Iced Out

Let me be clear: If you have gold teeth, I will not respect you.

That's right, Mr. Ghetto McGee, from Sunday night, that includes you. He walked in with this cute, bookish girl late Sunday evening. Sitting at a back booth, she sat in a normal way. He ghetto-leaned over toward the middle of the table, and palming his phone near his chin, talked to someone. Their piles of cash was exposed on each of their sides. (Note: Display of money is usually a warning sign.) He wore a faux-fur collared coat. His vocabulary consisted of nouns and simple modifiers. He might have had the capacity for the "to be" verb, but none of its conjugates.

Needless to say, I was happy to alert Jenny of her new table.

As he left the jukebox (refer to previous posts), he passed by me, muttering "sexy," as if that would somehow sway me to catfight his sugar momma and be swept off my feet.

In case you were curious, it did not.

When they left, Jenny had no extra money on the table, just some unlabeled ID card the girl had left. While she was showing it around, I pointed out the social security number listed. It is outside of the scope of my little blog to complain about the idiocy of keeping your social security number (and address and name) on your person, and even further, to leave it on a table for your poorly-treated server to collect.

There was another guy in during the day with gold teeth. He, like many other of our patrons, has a penchant for Joy, and apparently a record of not paying his tab. He kept hugging up on Joy and Jenny, and I was glad to have a different section. I have not met many classy people with gold teeth. I just can't respect it.

Now, gold teeth. Grillz. Really? This is a trend I do not understand. Just like the "z" I see advertised. After five minutes of research, I learned that in several former Soviet territories, gold teeth are a status symbol. I will chalk that up to post-communist technology insufficiencies. However, in the US, we have plenty of technology. After a two-minute Google search of Hip Hop Dentistry and cosmetic dentistry prices, I have concluded that there is no good reason for choosing gold teeth over more natural looking false teeth. The prices are comparable per tooth, and it appears the grill is actually the price per tooth. But the grill is completely ridiculous. Why wear fake fake teeth over a perfectly fine row of teeth?

I assume gold (or platinum or diamond) teeth are also a status symbol in hip hop culture. According to the scholarly source, Wikipedia:

Murray Forman, a professor specializing in popular music and hip-hop at Northeastern University, has suggested that grills, like other bling jewelry, symbolize monetary success, which is especially important for the social underclass. He has also suggested that the attention grills draw to the mouth is reflective of the importance in vocal dexterity in the African-American community, citing the importance of West African oral storytelling traditions, African-American orators, and trash talk among basketball players.

Maybe this is because I am extremely biased, but I cannot think of a single time I looked at a grill and heard anything of vocal dexterity come from behind it. Usually I heard bastard English and improperly conjugated verbs (if I was lucky). Well, there is one exception. I do enjoy OutKast.

If I have not convinced you not to get your grill, please click here for a list of places to buy your grill in Atlanta. I believe two of those are near Underground.

Brush with Fame?

Monday I had some foreigners. Nothing particularly exciting, given the teeming numbers of exchange students at Tech. However, these three guys sounded like some of my Dublin friends but spoke a language together I didn't think was Irish Gaelic. Turns out these guys are Swedish.

They wanted to drink micro-brews, such as Sweetwater, but specifically out of the bottle. Thinking we were out of Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat, I brought the backup Sweetwater IPA instead of the correct first choice. I rang up the right beer, but I just didn't bring it. They were great and added it to the four other beers they were sampling. They had me take a picture of them on their iPhone.

When it came time for the check, I asked them the inevitable: "Why in the world are you in Atlanta?"

Turns out, they're in a band Teddybears. They were recording a track with Cee-Lo at one of the many studios nearby. What's weird is, I'm sure I heard about them on WRAS or Ohm Park recently, but I haven't figured out where. Turns out this trio wears bear masks during their shows. A bit gimmicky, but I'd definitely catch their dance grooves at a show if they toured in Atlanta anytime soon.

And, since they tipped me $6 on $36, which is atypical for European tourists (especially when the server messes up!), I can definitely suggest you check them out.

Never Trust the Bearded Woman

Werewolves, higher tides, more babies, higher homicides, and bright, beautiful nights. Ah, the full moon. Lore also has it that it brings out the craziness in mankind.

The first time we recognized this fact on a lunch shift, I really did have all the crazy tables. Without going into it all, here's a limited list:

• Mullet kid (mullet a la Joe Dirt)
• Crazy old ladies en masse -- at one table
• Gold-toothed, gum-smacking ghettolicious babe

The gold-toothed lady does need some mentioning. She had so. many. gold teeth. She put in her gum as I walked to her table, and she smacked her gum in between each "lemme have [food]." I'm not kidding. While ordering wings, it went something like: "Lemme have wings." How many? "Lemme have twenty." What flavor? "Lemme have hot." Blue cheese or ranch? "Lemme have ranch. Lemme have extra ranch."

It got to where I imagined the "lemme have" in my mind between each individual order, and I almost started laughing at her. And that's only part of it. Tip? 10%.

