Getting royally shitted at closing time
“Ok, we get the hint!” come the screams of indignant customers as the lights come on.
Except you clearly didn’t when we actually said, “We’re closing up” and called last drinks forty minutes ago. Nor did you cotton on when the furniture was stacked, and all your glasses taken away, and signs were flipped, and the music switched off, and restaurant/bar/café paraphernalia cleaned and put away, and floors swept, and sections closed, and when half the staff sat down sporting casual wear and the other half stood around with little else to do but stare at you, and when the manager started counting the day’s takings in full view. I don’t suppose you glanced at the Opening Hours sign as you came in that lists Now O’clock as closing time, either. No, it’s when the lights come on that your precious rights have been violated! YOU GET THE HINT, GEEZ.
If businesses ran to the schedules and whims of vague drunken people, it would probably rip a hole in the very fabric of society and destroy civilisation as we know it. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. We’re closed. Stop sooking and get the fuck out.
Getting freaked out by the wine list
No, don’t start shaking your head frantically as you spy me approaching the table. Yes, I can see not everybody has arrived, but guess what? I’m just offering you a drink while you’re waiting! No, don’t look down at the wine list in confusion and look around, wondering where the food menu is. It’s order of service. Nothing to be frightened of. There, there.
Thinking the staff don’t realise you’re talking about them
Oh, don’t even begin to think you’re cleverly inconspicuous, dude-trying-to-impress-your-lady-friend-in-the-awkward-early-stages-of-dating-where-the-only-way-you-can-make-conversation-is-by-making-snotty-remarks-about-everyone-else-in-an-attempt-to-seem-witty-and-sardonic. Methinks your date and I will be having a little girl talk while you’re in the bathroom.
Not claiming their own meals
I’m not making conversation when I stand there announcing the dish I have in my hand in a questioning sort of way. Don’t look at me blankly, then repeat what I just said to your friends (“Beef burger? Did you order a beef burger?”), then after some unnecessarily long discussion decide it IS your order (“Oh wait, I ordered a beef burger!”). And don’t be a hero trying to palm off the first meal to one of your friends in some idiot attempt to seem noble (“But did you order a beef burger?”). Christ on a cracker, if you ordered it, just fucking claim it. Nobody is judging you. Ok, they are – but it’s because you’re being an idiot, not because your meal has arrived.
Dropping their own cutlery
Oh no! During that very spirited re-enactment of what Mia said to that bitch from reception who got all up in her face at the Christmas party last year, you knocked your fork to the ground! Why, you cannot eat off cutlery you knocked to the ground – you will almost certainly die! You call a waiter over immediately to replace the fork you dropped.
Is it my fault you’re a clumsy ass? Don’t waste my time – when I have orders to take, tables to clear, customers to seat, food and drinks to run, mains to call away, phones to answer, and bills to organise – with your uncoordinated idiocy. If I’m really pressed for time and can’t afford a wasted trip between the dishwashing area, waiter’s station and your table, chances are I’ll just do a little lap and bring you back that same fork. I’m sure you’ll live. Unfortunately.
