A Little More to Drink

Working as a server really shows you how self-involved people can be.  Pretty much everything is “me, me, me” all the freaking time.  And while I understand that people dine out to be waited on and have that type of experience, there is certain a point where that sort of behavior makes me want to slap a ho.  For example, when the restaurant is clearly full as shit and there are four girls on the floor and I have one of those selfish tables that is somehow completely oblivious to me running my ass off to take care of ten other tables.  That really makes me want to shake people.  Dude, I’m busy, your absolute need for a seventh ranch dressing can wait 45 seconds.

Back off, A!  CREDIT.

One of the things that really, really annoy me has to do with refills.  I’m going to state now that it’s probably pretty lame, but it bothers me so whatever.  Allow me to outline the situation.  As I’ve mentioned before, I always ask people if they need a refill because I find it polite.  So say I ask dinner A – whose glass is the only one at the table nearing empty – if they’d like a refill.  A eagerly hands over their glass for a little more Dr. Pepper which I refill.  A bit later after having returned A’s beverage, I return to the table and notice B could use a top off.  So naturally I ask if they need a little more to drink in a question clearly directed at B.  That’s when stupid A busts in and says he/she doesn’t need anymore to drink.

Well no effing duh, A.  I just refilled your shit and unless you’re some sort of dehydrated camel there is no way you’ll already need more.  But believe it or not, I’m not always talking to you.  Somehow this happens ALL the time.

Now that may seem like a really stupid thing, but it really makes me cringe.  It’s just a perfect example of how self-absorbed people are.  And that just really bothers me.  Take a moment to pull your face out of that plate of wings and realize this isn’t all about you.  In fact, you brought other people to this restaurant that – believe it or not – might also be thirsty.  Isn’t that a novel concept?

So next time you’re dinning, take the time to have a little awareness of what’s going on around you.  It’s a great way to not look like a totally selfish douche.

Now how about a little more to drink?

Twenty-eight

Ariel is one of those people that doesn't own a TV.  It's not because she's an anti-television nut who thinks it's bad for your being, it's because when her ex boyfriend moved out he took every TV - even the shitty old one - in the house with him.  Naturally this means that whenever she comes over we enjoy copious amounts of shitty reality shows and Sex in the City reruns together.  It's totally awesome.

Recently we were having one of our couch marathons when the following commercial appeared:



Honestly the first time we saw this we had absolutely no freaking clue what this commercial was even about because we were too busy laughing our asses off.

"The average person has twenty-eight first kisses."

Before the announcer even had time to punctuate that sentence we both looked at each other and began laughing uncontrollably.  Finally Ariel found enough breath to deliver what is possibly one of my favorite Ariel lines in the history of speaking.

Ariel:  "Twenty-eight?  TWENTY-EIGHT?!  That was junior year of high school."


By the way, I've figured out the commercial is about gum.  Lame.

The Best Seat in the House

At Hooters I am trained to take my guests to “the best seat in the house – yours of course!”  No shit.  That’s really what the manual tells me to do word for word.  And as lame as it sounds, I’m all for it.  I’ll pull tables and make money like a champ all day.  After all I’m pretty sure that a seat at one of my tables probably is one of the betters seats in the house.  I might be biased, but I’m also awesome.  So clearly I’m right.

Now as much as I like to force people to sit with me, I’m also a firm believer that in a restaurant that is often without a hostess people should have a little bit of choice.  For example, I’m not going to force an elderly couple to sit at one of my high top tables.  That’s practically elderly abuse.  I’m going to do the right thing and ask if they have a seating preference.  And that is exactly what I do for every guest I great at the door.

So one day I was going my usual “would you prefer a high top, low top or booth” routine when I got an answer that made me squirm.

“How about where we can get the best set of boobs.”

Definitely NOT my reaction.  CREDIT.

It only took me two seconds to realize that he was actually being serious.  I can take a joke and most days I can even take total creep, but this day wasn’t one of them.  A response left my mouth before I could make even the slightest effort to hold it back.

