Ladies and Gentlemen,
I have just about fucking had it with you. I have been waitressing at Yates’ for the past six months, and before that I’ve worked everywhere from the dumpiest diner to the poshest bistro, but honestly, all y’all take the cake.
To the lady who asked that her table be moved from close to the door (“Too cold!”) to close to the kitchen, and then moved again to the middle of the dining room (“Too hot!”), this is not an episode of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Take your estrogen already.
To the group of boisterous Italian tourists, who recently asked for your meat well-done, then kept asking me why it wasn’t ready yet because you were “in a rush,” then complained that the soup wasn’t piping hot and sent it back, then lingered at the table for about two and a half hours in the middle of the dinner rush: Nell’America, abbiamo qualcosa ha chiamato “tipping.” Loro dovrebbe tentarlo un giorno, buffoni grassi.
To the frat boys who “sampled” several bottles of wine, sending each one back in disdain, I heard your ladyfriends talking in the bathroom, and surprise! They realize you’re douchebags. Also, I don’t know which one of you is named Yale, but apparently you have a very small penis and have “no idea how to pleasure a woman.”
And finally, to the gentleman on Friday who ordered the foie gras and then sent it back when you realized what it was, I hope you enjoyed your burger! I know, you’re probably thinking I spat in it or something like that. I would never do that. I just handed it to our dishwasher, Big Yuri. I don’t even want to know what he did with it.