind enough to cut me so that I could go home at a semi-decent hour — thank god because I highly doubt that my last table was bred on Earth.  I was waiting on this last table to finish up so I could clean up and go home.  From the side beverage station, I was able to see my table, so I chose to stand there and gossip with some coworkers while keeping a watchful eye on my last guests of the evening.  I looked away for a moment to watch a fellow server attempt to take a shot of grenadine, when all of a sudden, I hear loud clapping and pounding on a table.  Naturally, we all thought there was some sort of mundane celebratory moment taking place, so we ignored it and egged on this server to take another shot of grenadine.  Suddenly, there was a shout in the dining room, “HEY LITTLE WAITRESS, GET YO ASS OVA HURR!”  I was shocked and disgusted to realize that this shout — and previous sounds of clapping and table pounding — came from this last table of mine.

Totally pissed off at the way in which this unearthly woman attempted to garner my attention, I stalled a bit.  Finally, after a long 2 minutes, I started strolling on over towards the table, trying not to make eye contact with anyone sitting there.  A bread roll came flying through the air, barely missing my shoulder as it flew past me.  I turned my head quickly to see where the bread roll came from, and realized that it was pitched from my table!  “TOOK YOU LONG ‘NUFF!  WE BEEN HAD READY TO GO!!” she exclaimed as I approached.

Calmly, I said, “Well, I was only away for a few moments ma’am, but you know, it’s not very socially acceptable to throw bread across restaurants to get someone’s attention.”

The unearthly woman looked puzzled, as if she didn’t understand my dialect.  “WATCHU SAY LITTLE WAITRESS?” she demanded.

I repeated, in simpler terms, “If you needed me, you didn’t have to throw bread at me.”

The unearthly woman looked livid now, “FUCK YOU.  I DO WHAT I WANT.”

I stepped back from the table and started walking away.  Totally unacceptable and disrespectful.

“COME BACK HURR WIT A BOX FO DA REST OF MAH FOOD!”

I approached management and explained the situation.  The manager was understanding of my anger and said she would go out there and handle it.  When she came back, her face was red.  “What happened?”  I asked, concerned.

“Nothing.”  She said, “That bitch threatened to punch me in the face.  I told her that I will call the police to help dilute the situation.  As soon as she heard police, she threw a punch and ran out.”

 

 

Lisa

Last night, the restaurant was ridiculously busy.  The hosts broke out a wait list around 5:00 pm, and we pretty much stayed on at least a 15 minute wait until right around the time we locked the doors at 11:00 pm.  Busy nights are typically my favorite nights because of two reasons: 1) More people in the restaurant means more entertainment value for me in terms of meeting and greeting, as well as in terms of comical conversational pieces for my fellow servers and me, and 2) More people in the restaurant means more money in my pocket in tip form!  I guess you can say last night brought both of those, and overall, it was a win win situation for me.

The highlight of my night though, had to be the party of 4 I was seated with towards the end of the evening.  I watched the family as the host seated them: a scrawny dark skinned man, two small brown skinned children approximately 4 and 6 in age, and a tall, corpulent light skinned woman with long fire engine red hair — presumably a weave of some sort.  Interesting indeed.  As soon as I saw them settle in, I popped a mint into my mouth and walked on over to introduce myself to them.

The man and children were quiet and not necessarily undesirable guests, but it was clear to me that the damper on this party was the red haired woman we shall call Lisa.  She was anything but demure — if you imagined the loudest, most unrefined drama queen you can imagine…add in an undeserved sense of power and entitlement, a vocabulary that would put Young Jeezy to shame, and an abundance of audacity, you pretty much have an accurate image of Lisa.  She was horrendous!

Regardless of just how atrocious Lisa was, I could not bring myself to lower my serving standards to the level she was clearly trying to get me to stoop to.  She called me obscene names (in front of her small children and meek baby daddy!), to which I smiled and asked her to define for me, as I claimed to be unaware of the meanings of such words.  She commanded me to bring her extra lemon for her water as she reached for the sugar caddy, so I beat her to it and brought her a plateful of lemons, a spoon, extra sugars…and even a glass of lemonade — just in case she decided to skip the tedious steps she had planned out.  She attempted to snap her fingers at me for more salad dressing, more ketchup, more napkins, more (insert whatever condiment she could have possibly asked for) — but I had anticipated such demands, so I had beat her to the snap and set next to her table an entire server tray full of extra condiment-filled ramekins, napkins, utensils (plastic included), take out container…even a bowl of ice.  Since my other tables were fairly low maintenance, I was blessed with enough time to linger around staring at Lisa and making sure that she had all that she could possibly ask for.

