Be Patient, Get Served

Believe it or not, you are not the only person I’m serving when you choose to sit at my bar.  In fact, you are often one of at least a handful of people I’m helping while also making drinks for all the girls on the floor; it’s a job characterized by multitasking.  For most people this is obvious, but nearly every day I work I’ll have at least one person who doesn’t get it.  One oblivious asshat always thinks everything should be about them.

For serious, dude.  CREDIT.

Now when I say oblivious, I mean a person will take a seat and be so effing blind that they’ll just start talking no matter how busy I am or who else I am currently serving.  To them it is as if they sat at an empty bar and I’m just eagerly anticipating their request with every fiber of my being.  They’re the asshole who waves their arms or snaps or most often just starts ordering shit because they are thirsty dammit and when the king is thirsty the king gets served.  Generally this will occur after I shoot them a friendly welcome and an “I’ll be right with you.”  For the record that doesn’t mean I’ll be with you immediately and you can just start asking for shit at your leisure.  It’s means I’m doing work-type things and I’ll get to you in a second.

Believe it or not it’s rude to interrupt me while I’m in the middle of taking an order while I’m simultaneously throwing together a mojito (which only get ordered when we’re busy and which every bartender on the earth despises).  If I were just making the drink I’d gladly help you, but see that person?  The one who was patient and friendly and is consequently hungry?  It’s their turn.  It is not your turn.  Actually your turn just got pushed back even further because you’re a giant, inconsiderate douche.

What you should do is be patient.  When I say “I’ll be right over” you should return the statement with a friendly “thank you” or – even better – “that’s fine, take your time.”  If you do either of those things I’ll finish what I’m doing and get to you quickly.  If you decide to choose another adventure, however, I’m going to draw what I’m doing as long as possible because you’re effing rude.  I know your type, it’s not like you were going to tip me well anyway.  You can wait.

Remember, your bartender is the one in charge of giving you your alcohol.  If you’re going to be demanding and inconsiderate you’re probably not going to get what you wanted half as quickly as if you’d just been a normal, polite human being.  I don’t respond well to snapping, whistling or a screamed “NEED A WHISKY SEVEN OVER HERE” – especially when I’m helping another guest.  Wait your gosh darned turn like everyone else so patiently did.  I promise your need for alcohol can wait at least 36 seconds.  If it can’t, you probably shouldn’t be sitting at my bar anyway.  Just sayin’.

Oh you’d like a mojito?  I’ll be right with you.

The Seating of Bar Tables

I see some incorrect Hooters pouring technique.  CREDIT.

When working bar, during most shifts I have three high-top tables in addition to my twenty bar stools.  I love having those tables because it means that I can pull families and other “non-bar” diners in addition to my regular crowd.  Basically it’s an opportunity for me to increase my seating which in turn increases my ability to make money; and as much as I adore my job I still love making me some money.

Of course being that I’m working the bar, it can often be difficult for me to actually seat these tables.  While this has a lot to do with the fact that I am making drinks and what not, it also has a lot to do with the bar’s proximity to the door.  It’s just really hard to compete with a girl on the floor because they don’t have to walk out from behind the bar and across the restaurant to get to the door.  The girls on the floor have a definite advantage when it comes to pulling tables.

Luckily, some of the girls are kind enough to include the bartenders when tables are being sat.  Every once and awhile – rather than just seating themselves – girls will seat groups at my bar tables.  Often I love this.  Sometimes I don’t.

Why wouldn’t I love my tables being sat?  Let me break it down.  There are three types of girls in this regard: those who never seat my tables, those who seat my tables and – my least favorite – girls who seat my tables only when they stereotype the shit out of people and assume they will be shitty tippers.  I won’t sugarcoat, some girls will only seat me with groups that they don’t want because they look white trash.  Or groups that are populated by teenagers.  Or groups that fall in certain ethnic groups.  All because they don’t want them because they assume they will make ten percent or less.  When in doubt, pawn them off on the bartender.

