Beating a dead horse

Not too long ago I posted a seething tirade about minorities who are consistently bad tippers. For a split second, I felt slightly guilty. After all, no stereotype is always true and many are completely unfair.

But last night I felt a new level of resentment for two of these groups. I was cussing, throwing a fit, and swearing to never wait on either again. What made matters worse was that I went out my way to be nice to both groups prior to the respective incidents.

First, I waited on two Persian sisters and their Persian male friend. We had a good rapport, I gave them excellent service (but you already figured that), and then one of the sisters gave me her credit card and insisted that she pay. She left long before the others, who wanted another round, so I took her credit card slip off the table to settle out their first tab.

She left me a $3 tip on a $50 tab.

After a string of expletives and other unmentionable words, I regained my composure and went back to the table, determined not to let that cheap bitch get the better of me.

Very very politely I asked, "Was there something wrong with the service from the first round?", as if I really believed I did anything wrong, knowing full-well that her sister was just another soldier in Satan's army of cheap Persians.

Her sister gave me a puzzled look. "No, everything was great, why? Did she say something to you on her way out?"

"Oh no," I said.

"Well then what's wrong?"

"Well..." I said, pretending I was really conflicted about telling her. "It's the tip. And I'm not even asking because the money's important. I just want to make sure I didn't do anything wrong when I served you."

"No," her sister replied with a look of shock on her face. "Don't worry we'll take care of you."

Fast forward to two hours later, when the other Persian sister and her Persian male friend were finally leaving the restaurant after an additional round that resulted in a record-breaking tab of $8.55 (the tip was $1.45 to make it an even $10. Thanks, you cunt).

She, sans friend and clearly angry, cornered me at the kitchen line in front of all my fellow servers, who were sitting at a table eating their employee meals.

If the bitch learned one lesson last night, it's that you never give me an audience.

She told me that she was "deeply offended" by my mentioning her sister's tip. I said I was offended by her sister's shitty tip and that it did not reflect the service I'd given them.

"How do you know my friend and I weren't going to leave an additional tip?"

"Uhm, because you had no idea how much your sister tipped and wouldn't have known had I not said something. Do you mean to tell me that you were going to make up for the six percent tip your sister left on good service?"

She tried to explain tipping to me, that it "shouldn't be so important," and that anything over 5 percent is a good tip.

I pointed out that she'd probably never worked in a restaurant before and had no idea how tipping worked. She conceeded this point, adding "And thank God I'll never have to be a waiter."

And I replied with, "And thank God I'll never be cheap."

She ended the discussion by saying she'd be calling my manager and that she'd never return to my restaurant again. I countered with, "When a bad tipper tells me they're not coming back, I'm relieved, not apologetic."

Once she left, I covered my own ass by telling the manager the details of the story (with a slight twist in my favor), and had all of my fellow servers verify the less-incriminating version. See bitch, I won.

Round two was brief. A thuggish, stereotypically ghetto black couple sat in my section for what felt like months without end. They kept ordering disgusting drinks (A midori margarita, blended with a splash of grenadine) and slouched so low in their seats I could barely see their Oakland ball caps.

Not once was I anything less than polite, even though my every turn at their table resulted in them glaring at me.

Their bill was $53. Not only did they not tip; they didn't pay their check. They walked out while I wasn't looking.

At my restaurant, when a table walks out, management does not void the charges. No, when a table walks out, that money comes straight out of the server's pocket. So last night I treated my uneducated, illiterate, unwanted-spawn producing slime-of-the-earth, mumbling thug friends to dinner and drinks. All joking aside, I have never been that pissed off before in my life. I gave away all my tables, threatened to quit, was told I could leave early, and went home to drink myself into a catatonic state.

What incentive do I have to treat certain people with respect? You can take the golden rule and shove it up your ass until your eyes look like Ft. Knox. I'm done playing fair. If spotting bad tippers is so easy (and I've proven many times that it is), I'm going to start spitting in food. I'll piss in drinks. I'll do all the things people assume about servers, things that I've never done or seen done, because one good stereotype deserves another.

As they say in the movies, don't fuck with the people who handle your food. You never know which server's eyes would glimmer with delight while watching you die after ingesting rat poison.