I’ve been a waitress at the same busy supper club for over a decade. It’s not rocket science, but I’m damn good at it. After this long, nothing really surprises me — except when it does.
Like this lady.
It was the end of a busy Saturday night, and at first there was no cause for concern. This last table of mine didn’t seem like it was going to be a good time, per se, but they can’t all be filled with rapport and laughs – and that’s okay.
The vibe shifted though when she told me she knew Mark. Sidenote, Mark hasn’t owned the restaurant in years. But if you’ve dabbled in restaurant work you know the, I-know-the-owner guest as well I as do. The worst.
I also know the owner. Congratulations though.
She went back and forth with me on whether or not she should order the prime rib, and asked if she could have it blackened. Of course, we’re happy to do that for you. Perfect, decision made.
Fast forward to the delivery and she is immediately underwhelmed but doesn’t share her thoughts (yet). She does however claim she ordered mashed potatoes, not a baked potato.
Lies.
I wouldn’t have asked if she wanted sour cream if that were true, but I make my money by fixing nonexistent problems sometimes, and this was one of those times.
“Oh, darn, well that’s an easy fix. I’ll take this baked potato and bring you back some mashed.”
This lady looks me dead in the eye and demands she keep the baked, but I still bring her mashed. Mmmkay. Less than a minute later I return with her mashed potatoes paired with a pleasant apology. Only to be met with…
“This isn’t blackened.
I don’t know what it is… but it’s not blackened.”
Of course, I take this feedback into the kitchen, where everyone is invested at this point. Prime rib in hand, and tell the owner who cooked the food, that this lady spewed her expertise on me and this is not blackened.
We exchange looks – he confirms it is, indeed blackened.
[Sidenote: I wish someone recorded this entire interaction from start to finish.]
I go back to the table and explain in the chef-y words he used, and in the politest tone, that she’s wrong, but I’m happy to get her something else. She wants a ribeye. Okay, perfect… let’s do this. She also mentions that she wants to bring a meal home to her husband, I take the order and make sure it will come out as she is finishing up, so it’s hot for her probably miserable husband.
I bring out the ribeye, the most perfect, delicious looking ribeye – she doesn’t even look at it and demands I box it up, because she’s full.
(Shockingly, eating two potato sides will do that)
Well yes, ma’am. Absolutely. If this means she is going to exit my presence even a little quicker – yes. The ribeye, along with her husband’s meal were packaged with care in two brown paper bags. Along with the free dessert “for the trouble”. Staying as optimistic as I can, I deliver the goods hoping she’s impressed with the presentation she doesn’t deserve. But anyway, she looks at me, shakes her head and says,
“Gosh, I’m just so disappointed with that prime rib.”
To which I again, apologize. I told her that the owner would be happy to come out and talk to her about it, but she declined the offer. She then asked me for a bag. I look down at the two nice bags, with handles and I point to them, confused.
“You want a bag, for your bags?”
Yes. The answer was a stone faced, full eye-contact YES.
This time I go in the kitchen – hot. I say something along the lines that there is probably going to be a complaint filed about me from this lady and I. DO. NOT. CARE. I DON’T CARE.
Little did I know, the highlight interaction hadn’t even happened yet.
If you were wondering if there was anyone else at the table, she was with, presumably, her grandson, but I have no idea. He didn’t say much, we can all assume he was probably embarrassed. When I got back to the table he was walking out – didn’t even look back. With the bill and an obnoxiously large plastic bag I tell her……. this is the bag, for your bags.
And the audacity this woman has, says to me:
“I just wanted to let you know that I feel you may have just been a little too busy tonight to really pay attention to what I needed.”
The table next to her was a family of three, regulars, I make eyes with the mom, raising my eyebrows as if to say, ARE YOU HEARING THIS?! I could feel myself start to slip out of pleasant waitress mode and into excuse-me-you-can’t-be-serious mode… like the polite part of my brain evaporated on contact.
I stood there, dumbfounded, but quickly decided passive aggressive was the direction we were going to head in. My adrenaline took the lead and I calmly say:
“Really? That surprises me to hear. Can you tell me what I could have done better?”
We go back and forth, and I finally tell her I can’t fathom a single thing her service was lacking.
“So, please, I would LOVE the constructive criticism.”
It was obvious she wasn’t used to being talked to like this. While trying to dodge and avoid an actual answer I stop her again.
You know what? We can agree to disagree MA’AM. When you emphasize the word ma’am it really changes the tone of the statement, and that was 100% intentional. I told her the hostess can take care of her payment and I walked away.
She then proceeded to tip me over 20% and let the hostess know that her waitress was very good. So, to wrap this story up we can conclude one of three things is true. She’s either batshit crazy, she appreciated the directness, or I scared her.
Pretty Ugly 
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