Sauce:  “It’s way to early to be that crass.  Give me a break and at least save it until noon.”

As soon as the remark landed I braced myself.  It was a piss people off sort of thing that easily could have screwed me over for their whole meal.  I imagine I was probably wincing in a way that was likely less than attractive.

Yet somehow things went great.  They loved me and took care of me as well as I took care of them.  I had dodged a bullet of my own making.  Phew doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Just so you know, I don’t condone calling people out on their shit.  At least not all the time.

Reason #581

Ariel posted this picture today on Facebook that pretty much sums up my life.

Yup, that'd be me doing the daily specials bored at work.  Please ignore my strangely boney knuckles - I have skinny hands.  Anyway, as you can see I'm clearly overachieving.  It's what I do.

The best part of this post, the caption Ariel included with the picture.  It pretty much sums up why I love her:

reason #581 Sauce deserves a raise:

she gives a fuck.

Priorities

I was totally going to blog tonight after work, but my gorgeous new MacBook Pro decided to show up at my door.  As such my night was spent geeking out and totally getting my nerd on.

Sorry, dudes.  There are a few things a girl just has to put all else aside for.

I am Not a Man Stealer

I always, always, always make a point of helping any women at my tables first.  I do this for a number of reasons.  First off, it's polite in an antiquated way.  You know, like the Titanic.  Woman and children with a net worth of more than $10,000 to the lifeboats first, please.  But beyond all that shit, the real reason I do this is to avoid any and all belief that I am a boyfriend/fiancé/husband stealer.

Is that bitch a son stealer too?!

Lets not sugarcoat this; I work at Hooters.  Not only am I dressed like a bit of a tart - to put it mildly, I am a tart who is encouraged to be very friendly and conversational with my tables.  It really doesn't take much for that simple conversation to be perceived as flirting.  This is the whole reason we get so many phone numbers.  And it's also why a woman can easily assume what is little more than service to me is man stealing to her.

And that is why I do everything in my power to make each and every woman at my tables feel like a princess.  She is the special guest.  It's a simple thing, but at Hooters it's incredibly important.

Yet even with all that precaution some women still seem to think that me asking their man how he likes his burger cooked is some secret Hooters' code for me wanting to fuck him.  News flash, ladies, I already deal with one boyfriend.  I don't have the energy or the desire to deal with another one.  You can go ahead and keep your slob of a significant other.

So for the record, nine times out of ten or even 999,999 times out of 1,000,000 your Hooters Girl does not want to steal your man from right across the table.  Odds are all that "flirting" is probably just her doing her job.  After all, we're paid to be nice to people.

Of course all of this changes if your boyfriend is Ryan Reynolds.  Then you're totally effing screwed.

NOTE:  My amazing friends are in a contest through the end of the month to win an all-inclusive wedding giveaway.  I'm talking dress, location, food, photographer and all that other crap you need to get married paid for.  If you have a bit of time, please help me help them win.  You do have to register to vote - which you can do daily - but it seems a small thing to give a wonderful couple the wedding of their dreams.  Plus I'd get to go to a SWEET wedding!

VOTE HERE FOR RYAN AND RACHEL!

The Biggest Blogger

I need to be friends with this girl. Her name is Jenna and SHE. IS. AWESOME. Not only do I find her incredible sense of humor very much like my own, we share nearly identically eating and exercise habits. Now if only I shared her abs.

I Hate Uniform Fitting, Image Class and being a Total Bitch

Somehow I have become the "Image" girl at Hooters.  This means that I am in charge of uniform fitting and image training all new hires at my Hooters.  I'm not really sure how this happened, but one day it just sort of became my job.  It started with fitting one girl and then another and suddenly it was just assumed that it was my job from then on out.  And as much as it's nice to be trusted with a level of responsibility, it's not a job I particularly care for.

While it might sound easy to get a girl her uniform, it's really anything but.  There is nothing comfortable or fun about looking another woman up and down and determining her size.  There you are, alone with a nervous new hire and the first thing that happens is you judge the shit out of her.  You take in the size of her ass and estimate her cup size.  You look her up and down and determine if she's small or smaller or even smaller.  It's pretty much awful for both of us.

Then of course I have to make sure that the all the uniform pieces I chose for her fit correctly.  She'll already feel uneasy putting the uniform on for the first time and I'm forced to make it even worse for her by making her do "the turn."  The turn is a complete 360 that is meant to ensure everything is fitting where it needs to be fitting. 

In addition to making sure she's wearing the uniform correctly, I get to make certain her bum isn't hanging out or her top isn't giving her the dreaded double boob.  Trust me, there are few things more uncomfortable than looking at a girl and telling her she needs bigger shorts because her cheeks are hanging out too much.  No girl ever wants to hear she needs a bigger size - especially not from some girl she just met in a Hooters uniform.

All of this has made me very, very good at uniform fitting because in a situation full of awkward moments I want to avoid as many as possible and get my shit right the first time.  Of course even my Hooters uniform expertise can't save me from Image Class.  Image Class is a three-hour, intensive orientation where each and every new hire learns anything and everything about being a Hooters Girl and maintaining the Hooters Girl look.  This has also become my job.

Image class is where I have to tell girls they are too tan or too white.  I have to tell them their makeup is too heavy or too subtle.  I critique how they do or do not do their hair.  I tell them about proper eating and discuss their exercise regimen.  I do all that and a million other little things that I hate doing.  Of course I have to do it all with just the right amount of "I'm cool" and "I'm a total bitch."  Don't get me wrong, like I said, I love that I was given the responsibility, it's just not in my nature to be so blunt with people.  It's really effing hard for me in fact.

Tomorrow I get the joy of teaching yet another Image Class after a day of working the bar.  It's going to take some psyching up and intense mental preparation.  I've got to get into gentle constructive criticism mode.  Someone pass the wine please.

One of Those Nights

Last night was one of those busy-out-of-effing-nowhere types of evenings at work.  The sort of night where a bus of thirty people shows up when nearly every table in the restaurant is already full without calling ahead.  The sort of night when my bar printer was spitting out tickets with reckless abandon.  It was one of random Saturday's that was like two Saturday's combined.

CREDIT.

Naturally all this happened when were horribly understaffed.  Just to make it interesting.  According to the schedule we were meant to have six girls on the floor and me behind the bar.  While even with everyone we all would have been busy, it would have at least been manageable.  Instead we had two girls call in sick and one who had been suspended for a drunken streaking incident (seriously).  Three girls on the floor and one bartender is what we were left with.  That's Monday night staffing, not Saturday.  We were screwed before we even started.

Eventually, when the weeds started to thicken, Manager finally decided to make the call to try and find someone to save our asses.  Of course everyone seemed to be screening phone calls because that's just what you do on a Saturday night.  Finally, Ariel agreed to come in even though she'd worked all day.  That, my friends, is dedication.

If Ariel hadn't come in our ship would have sunk faster than the freaking Titanic.  Luckily our ship just took on a lot of water and was able to limp to port without any casualties.  Yes, it sucked.  Yes, it was hard.  But our karma must have been awesome because everyone was pretty chill about it.  Guests actually realized that the restaurant was full and had some patience.  That shit is rare.

So even though we had the same number of staff in the kitchen as we had on the floor, we made it through.  My feet hurt, my back ached and my head throbbed.  But I had the best medicine of all - money.  When I took that cash out of my tip pitcher it was all more than worth it.  A busy, 40% night treated me more than well.  You read that right, 40%.  That shit is more rare than patient people.

As much as last night sucked - especially when that thirty top drink ticket came up - it ended up being totally awesome.  It's nice to have those shifts where your extreme hard work is actually rewarded now and again.

I'm sure I'll be back to bitching about shitty people tomorrow.


P.S.  I also forgot to mention that a table left a phone number on a plate made completely out of ranch dressing.  Seriously.  I have to admit that that shit is actually fairly impressive.  It's not like we have squirt bottles of ranch to making writing easy.  He had to used a cup of ranch as if it was paint.  Congratulations for having the most impressive pickup attempt to date.  And that's in over two and half years.

I was going to attempt to grab the plate so I could snap a quick picture, but the rush made it impossible.  Just know that it was epic.  He even fit the area code in there.  It still blows my mind.

How Hooters Got it's Start

A little video for you Hooters education featuring the one and only Coby Brooks.  Happy Saturday!

NOTE:  It seems I've posted this before.   In fact, I think it's even one of the "related posts" that shows up down below.  I'll go ahead and leave this up so you can see how dumb, forgetful and silly, yet totally awesome I can be.

Good, Great, Super

I've always been a little jealous of those places that put tip percentages on the bottom of their checks.  You know, the little helpful math part that lays out what 15, 18, and 20% would be for example.  For some reason I think that this would entice people to leave more at the end of their meal.  Mostly I think this because I have a feeling that there is a pretty good portion of the population that really can't do simple math or are too lazy to even attempt it at all.  These are the same type of people that tip calculators were invented for.

For non-mathaletes.  CREDIT.

Now you can go ahead and tell me that I'm over generalizing the American public, but I'm a server and I know what the hell I'm talking about.  But that's really not the point of this post.

The point is that as much as I love those tip percentages - and dearly wish we had them - I love what the restaurant at Chico Hot Springs had at the bottom of their checks even more.  Rather than the typical percentages, the Chico receipt looked like this:

Good = 15%      Great = 18%      Super = 20%

That, my friends, is pure and simple genius.  Rather than have percentages at all, they simple equated the percentages to level of service.  And if my hypothesis about the arithmetic abilities of the average American hold true, this would probably make all of us servers more money.  I mean it has to be pretty hard to leave a shitty tip when you're leaving a word with your money.  That would make you look like a real douche bag.

I would do anything to write that on the bottom of every ticket I dropped on a table.  Of course I would make it even better and do something like this:

Fuck Off = 0%                     Super Douche = 5%                        Cheap Ass = 10%
Good = 15%                        Great = 18%                                    Super = 20%
Ecstasy = 25%                    Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious = >25%

Yeah, that looks about right.

Later

I'm going here tomorrow.  This is Paradise Valley, home of Chico Hot Springs.  Chico is easily my favorite place in Montana and features the best restaurant in the history of eating (and this is coming from a girl who dined on the top of the Eiffel Tower).  You should go there.  Seriously.  Both Dennis Quaid and Jeff Bridges met their wives there.  That's how you know it's good.

You're totally allowed to be jealous.

Napkins, Names and Crazy B*#@$es

Today I had a request to keep the napkin.  By this I mean the napkin that I am forced to sign at every table I serve.  First off, the request was fairly normal - at first at least.  But before I get to all that, why do I have to sign that damn napkin in the first place?  Hooters makes a point of having each and every one of their Hooters Girls mark their tables in this way.  It's requirement number one when you head to a table.

It's mine, bitch! CREDIT.

Now I could say that this is so you can actually call me by name, but of course that rarely is the way the napkin is used.  Usually it's ignored, used as a coaster, or meets an untimely demise brought by a sauce covered hand.  But I still have to sign that napkin even though you'll still call me baby, honey, or ignore the idea of me having a name all together.  It's just part of the ritual of being a Hooters Girl.

In the end though, as much as that napkin doesn't mean shit to most customers, it means a whole lot to us.  In a restaurant that is hostess free 95% of the time, a signed napkin on a table means that they've been helped and not entirely ignored.  Consider it a Hooters Girl version of territory marking only without the urine and animalistic rubbing.  Really it's just a sure sign that you're taken care of.  It's a simple, but helpful tactic to keep the whole restaurant running smoothly.

And then of course there are those customers that generally appreciate your name sitting there on the table.   Some people actually pay attention.  Some people actually use my name.  Some people are just cool as shit.  And then sometimes they even like me so much that take that napkin home where I can only imagine they show all their friends and hang it on the fridge.  Or something.

