Old Lady in the Red Hat

I'm aware of the fact that there are websites out there for waiters and waitresses to vent their pent-up frustrations over customers.

I've read a few of them for fun.

But frankly, as a waitress myself, I find most of the complaints to be just a lot of whining. Most waitress jobs are pretty disposable. If the management or the clientele sucks---get the hell out.

But then, I'm pretty lucky. If you can call being a waitress lucky at all. My job is union (so management can't get away with treating you unfairly) and it comes with health insurance---makes Mom very happy. We also get a fairly decent clientele. Our prices are pretty steep so it scares off the riff-raff.

Most of the time.

Tonight I had the table from hell.

Table 18.

Two old-biddy white ladies just off the bus from Pennsylvania. They started by literally walking away from the hostess and just seating themselves. Then, after placing their order (two filet mignon specials with several substitutions and special orders, a Rob Roy and a Screwdriver) I noticed that only one of the ladies had a glass of water in front of her.

"Would you like some water?" I asked the other lady---the one in the red hat.

"No. I'm waiting for my drink!"

Well, just give me a moment to step away from the table and give your drink order to the bar you bitter old alcoholic bitch.

No, I didn't say that. What I said was, "Sure. I'll be right back."

I went to the conputer and entered their food and drink order and then proceeded to pick up their drinks from the bar. Figured I'd better get some alcohol in this one as soon as possible.

As I walked out of the kitchen, there she was. Standing right outside the kitchen waiting for me. The bitter, shriveled-up old lady in the red beret.

"Don't bring our food out right away! We want to enjoy our drinks!" she snapped.

"Oh, well, I already put your order in but I can try to slow it down..." I explained as I walked her back to the table.

"Do you understand? We don't want to be rushed! We want to enjoy our drinks!"

"Nobody's rushing you, ma'am. Let me just go in the kitchen and see if I can..."

"We feel like we're being rushed. We just want to enjoy our drinks first. We're not in a hurry."

"Okay. Let me go in the kitchen and stop them because they've already put the steaks on the grill and I don't want them to get dried out for you..."

"We need some time. We want to sit here with our drinks."

And on and on she went. Meanwhile, the steaks are sizzling away and I can't get away from her complaining.

"You shouldn't have put our order in so fast!" she snaps.

"Well, ma'am---you gave me your dinner order and I put it in. That's my job. Otherwise people get upset if their food doesn't come out quickly."

"The only reason I gave you my order was because you asked for it."

Okay, I have no idea what to say to this crazy woman. I simply explain that if I can go in the kitchen now, I can slow down the process and that when a customer gives me an order, it's my job to promptly place it with the kitchen. She doesn't seem happy with this answer.

I go into the kitchen and immediately inform the cooks to stop making the order and to wait to make it until I tell them.

Then I bitch.

Oh, I tell everyone about Table 18 and the Lady in the Red Hat.

For those of you who go into a restaurant and create a scene---you should know that as soon as your waiter walks away from the table, they talk about you. They use all the seven words George Carlin talks about and quite a few more. You are described in the most unflattering terms to everyone on the staff. And we're good mimics. We do your voice and all your intonations and mannerisms for everyone from the manager on down. And it ain't pretty. Within moments, if you can tear yourself away from your conversation and look around, you will notice all eyes in the restaurant upon you. Because everyone wants to see what you look like. A certain amount of it is curiosity. Another part is sheer identification. We all want to know what you look like in case you come in again.

In fact, even some of the customers will know about you. One of our regulars, a big wig at Lehman Brothers Investment, was recently asking me if servers talk about their customers when they walk away. I suppose, in the financial industry, the water cooler chit-chat is pretty tight-lipped. Servers, on the other hand, can and do. So, in addition to sharing the noisome behaviour of table 18 with the staff, I made sure to share it with him. Within about 10 minutes, everyone in the restaurant had taken a moment to go over and look at the Lady in the Red Hat.

Now here's the funny part. A few minutes later, after I'd shared their behaviour with everyone in the restaurant, I suddenly see the lady gesturing me over. Oh no. This can't be good.

"I just wanted to apologize to you. I'm really sorry about talking to you like that. I know you were just doing your job."

What?

She explained that she was tired. She'd left early this morning from Pennsylvania. She had been walking around all day. She felt so bad. And they were ready for their order after she got her second Rob Roy. She's so sorry. She even made sure I saw her finger the big, gold cross around her neck---a gesture I can only assume is meant to show me that she's a good Christian woman.

Okay. Sure. No problem. I was very nice. I chatted with them for a few moments. I was a little wary, because she still seemed a bit odd to me. But it at least cheered me up a bit to know that she felt bad. Or did she?

Because when she got her food, everything seemed fine. Then, a few minutes later, she pointed out that the shrimp was slightly uncooked. Okay. It was. Sure. I offered to get her some fresh shrimp. But now she was in a hurry. Where before she needed plenty of time to sip her drink---now she was suddenly in a hurry. She had a bus to catch back to the Poconos and couldn't wait for some fresh shrimp. So I offered to show it to the manager and see what he could do.

The manager (who'd already had it up to here with them) took off a percentage of their bill. Then, when I went to the table to tell them, they suddenly decided their steak wasn't cooked to the right temperature. They ordered it medium. I took a good look at the steak. It was medium. And they'd already eaten over half of it.

They wanted to see a manager. And he did not want to see them.

Nevertheless, he went over and came back to tell me the results. They were now refusing to pay for anything---including their drinks! He told them flat out that they would have to pay for their drinks. But he would go ahead and take the food off their bill. Frankly, he just wanted them gone.

He dropped off their bill and I ran the charge. They signed the charge and made sure to thank me as they left.

The tip for all this trouble?

Nothing.

Most likely, the old hag only apologized because she worried I might do something to her food. I know there are servers out there who might resort to this form of corporal punishment. But it's way too low for me. I would never tamper with anyone's food. And 99% of the servers out there would never tamper with food, either. It's just bad form. It's stooping to their level. And I'm better than that.

At this point, I can only resort to voodoo.

No, I am not a regular practitioner. Altho I do have a few souvenirs from my trip to New Orleans a few years back.

And, I'm sorry Old Lady in the Red Hat----but you leave me no choice.

No sooner did she begin her arthritic trek to her Port Authority bus, then I had already begun my curse.

First of all, she would miss her bus. That was a given. With the evil thoughts I directed at her, there was no way she was hopping on the 7:10 to the Poconos. Way too much hoodoo flying around for that to happen.

Then, I sent a curse that she would get robbed. Not beaten. Just robbed. After all, anyone who hangs onto their pennies as much as this woman deserves a real New York Welcome.

Now, while she's crying about losing her wallet, suddenly she's taken ill with some mysterious illness. Maybe the undercooked shrimp will help with this particular part.

And then, as she's sitting on a dirty bench in the Port Authority, bemoaning her plight---don't lose me here---she suddenly dies. Yes, she dies.

Oh com'on, she was pretty old. It's going to happen sooner than later. And I really don't see this woman bringing any joy to the world.

And then, just as she dies, her head drops to her chin and her red beret falls to the ground.

A homeless man picks it up. Good for him.

I've heard that when you die, you poop your pants. And she just ate...

So there she is, lying on the floor of the Port Authority---reeking of poo and Rob Roys. And no identification. She's likely mistaken for a drunken homeless person who's passed out.

Oh, they'll figure out that she's dead in a few days. Once she really starts to smell.

They'll take her decaying body back to the morgue. It'll probably take some time for the family to recover the body. After all, she's out of state and has no id or her trademark red hat. But then, I can't imagine too many loved ones searching for her. I'd give it a good two months.

And I firmly believe this will all happen.

In fact, I have my black candle from the Voodoo Museum lit right now.

See---you don't have to spit in their food.

Ahhh. I feel so much better.