At the end of their dinner, when I saw that there was nearly nothing left on any of their plates, I walked over to the table and asked if they had saved any room for dessert.  Lisa immediately put her mole-covered hand up and proclaimed, “I am disgusted.  I couldn’t eat none of my food because you people cookin’ in the kitchen mad nasty.  You people be puttin’ hurr in my food and ‘spect me to eat it!”  Stunned, I looked at the shrimp tails left on her empty plate.  There I saw it.  Laying gingerly atop the pile of unwanted shrimp tails was a long strand of synthetic looking fire engine red hair.

Choking back a laugh, I calmly said, “Ma’am, I apologize for you finding this piece of bright red hair in your discarded shrimp tails, but I am just as confused as you seem to be as to origin of this hair.  I can assure you that none of the male cooks in my kitchen have hair that length or color, and that none of the servers working here have hair that length or color.  To be completely honest with you, the only person in this restaurant with hair of that length and color is you.”

Lisa leaned back and shot me the stink-eye.  Looking defeated at her poorly thought out plan, she stuttered, “So what you tryna say?  That I put my own hurr into my food?  Why would I do that?”

I smiled sweetly and said, “I am not saying any of that — you drew that conclusion on your own.  I’m not entirely sure as to why you would want to put your own hair onto your plate after you’ve eaten all of your food…but I have heard rumors that some restaurants give you free food if you find stray hair in your entrees.  Usually when one legitimately finds stray hair in his or her entree, it is towards the beginning of the meal, and it is never hair that looks like it came from said person’s own head.  It is too bad that this does not seem like the case here, and I find it truly unfortunate that it seems quite obvious that what happened here is that your own hair fell onto your finished plate.  All I can do for you is clear it away so you won’t have to stare at it and continue to feel disgusted.”

Lisa’s mouth dropped open in disbelief (or maybe incomprehension…or maybe both), and she simply stammered, “Just give me the bill then!  We be outta hurr!”

The bill was paid for…and there was no tip intentionally left on the table for me from Lisa.  Big surprise.  But when I reached into the cracks of the booth to clean them out with a wet rag, two twenty dollar bills fell out from where Lisa’s fat ass was sitting. I think that means I win.

The Table That Tipped Tip

Mother’s Day is probably the busiest day for most dine-in restaurants (Valentine’s Day may be a close contender…) and at my restaurant of employment, we were on a wait of at least an hour since the doors opened.  It was atrociously busy.  So busy in fact that if the fire marshal had visited the restaurant to conduct a very haphazardly done head count to ensure that the number of people in the building met the standards for avoiding a fire hazard, I could assure you that we would have failed miserably.  I believe the maximum capacity of the restaurant is 357, but on this particular Mother’s Day, we were easily pushing 483.  Senile grandmothers, entitled mothers, exhausted children, cranky fathers and a dining room full of servers flying high on adrenaline and at least one stimulant, there was absolutely no room to breathe, no time to catch your breath to breathe — it was pretty much hell.

So what kind of a day was I having?   The fact that I was making a range of 15-25% on my checks, and the speed of my table turns allowed me to see a nice wad of cash at the end of my shift.  I didn’t encounter too many scummy guests so based on those factors alone, overall, it was a pretty decent day.  There was however, one table that stood out to me.  I call it the Table That Tipped Tip.

The table consisted of a family of five…three small children, all within one year of each other, a fatherly figure and of course the mother.  They seemed to be of the decent type, although the parents appeared to be quite young — about in their late twenties.  Not too needy, not too specific, not too difficult to please.  Nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary to note throughout the hour that I served them…that is, until the very end.

