Ungrateful Serving Wench

So I go to the Olive Garden in Bolingbrook, Illinois for a late dinner. It’s getting near closing but there is still plenty of people in the restaurant. We’re not even the last group in. But our waitress apparently felt we had specifically chosen her section just to keep her there longer. First she comes up and accuses us of asking the host to start the fireplace. Um, no, he did it himself. I say as much and, since its fiery warmth was apparently too much for her cold black heart to tolerate, she shuts it off while still giving us a glare. Alright, maybe she’s had a bad day, and maybe better still, she won’t be our actual waitress.

Uh uh. After about five minutes she comes up, audibly sighs, and gives the little ‘welcome’ speech with all the enthusiasm of Christopher Walken getting a curdled milk enema. She takes our drink order with a gaze that would have withered an SS Officer. Me and my companion just exchange surprised looks. Wondering if I had unknowingly anally raped a figure of her deity or something accidentally, she returns with our drinks and menus which she tosses on the table without a word. After about 30 seconds for us to determine what on the menu would offend her the least, she wants our order. I ask if we could have some more time to look. Looking at me like I was a retarded kid in Burger King trying to see how many fries I could fit up my nostril, she rolls her eyes and flies off on her broom back to the kitchen.

I suppose as punishment for our insolence for being unsure which identical $15 pasta plate we wanted, a good fifteen minutes went by before she graced us with her presence again. At this point, the restaurant really was staring to empty out. Perhaps as a token of appeasement, this time she came bearing gifts. At last we were bestowed with the tasty breadsticks (which, truth be told, was the deciding factor for us in going to Olive Garden). She takes our order with a nod and an “Okay” because their paper is too good to soil with words from the likes of us. My dinning partner starts to regret that she ordered a salad since we had failed to been properly equipped with utensils and she feared drawing the pentagram necessary to conjure up our waitress again. Meanwhile, I’m cursing myself for not having the foresight to have brought silver bullets. Once more our waitress makes the supreme sacrifice of dealing with us mere customers and brought my friend her salad.

There was a slight fiasco when, due to her timidness with our disgruntled food service employee, my friend failed to speak up when the salad had enough cheese. Fortunately, in a rare, gesture of concern for our arterial well-being, without our prodding, when our waitress felt we had enough cheese, she stopped with a curt, “I was waiting for you to say ‘when’”. That she may have wanted more cheese was not even an option our waitress even considered. And thankfully so, since in her eyes were we barely competent enough not to shit ourselves where we sat, so what’s to indicate we’d have any clue as to what the proper dairy to vegetable ratio is for a salad. When propositioned for silverware they we might eat without rummaging through our meals like hogs, she vanished into the kitchen again without a word. Reappearing a moment later with the needed utensils and white paper napkins. See, we lowly peons didn’t rate the green cloth napkins that everyone else who partakes at Olive Garden gets to enjoy. To be honest, I didn’t even know they had paper napkins. As she departed from our table of the damned, she also took with her the tasty breadsticks we had not finished. Once again she showed that small glimmer of concern for our nutritional well-being, bless her heart.

When the meal itself arrived, she did go out of her way to mumble something about “plate” and “hot” before passing a scalding platter into my hands. To the disgrace of my people, I nearly dropped the dish as the top three layers of my palms blistered away. Giving a mechanical, “will there be anything else,” she immediately turned to depart where I obviously surprised her by indicating there actually was further humiliation she could rain down upon us. See, in her rush to supply us with silverware, she had overlooked that fact that I now had in my possession three forks, and nary a knife. She called out to another waitress to serve us as the fetch quest I lay before her was beneath her dignity. Without another exchange, she vanished back into whatever neither region had spawned her.

After some time to sit and think about what we’ve done, she did pop up to cheerfully ask if everything was alright. Honestly, she smiled and asked in a kind manner. Immediately I wondered who was this person before us and where had they buried our waitress, because if they hadn’t put a wooden stake into her, she’d be back. After expressing our gratitude, she didn’t reappear until we had finished gorging ourselves on the bounty she’d risked life and limb to bring us from the perilous kitchen. After deterring us from considering desert as we were cutting into her angst time, I passed over my credit card in the proper pouch of the little meal book. Being a former waitress herself, my friend commented on how often people she had severed would just lay the card in and it would slide out as you picked up the book. Our waitress brightened up and enthusiastically agreed before leaving to process my card. I honestly tired, but I could not work up any surprise that our only bonding moment occurred over bitching about customers.

After returning with the ticket, she took off to gossip with the other restaurant personnel who were cleaning up the now nearly empty restaurant. (As I recall, there were only two other tables still occupied as we left.) The bill was under $30. Rounding up, I left a 10% tip of three dollars. My companion had wanted to leave five, but I worried lest that encourage our waitress. As we left, I heard behind me, “That’s bogus!” Imagine it could easily have been something else, such as an emerging hell beast from her stomach. Oh no, as we were exiting the restaurant, she yelled quite loudly enough for us to hear all the way in the front her displeasure over “Three dollars?!” We drove off, both disappointed that a nice evening we had planned for a few weeks now had turned out so poorly.

So, to the young girl who felt the need to make us feel like when we were there we’d betrayed the family, I will say this: while I’ve never waited on tables before, I have worked in sales. In fact, I worked for a good, close friend of my family. Even still, if I had ever treated a customer like that, my boss would have fired me on the spot and I wouldn’t have blamed him a bit. Don’t try to make me feel bad that I didn’t leave as many pretty presidential portraits as you had hoped. You’re lucky I only shaved off five percent as any more would have made me feel cheap with myself, regardless of your performance, or in this case, lack thereof. Besides which, it was a small dinner for two. With a bill of under $30, you only ‘lost out’ on $1.50. Are six quarters really going to mean the difference between paying the rent or being forced to work at a seedy night club where they’d pay you to put more clothes on? Did that parting shot make you feel like you’d gained a final victory on these vile customers that invade every day just to take up your free time? Your service was deplorable. Had I thought of it, I would have complained to your manager/necromancer. Whichever applies in your case.