That is what happened today.  Today, a very nice man asked to keep the napkin and I kindly obliged.  In fact I even went above and beyond and - per his request - got all the girls on shift of sign it as well.  It was only after all this work that I found out why he really wanted it.

As it turns out, this nice guy's ex-girlfriend was a less than nice girl.  She was the type of girl who didn't trust this nice guy and in fact didn't trust him so much that she freaked out when he went to Hooters.  Now my first reaction to this is that she's a freaking crazy idiot. 

Side note: crazy bitches, I - or my coworkers - am not here to steal your man.  I already have one boyfriend to deal with; I don't need yours.  This is my job, not some fancy conspiracy to breakup relationships.  Get over it.

Back to what I was saying, my first reaction was that she was a crazy idiot.  My second was that my shitty relationship experience led me to believe her mistrust was probably due to her being a cheating, backstabbing, untrustworthy-herself bitch.  Apparently that assumption was right on the money.  And that was whom the napkin was for.

This rather seemingly nice man was sending that napkin which said, "I love Hooters" and had all those names on it to his ex.  I surmise that it was not a clean breakup. 

Now I don't necessarily condone being rude to exes, but part of me finds this seriously awesome.  The other part of me is mildly freaked out that my name will be in the hands of a possibly jealous psycho.  Isn't life exciting?!

Some People Just Can't Handle Hooters

There's WOMEN in there, George!  We're Leaving!
CREDIT.

I will never understand people who walk into Hooters just to turn around and walk back out.  Usually the culprits are a couple between 50 and 60 (couples 60+ seem to adore Hooters - go figure).  They'll come in the door, maybe get as far as sitting in a booth - always a booth - and then leave with minimal acknowledgement such as a nod or a murmured "no."  And just like that they're gone to dine somewhere more their style, like Ihop or maybe Fuddruckers if they're feeling adventures.  Or better yet, the Cracker Barrel.  Yeah that's about right.

While I understand why people don't want to come to Hooters in the first place, I don't get why people would ever do this.  How on Earth could you not know what to expect from Hooters well before you walk in?  I mean Hooters is everywhere in pop culture and has been for over twenty years.  Do you really not what to expect?  Are you really that surprised to see girls in short shorts and tank tops?  Did the noise in a restaurant known for being fun and boisterous catch you unawares?  So sorry we frightened you.  I can only imagine that's a rather common occurrence when you leave the comfort of the rock you've apparently been living under.

But seriously, do you not know what Hooters is?  That is completely and utterly mind boggling to me.  Not only is Hooters everywhere, it's freaking called HOOTERS.  If that doesn't give you a clue I don't know what would sort of a logo of nothing but tits.

Let me give you the benefit of the doubt for about three seconds and consider that you did know what Hooters was.  Obviously at this point you thought you were those hip sort of people that can handle Hooters.  You come in and sit down and  EGADS!  Through your monocle you observe shorts which expose those horrid things called knees.  Shorts were expected, but knees are simply unacceptable.  That's all it takes to falter the delicate sensibilities of such an upstanding couple.

Seriously, it's Hooters.  Get over it.  If you can't seem to accomplish that, do yourself a favor and don't pretend you're comfortable here.  It's weird for everyone - including yourself - when you come in and leave a few minutes later.  I'm not saying you should like Hooters; I just don't want you to make yourself uneasy while you're trying to enjoy a nice dinner out.  Do us all a favor and stick to Applebees.

Hooters CAN Help Your Future

I alluded to the fact in a previous post that Hooters helped me get into grad school.  And while it was in a somewhat roundabout way, in the end Hooters did indeed make me a more interesting and therefore standout candidate.  And trust me, in this economy - which only makes the application process more competitive - standing out is a must.

I've decided to post a selection from one of my letters of intent to show how Hooters, this blog and all of my faithful readers helped get me into grad school.  I could never thank you all enough for that.