I had dropped off the check for this family after I ran the credit card through.  I had smiled, thanked them, and wished the woman a happy Mother’s Day.  When the family had gotten up and exited the dining room, I returned to the table to pick up the check.  This is what laid inside:

The handwritten note from the Table That Tipped Tip reads "tip: Don't become a premature mom. Happy Mother's Day!", and is accompanied by a crisp one dollar bill and a Trojan brand condom.

Awesome.

The story of a woman named Lila

Last night, in the middle of the dinner rush, I was seated with a single woman who appeared to be quite distraught.  I knew that my other tables were all set, so I decided to approach her and to introduce myself.  Before I could even open my mouth to say a word, the woman (who we shall call Lila) grabbed my arm with her bony hand.  Talk about a deathly hold — this woman was holding onto me with the death grip that even Stone Cold Steve Austin would have been able to wrestle away from.  Lila yanked on my arm and dragged me down to be face level with her.  I became uncomfortably close to her — so close in fact that I could clearly see her enormous pores and greasy hair residue.  I could see the eyebrow dandruff and the evil flickering in her eyes.  I was terrified.

Lila cleared her throat and began to speak in a raspy I’ve-been-smoking-for-fifty-years voice, “I don’t mean to cause you no harm, child, but I want you to know that I’m a diabetic.  I haven’t eaten a single thing in three weeks!!  Three weeks, child!  Three weeks I haven’t eaten a thing — and I have me the diabeetus!”

I nervously looked around to see if any of my fellow servers or other restaurant go-ers are watching me in this moment of sheer horror.  No one seems to notice.  I slowly gulp a lump in my throat and try to compose myself before speaking.

Lila yanked me even closer to her ghastly self and continued, “Child!  Do you understand?  All I want is some bread.  I need me some bread!  Do you understand, child?  I got me the diabeetus and I haven’t eaten nothing in three weeks.  I need me the biggest bread you got.  The biggest bread you got!”

Terrified, but remembering my role as a server and wanting to salvage the situation and make somewhat of a tip (I need me some bread too man, this economy’s tough!), I calmly informed Lila that we don’t have a “big bread”, and that all we have are our signature rolls that come with every dinner entree.  I told her that I’d be more than happy to bring her a few rolls to help with her diabetes and with the claim that she has not eaten in three weeks.

Lila’s eyes opened widely as she exclaims, “Understand me child, I ain’t trying to get nothing for free!  I pay my own way, child.  All I want is the biggest bread you got because I got me the diabeetus and I needs to eat!  I ain’t have no food to eat in three weeks and I need to eat me the biggest bread you got — but I’m going to pay for it.  How much is the biggest bread you got?”

I took a deep breath and explained to Lila, “Ma’am, I understand that you have diabetes and that you have not eaten in three weeks.  I understand the severity of the situation and would love to go prepare a basket of rolls for you.  Since you don’t want anything for free, I will charge you the two dollars that it costs to order a side of our signature rolls.  It will be two dollars plus tax, so ma’am, your total will be $2.12.  Okay?  If you let me go, I can get the bread for you and bring you the check and you will continue to live, okay?”

Lila slowly loosened her death grip on me.  “Two dollars and twelve cents?  FOR SOME BREAD?!  Tell me you can give me a discount, child!  Tell me you can give a poor woman with diabeetus who ain’t eat nothing in three weeks a discount!”

Rather amused at this point, I said, “Ma’am, from my understanding, you did not want anything for free.  Unfortunately, I cannot give a discount to you on your order of bread because our restaurant does not allow discounts.  I will charge you the full amount for the bread, just as you asked.  Now if you let me go, I will bring you some rolls and your check, okay?”

Lila let my poor arm go.  She said, “Okay child.  Thank you for understanding.  Now go get me the biggest bread you got and I ain’t want nothing for free, okay child?  You better be fast because you know I ain’t eat in three weeks and I got me the diabeetus.  I could die at any minute child!”  She shooed me off.

I walked away from the table and looked at my puffy arm with her hand print still freshly imprinted on it.  I pulled a fellow server aside and nodded towards Lila, who was sitting at the table, looking around like a paranoid crackhead.  The fellow server burst out laughing and said, “Lucky you! That woman escapes from the insane asylum down the street once every few months and comes in here claiming to have diabetes or some shit.  Have fun with that!”

Insane asylum escapee?  Eff.  Em.  Elle.