Once, after a bizarre lunch shift, I grabbed Kelly's computer to research moon phases and had correctly guessed that it was the day of the full moon.

While Monday was the full moon, the Monday shift was amazing. I made $110, where I usually struggle to sell that much. However, today was bizarre. I only had four tables, and one was normal. One!

1. Business men from Tech. ($10 on $30! My idols.)
2. My-age businessmen. Nice, but nothing special, except for one of them I recently met. Very nice, but I hope he remembers to retroactively tip me.
3. Couple with a mustachioed joiner.
4. Two ladies, Gladys and Virginia.

The couple. The woman ordered a water. He wasn't sure yet. I delivered the water, and then he asked about the beer list. (We have one on the back.) I pointed it out, he took a minute to figure it out, and I ID'ed him. (1982.) I brought the 420 to him. He was talking to the girl about what kind of wings when she picked up her phone and started talking. I said I'd be back. (Like I was going to wait on her cell phone conversation to finish to take the order. She obviously wasn't concerned, so I went back to the guests who were.) They had a female joiner; I went to greet. Normally when greeting guests, you take a drink order. The man gave me his order. When I looked over at the ladies, he told me, "They're not ready yet." Obviously. But to do my job well, I couldn't ignore the woman and had to get her drink order. So I politely placed my hand beside her and asked for her drink order. She was sweet, but I just couldn't stop staring at her mustache.

His food order. It still aggravates me. He asked for twenty tequila lime wings. When asked for blue cheese or ranch, he specified that his ranch would come on the side. He hadn't realized that I specifically wanted to have his wings tossed in ranch as well as buffalo sauce. And when I brought his correct food order, he waited a couple minutes before asking me if I really brought the right sauce.

Mustachioed food order. She couldn't grasp that we do not provide spicy brown mustard and could not, therefore, put any on her turkey sandwich. I don't know how many times I jokingly told her that if we had it, I could provide it. She still kept asking for it, as if it was funny. It wasn't.

When it came time to pay, I asked how to separate the checks, and when I returned, he had left a twenty in his place. His tab was $21.95. The ladies gathered exactly $1.95 to cover his tab, and left me $2.06 on the $12.94 they had racked up. Quick summary: Because he couldn't wait for me to print tickets, and the ladies didn't feel they should tip when their friend couldn't pay his full check, I got a 6% tip. Also, you could say to never trust the bearded woman.

Gladys and Virginia were interesting. Virginia was lovely. Her friend, Gladys, was not; had I been named Gladys, I would probably also harbor the same bitterness toward the world and take it all out on my waitress. Gladys waved and beckoned me from across the restaurant many a time, even after I was obviously in the process of walking toward her. I purposely repeat my name many a time so that I am not rudely summoned. Calling my name and nice waves will get the most genuineness from me. Gladys was just mostly a disagreeable person, and I think Virginia noticeably tried to make up for the shortcomings. Summary: Gladys $1 on $10; Virginia, $2.45 on $7.55.

Pardon my rants. I needed to purge and teach before starting the night shift.

Example of Tip Karma

When going out my boyfriend PYT usually grabs the tab: he makes more money, and he tips about 50% usually. I wish I made enough to tip the same. I figure it's better karma to depend on him than tip within my meager budget of 20%. (Remember, even though I'm poor, I tip appropriately.)

Yesterday PYT and I grabbed lunch. I decided to pick up the check for once. The tab was about $23, so I left $30. (My reasoning: $23 rounds to $5, making the tab $28; no need to wait for the two bucks back.)

My first table yesterday was really sweet. People who actually seem like they make a difference in the world. They asked me about Cavalia and if I knew the showtimes for Paranormal Activity (who the hell knows movie showtimes off the top of their head?). Because I didn't know, I checked on a server's computer to tell them the next times at the nearest theatre.

Their tab was just under $23. They left me $30.

Inspired by the Four Drunks Playing Goldentee and Bad Music

Jukeboxes are great things. At a bar, you can pick whatever you'd like to listen instead of whatever crappy music the management may pick. However, where I work, I'm lucky that everyone has good (or at minimum, acceptable) taste in music. When we pick jukebox songs or our satellite radio station, it's usually palatable. Right now the GM has it on the oldies station, which he finally changed from weeks of 90s music.

Certain managers have better tastes in music. For instance, the GM likes classic rock. The rock band managers lean toward metal. We also have feminist music and varying levels of indie rock, depending on who's picking.

During our three trivia nights, we pause the jukebox to let the Trivia Masters pick the song between questions. Undoubtedly Thursdays are the best. I haven't worked a Tuesday or Wednesday in a long time, but I remember the old Wednesday woman used to play Britney and other similar such music. She was nice, but man, her taste in music was definitely lacking. (Another reason the Thursday folk are the best: They always tip the server for taking up the table.)