Now you can sit there and tell me it’s purely coincidence, but I’ve witnessed this phenomenon often enough from certain girls to know it’s true.  Personally, I think it’s sad.  Yes, there are people that don’t tip, but while certain stereotypes might seem true it’s my opinion that there are people of all types that suck at tipping.  It’s because people suck.  Not certain types of people.  Just people.  If serving has taught me anything it’s certainly that.

Knowing that tipping is a personal thing and – generally – not defined by inclusion in certain groups, I make it a point to give everyone the same great service.  Yes, there are times I can be pretty certain that I’ll get a crappy tip, but I could still never bring myself to decrease my level of service.  I just don’t have that ability.  To me, doing my well job means always doing it well – no matter what.

And guess what?  That mentality has served me very well.  In fact, a vast majority of those tables girls seat based on their stupid assumptions have tipped me a much-appreciated 15-20% or more.  Take for example a table sat last week: two younger guys and a girl who definitely didn’t look like big tippers.  In fact, another girl told me that our coworker sat me because “they looked cheap.”  They ended up being cheap enough to leave me a $20 tip on a $35 tab.  I’d say that’s more than 20% wouldn’t you?

So please continue to stereotype and seat the bar tables.  I’ll just continue doing my job and quietly proving you wrong.  Maybe you’ll learn an important life lesson.  But probably not.  Either way I’ll go on making your money.  My rent thanks you!

A New Worst Kind of Tipper

So sad, so true.  CREDIT.

Once upon a time I said that the worst kind of bad tipper was the kind that was super nice, only to screw you over in the end.  I also said that a part of me wished they’d make their shittiness known initially so I wouldn’t be surprised.  Well, I was wrong.  Yes, I really am admitting I was wrong.  It’s hard for me.  But I’ve discovered something so much worse that I have to swallow my I’m-always-right pride.

During a Monday bar shift, a few gentlemen sat down and ordered a couple sodas and a twenty-piece wing.  Now sometimes, and this only seems to happen at the bar, people like to pay right away even when eating in.  I’m not really sure why people do this considering it doesn’t change the fact that they still have to sit and wait and eat their food.  Personally, I think it’s sort of weird, but to each their own.

A twenty is left on the bar and I grab it to make change for their $17.77 tab.  I count back the $2.23 and set it on the bar.  Almost immediately the change was pushed forward in an obvious “this is your tip” motion.  Before I go on, lets do the math.  That’s 12%.  While that’s not the worst tip I’ve ever received – that one goes to the ever-evil zero of course – it’s certainly not good.  It was definitely low enough to be mildly insulting.

Now how am I supposed to be inspired to not treat you like shit when you’ve basically told me I’m not worth more than your pocket change?  Do you think that generosity makes me want to give you the impeccable service I try to give to all my customers?  Nope, it sure doesn’t.  It really makes me want to punch you in the face so I can knock you out and go through your pockets for the rest of the tip I know I’ll be earning.

Of course, even knowing these guys were shitty tippers outright I still did my job even though I wanted to be a total bitch.  That certainly doesn’t mean it was easy.  Especially when they sprinkled the whole experience with slightly inappropriate and nearly wholly insulting comments.  Each glaringly made over the $2.23 I purposely left sitting on the bar.  It was my only way of making some grandiose statement about how much they sucked.  Naturally it was totally lost on them.  Though everyone else at the bar seemed to get the message.

“Wow, that was really disrespectful of those guys,” said a diner a few seats down after the two had finally left.

For the record, if other customers notice how much you suck it’s a pretty good indication that you suck extra hard.

Next time, forget the fact that I said I’d want to know upfront about your crappy tipping habits and just be sneaky as shit about it in the end.  Hide your change under your water glass for all I care.  Just don’t insult me before I’ve even had the chance to bring you your wings.  That’s just downright mean.  And no one likes a meanie.