After graduating with a degree in Business Administration - Marketing, I found myself not working in my area of expertise but - as many recent graduates often do - as a waitress.  While my job simply began as a way to support myself, I was able to use the drive and creativity gained through my marketing coursework to turn a simple job into a thriving second career. 

Shortly after beginning my job, I started blogging as a sort of personal journal.  Having studied blogging in my Marketing of High Tech Products and Innovations course, it seemed a timely and interesting way to share my voice.  To my surprise, people not only read what I wrote on the blog but also responded incredibly positively.  That initial response grew until - just over a year after starting the blog - I was featured as Google's daily "Blog of Note."  Suddenly I had over 10,000 daily views hungry for more content related to my experiences as a woman in the workplace.  That one big success was preceded less than a month later by an offer to write for a bimonthly magazine as a featured columnist.

When I began blogging, I had no intention of creating such a valuable experience for myself.  Now I not only have a blog that provides income - a difficult task - but also a magazine column.  I was able to take a rather ordinary waitressing job and turn it into a brand utilizing my communication, media design, web development and promotional skills that spans multiple mediums.  With persistence, hard work and drive I founded a successful business based on my creative strengths.

What you'll probably note is that I wasn't entirely specific about the content of my blog.  While I obviously love Hooters, it would be naive of me disregard the possibility of negative opinions within the selection committee.  Would it be easy to find the blog if they wanted?  Of course.  But I figured I'd rather not take the chance.

So here's to being original, standout and creative.  I guess it all worked.  

Look at What She's Wearing

Perhaps more than anything at Hooters, I hate bitches that come in just to make fun of us.  I say bitches because this is primarily a pastime of young girls from the age of about sixteen to twenty-five with evil laughs and a plethora of cutting comments.  Generally they come in and spend their lunch or dinner making snide remarks and vicious little observations when they think you're not listening.  Of course everything is said just loud enough to make sure that you hear just enough of it to totally hate them.

OMG. LOL. LMFO.  Look at her fat head! CREDIT.

This happened the other day at a table of two girls and two boys - presumably their boyfriends - who stopped in for lunch.  At first it appeared they were trying to be the "cool girlfriend" who takes their guy to Hooters, but it became apparent pretty quickly that this was simply a ruse.  Before I even got to the table I heard, "look at what she's wearing!"  No shit, Sherlock.  This is Hooters.  I'm pretty sure you had a fairly good idea of what we would be wearing long before you got here.

And that's how it all started.  They went on to say all sorts of nice things insulting the body or intelligence of any girl that had the misfortune of passing their table.  They stared and laughed and made it a generally unpleasant experience to wait on them.  These two girls were just bringing everyone down including their dining partners who sat stone faced during the entire bashfest that was happening across from them.  Those poor boys just wanted some freaking wings.  No one was having any fun except for Bitch One and her friend Bitch Two.

Here's the thing about girls like that, when it comes down to it their really just insecure.  Perhaps people make fun of them at school or work or their simply hard on themselves.  Whatever the cause, these girls find their way to Hooters and turn all that anger on women who can't defend themselves.  They attempt to bring themselves up by bringing others down.  I get it.  I understand what's going on, but just because you're not happy with you, doesn't mean you have free reign to take that out on others.

I get that Hooters Girls seems like an easy target.  I know the stereotypes and I know that those are easy to make fun of.  You assume we're unintelligent skanks who are out to steal your pubescent boyfriends.  For the record, I'm a twenty-six year old graduate student with my own awesome boyfriend.  I don't need yours.  I've also NEVER slept with anyone I've met at Hooters.  Thanks for assuming that I have.

Please don't come to my restaurant if you're planning on being an uber bitch the whole time.  It's not fun for anyone but yourself - and I'd guess it's really not that fun for you either.  It not only makes you look insecure, but makes you look entirely immature as well.  Why don't you spend that time improving yourself instead?

Next time imagine me coming to your job or classroom making fun of how stupid you are whenever you speak or how chubby look in blue.  Now I'd never actually do those things, but you obviously would.  Grow up, dude.