Corporate restaurants usually have a license agreement to play a specific playlist or CD for which they have purchased the rights. Unless you work for a club or venue that pays rights to BMI, SESAC, or ASCAP, you're in for a terrible time. When I worked at Friday's a couple years ago, I hated the soundtrack. There would be a few diamonds in the rough, but let me tell you: There are only so many times you can hear "Margaritaville" to promote the summer margarita flavors. And, heaven forbid if I didn't get enough Christmas music from B98.5, I'd still get a healthy dose from work.

I've actually never put money into a jukebox, even though I praise royalties. My boyfriend likes to play "Brown-Eyed Girl" and "Pretty Young Thing" because they're our songs. My friend Jane pumps jukeboxes full of money for her music every time we go out. Certain patrons here play the same music all the time. For example, when Kid Rock and Korn are playing, I know the pointy-beareded guy is at the bar; when hip hop and Prince blasts from the jukebox, I know Slim is here. When Phish and the Grateful Dead play, I know Brian or a similar hippie has put in a few bucks. Slim in particular avoids trivia nights so that he can play Jukebox DJ.

Bad taste gets old quickly.

To sum up what I feel about jukeboxes and poor music, this is a sign I wish we had on our jukebox:



[Photo taken at The Nook with my terrible cell phone camera.]

Tipping Addendum

Tipping should be in the form of money.

I guess if you buy me several shots, I'll be okay if you tip me 15%, provided it wasn't a $2 Dimetapp Grape Ape. However, memorabilia should never take the place of a tip.

For example, here is a tip I got a month ago:



This came along with a decent, but not great, tip. And, it's a special issue from New York's recent Get Some! campaign. Here is a corresponding commercial:



However:




This is what Kelly received as her tip. Unacceptable. If it came with the dollar change she wrongly assumed was hers to keep, it would have been welcome. However, on its own, it is unacceptable.

Tip should primarily be money. Not your extra honey.

Cities in China

Tipping. Not a city in China, you know. It's my paycheck.

This is how it currently works in Georgia (and most of America):

15% = average service/usual minimum
20%=good service/my minimum

You should tip 20% as your minimum, especially if you're happy with what you received! 10% is no longer acceptable. Whether or not Oprah really did say that.

Servers should always tip 20% bare minimum because Tip Karma will definitely interfere and lower our tips/paycheck. No lie. It's real. When I went to Prague for a month and tipped well by their customs, I got 10-15% tips upon my arrival.

I can't tell you how many times I've received 10%/less than 10%/nothing and asked the table if there was a problem with the service only to hear, "Nope, it was great!" with a smile. Sometimes it leads into more.

And, you should also consider the time which you take up the section before adding your tip. Maybe your $2 is good on your $10 tab, but if you've been sitting there for five hours, you should be much more considerate.

As a Philadelphia Eagles' bar, I'm accustomed to tables sitting for hours and hours tipping only on the dollar amount. There are the lovely few who do consider the time it takes to refill the Mr. Pibb eight times during the first half. However, most fans either are unaware or maintain their ignorance.

The first time I ever, ever, was yelled at was during the first Eagles' game I worked of the season. Now, keep in mind that I'm usually loved by my tables and take particular exception to when I'm disliked in general. And then to be yelled at as if this customer were my father really hurt.

After reviewing the situation many times in my head, I can only believe that my only real shortcoming was the delay in bringing the check. And that I couldn't control the fact that the Eagles were losing pitifully to the Saints. I brought the beers quickly, the pizza was up before the game started, I managed to keep up with the standing patrons near the table, and I refilled the first Diet Coke many a time until the upgrade to adult beverages.

When this guy asked for his check, honestly I forgot. It was only the third quarter; I figured that there was plenty of time to bring the check. When he angrily asked for it, I brought it immediatelly, and consequently, immediately forgot to add the gratuity for the extra folk standing around the table. He gave me $3 on $28. I asked about it. This is the best I can recreate the situation. Parenthesis are my thoughts.

Me: Sir, was there a problem with your service?
Him: You tell me.
Me: (Well, this isn't going to plan.) Well, you're the only one here who has paid. I was just wondering if you were unhappy with anything, and, if so, how I could improve.
Him: Why are you asking me?
Me: (Oh, god.) Since you tipped me only about ten percent, I just assumed that you were unhappy with your service, and I wanted to know what I could do to improve.
Him: You need to brush up on your service skills.
Me: (Obviously.) How specifically can I do that?
Him: Brush up on your serving.
Me: Yes, sir. What specifically could I do to improve my service skills?
Him: You're all about the money and not the honey.
Me: Sir, how can I be more about the honey?

And that's when he told me I could put my three bucks back on the table. I walked away and ignored him for the rest of the fourth quarter. His friends all apologized for his typical behavior and didn't notice the auto-gratuity I retroactively added. Although they were the only reason I made decent money that shift, I never actually learned my serving shortcomings.

I was pretty happy when I walked by and saw him spill his Harp all over his beer belly.

Karma, tip or not, exists.