The Comfort of the Hooters Pouch

The pouch is a quintessential piece of the Hooters Girl uniform.  It's that sort of awkward hanging apron that we're all forced to wear.  Nothing about it is attractive because it's the one piece of the uniform that's actually utilitarian.  Out of the whole uniform it's the only thing that actually serves a purpose besides showing off my body.  Of course being that's it's also the one thing that gets in front of showing off said body Hooters has kindly made it as small as possible.  You're welcome. 

I get the joy of shoving everything I need into the one little pouch - also lovingly known as the "Hooters penis" - slung around my waist.  This is not always easy.  Especially when it's a really busy and I'm trying to keep hundreds of dollars straight in the damn thing.  You see, I have to keep all the money I collect during a shift and then I pay Hooters (my sales minus my credit card tips) at the end of the day.  Usually servers have a nice little book to keep everything all organized.  Now I understand that even with a book all the cash can get a little crowded, but without it it's can be truly awful.  Of course that's the situation I'm in because a waiting book and a Hooters pouch don't really get along.  Hooters so kindly decided to design these little pouches so they are just ever so slightly larger than a typical serving book.  Yes, I could shove one in there, but then it's annoying as hell to get in and out and even more annoying as thing slaps against you over and over and over again as you run around the restaurant.

So what's a girl to do with this puzzle of organization?  I fold up a take-out menu and put all my money and credit card receipts in it.  It's a really simple solution to a really annoying problem.  It might not be the best solution, but it's the better than the alternative - shoving all the cash and receipts into the thing.  Yes, some girls just throw all that money into their pouch.  These are generally the same girls that complain about their tips being off at the end of the night.  I wonder if there is a pattern here?

Anyway, all this ranting serves to prove how much I despise the pouch.  Or rather how much I THOUGH I despised the pouch.  Last week I began training as a bartender.  Now if you've been with for me for a while, you'll know that I was supposed to be bar trained LAST June.  And I'm just getting trained now.  But whatever, the lack of followthrough in this situation isn't the point of today's post.  The point is that as a bartender I don't have to wear a pouch.  This is because bartenders actually get their very own till.  Feel free to comment on how awesome that makes me.

While having a till makes me feel more important, not having a pouch makes me feel a lot more naked naked.  After wearing the pouch for over two years I now realize how much coverage that annoying little thing actually offers.  As bothersome as it is, the pouch is just perfect for covering the...er...camel toe.  Suddenly, being without it, I realize just how important the pouch actually is.  I feel as if I've just turned ten and my mom decided I was too old for my favorite blankie.  Yes, the pouch is my safety blanket and I'm not afraid to admit it.

I'm hoping that the added income of bartending will quickly replace the comfort of the pouch.  I might need a twelve-step program.  

Hooters Newest Bartender

Apparently bar training is the thing to do at the moment, K.H. is doing it and now it seems I will be too! Unlike K.H.’s training though, our bar training is not open to all the Hooters Girls, but rather only certain girls are trained. Why would they only train certain girls? Well, that’s simple; our management wants a very certain type of personality behind the bar. Specifically, they’re looking for the sort of girl that is commanding enough to keep people sitting around for hours on end aimlessly drinking until they suddenly realize they’re been there fourteen and a half hours and the Mrs. is going to be beyond freaking pissed that your meatloaf is cold. It seems I have just this sort of personality.

Needless to say, at my Hooters it is very exciting to be asked to be a bartender. First, it’s a privilege and not a right, but perhaps most importantly our bartenders typically make more money than our Hooters Girls – and who doesn’t love a little more cash! Also, in a college town where every second door on the street leads to a bar (or at least a sleazy casino), bar training is a heavily prized asset. Basically, after my training I will be a commodity.

So I’m really looking forward to this new chapter in my Hooters life. I do have to say I’m a little nervous to leave my security blanket pouch behind, but I’m sure the extra money will make me forget the possibility of embarrassing front bits.