I Love Getting Mail

I got this email and it made me so happy I decided to post it here rather than responding in the normal way. Believe it or not I don't really get many emails and most of the ones that I do deal predominately with getting hired at Hooters.  It's nice to just feel appreciated sometimes.

Hi Sauce,

I just wanted to drop you a line and say I really like reading your blog, even though I'm all the way over here in Australia!

My boyfriend and I have just moved to Queensland (a northern state of Australia), where the only Australian Hooters is located, and I'm very excited to go along and visit, thanks to your blog.

He went with his mates last weekend, and I was disappointed I missed out, but he said the music and dancing was really fun and that the staff there were Canadian and American. And he liked his burger too!

So yeah, basically, keep up the awesome writing, you've achieved your goal of changing one person's impression (and assumptions) of Hooters and I love reading your new entries every day at lunch.

Kind regards,
A


Well kind regard to you as well my new Australian friend!  Emails like yours are why I started this blog in the first place.  Guess I'm good for something after all.


SEND SAUCE A NOTE OF UNDYING LOVE (or hate...or general disregard...or whatever).

Twin Tower and the UFC

Working UFC is totally hit or miss.  Since you only get a section of about five tables with little to no turnover, a great night or a shitty night depends entirely on what sort of people are sat in your section initially.  Because of this, I used my seniority to avoid UFC nights altogether long ago.  While I'm sure I've missed out on some big tip nights, in the end my steady Saturday day shifts have probably been better in the long run.  And they've definitely been better on the stress level - which is a huge win in my opinion.

One UFC upon a time, Twin Tower had a pretty nice section; a few of her tables were turning over ensuring at least decent tips.  Of course even with those few tables, there had to be one demanding table.  The type of table that is blind, stupid, or just rude enough to not realize the restaurant is standing room only.  This is UFC, Hooters is always standing room only.  Usually people are nice enough to realize that shit is going to take longer because not only does everyone else need something too, but once you've got that something it takes an eternity to weave around the crowd to get to your tables.  Patience during UFC is crucial and this table didn't have that.

Really it wasn't that the entire table was impatient, it was that one lady - who had been taking excellent advantage of our margarita special - was being impatient enough for everyone.  She was running Twin Tower's ass off but none of the effort was appreciated.  It became evident fairly quickly that Twin could have brought a blender to the table and pumped out margaritas right into this lady's mouth and it still wouldn't be fast enough.

Eventually, the fights came to an end and Twin Tower began the process of handing out receipts to her tables.  And then the worst thing happened.  Of all the people at the table to pick up the check, it had to be that lady.  This has a way of happening; you have an awesome table where everything went right, but one unhappy, depressed with life, oblivious asshole ruins it.  And even though everyone else is happy with the way the meal went, that miserable person is not and inevitable decides to pay.  Where anyone else at the table would have left 15-20% this douche will of course leave ten or less.  Great.

And that, my friends, is exactly what happened.  The lady paid and left one of those awesome 0% tips on a rather large tab.  All that work - on one of the busiest nights - was for nothing.  Her biggest table had stiffed her.

Months and months later, Twin Tower had pretty much all but forgotten about the incident.  UFC fights had come and gone and new stories of assholery had replaced the old.  Six months had passed when a man walked into Hooters one day and refused a table when Twin Tower just happened to try and seat him.  This happened instead:

Twin Tower:  "One today?  Come on over!"

Man:  "Actually, I'm not looking for a table, but I was looking for you."

It was right about then that she noticed a receipt in his hand and his eyes on her nametag.  She was unsure what to say.

Man:  "I was in here about six months ago for UFC and realized after getting home that my wife didn't tip you appropriately.  I'm sorry I didn't notice at the time."

Tower began to say something but was interrupted.

Man:  "I just came back to make it right since I was in town."

He then handed her forty dollars.

Man:  "That seems about right with a little interest."

Twin Tower was totally and utterly floored and barely had time to deliver a thank you before the man was out the door and on his way.   Karma was probably smiling.

See, sometimes I DO have good tipping stories.