P.S., Fuck you.

The Olive Garden. When you’re here, you’re family.

I can’t believe you didn’t go to the manager. And you left her a tip?! I would have left her exactly one penny. And if I would have heard her bitching about the three dollars (which wouldn’t have happened because I wouldn’t have left it), I’d have demanded the tip back and asked to have a word with the manager.

I’ll agree on the penny bit, including telling the manager of the place you were displeased. That’s the way the service industry (and specifically the parts where you work for tips) works - suck it up, bitch, or find another job. You’d earn more lifting boxes at Homo Despot.

Esprix

Geshtal, that was some fine ranting, and I really was impressed with the way you kept up with the occult theme.

9.5 overall, but only because the Transylvanian judge got his panties in a wad, the hypersensitive prick.

Welcome to the SDMB, in case you haven’t heard it already. I think we must look forward to great things from you.

Holy shit. I can’t say I’ve been to that restaurant in Bolingbrook, though I do enjoy their breadsticks (as a franchise anyway), and that seems to be their one redeeming quality.

Remind me to never eat there! geezus. You should tell the manager file a complaint or something.

/Shadez

I had to read this sentence five times before deciding it was probably a typo.

Also, Geshtal gave me faint echos of this thread, at least in terms of sarcasm.

[sub]by clicking on the above link you automactically promise to not bump said thread, yadda yadda yadda[/sub]

Fucking awesome rant.

applause

Ah, 'Silver beat me to it.

Call up the place at your earliest convenience and tell this to the head manager, or, the District Manager if you can manage. Yeah, go with the DM, and write a letter to the home office. This is inexcusable.

She took your breadsticks away?

She took your breadsticks away?

The no good, low down, breadstick theiving whore!

The breadsticks are the only thing that makes that faux Italian ripoff joint worthwhile. You do not screw with someone’s breadsticks.

She should be glad that she didn’t ever have the presence of her tiny mind to bring you a knife – messing with the breadsticks is enough to get a person stuck.

$3 was $2.99 more than she deserved for her entire night’s pittance. How dare she?!!?

Ya know - I’m a former waitress and typically I speak out on the side of wait staff when these threads come up, but I have to say - this story is appalling.

Call the manager. Really. Complain. Loudly. If you’re stuck in a waitressing job that you hate, fine - complane to your co-workers. But you don’t take it out on your customers who, from this account at least, were being nice.

Frankly, I would demand my $3 back as well.

And no, apparently I can’t spell my way out of a wet paper bag.

:rolleyes:

A wonderful rant showing from a newbie.

Bravo! I forsee a great side-splitting, laughing into the crook of your elbow future ahead of you.

Hell, I’m sympathetic to waitpersons, my mother was a waitress for a few years while I was growing up. I know it often SUCKX… So I’m usually a pretty generous tipper (like 20% and NOT bothering to calculate that on the “pretax” total) for normal/good service. I’ll usually do 15% for just-adequate service and 10% for not good. I’ve stiffed a waitress completely on one-hand’s-worth of occasions. Hell, I’ve left very large (like 50-100%) tips for a server who truly made the evening more often than I’ve stiffed someone.

Having said that, screw her. I woulda definitely left ZERO in the situation you describe. It’s just as bad as the rare occasions I’ve done it myself.

PS - BEAUTIFUL rant. I am envious.

ivylass, I’m not sure that March 2001 qualifies as a “newbie” even if Geshtal does only have 35 posts.

Great rant, BTW. I also liked the severed/served typo.

Holy crap, is this bitch got a TEN PERCENT TIP, what do you give for good service? A pint of your firstborn’s blood?

That’s what you get when you go to Olive Garden or any of the chain restaurants. People just don’t give a fuck.

Actually, I should have added before that I’ve NEVER had good service at Olive Garden in the dozen-odd times I’ve gone there (both in CA and NY)… “Adequate” is about the best I’ve ever got.

But I keep going back once or twice a year because I do like their salad and breadsticks… Though the salad seems to have gone downhill in the last couple years… Masochist I suppose.

My favorite typo was “I honestly tired . . .”

Geshtal, I recommend you send the entire rant, uncut, to the CEO of Olive Garden. One of the satisfactions of dining at a chain is the ability to take your grief straight to the top. You might even get an abject apology. If not, at least you made someone’s day at corporate headquarters.

That was a great rant. Usually I’ll defend waitstaff with my last dying breath (I waited tables for 8 of my 25 years) but that bitch did not deserve a tip and DID deserve to get reamed by the manager.

I’ve been pissy when I’ve gotten a last minute table after a long shift before, but never to the table! That’s what the kitchen is for! Those enclosed kitchens are there for the sole purpose of relieving server angst out of ear shot of the tables!

I couldn’t imagine ever being that rude to a customer. Or complaining loudly within earshot of the customer about a tip! Although, I once had a coworker run after a table that tipped her badly and ask why. Amazingly, she wasn’t fired. :rolleyes:

Anyways, that’s usually why I stay away from corporate chain resteraunts. The longest I’ve ever worked in one was a week, because they’ve got a machinist attitude towards their employees, and I try to avoid eating in one, because that machinist attitude usually results in servers not giving a fuck and giving crappy service. Those places usually have really high turnover too, because the employees are treated as souless automons under the ownership of whatever company they’re working for. It’s a vicious cycle.

Anyone here seen Office Space? “The natzi’s had peices of flare that they made the jews wear…” :smiley: