Mein Kampf: A Server’s Manifesto Presents…Chocolate Milk

13 Jul

And here it is folks. The second series I’ve alluded to for about a week now. I present you with Mein Kampf: A Server’s Manifesto. In this series, myself and the newest addition to the Strong Move, Dr. Klioze, will take a look at things that piss servers off, since we have both delved into the world of the service industry. We have worked at different places, but we share a lot of the same experiences and the same goes for every server out there. And because everyone goes out to eat, we can all read these stories/rants and laugh at them. We’re bringing you into the world of your server. You know, the one you gave a “universal five” to. So children, Hispanics, plate sharers, Indians, vegetarians, Jews all take heed. No one will be spared. Take all of this with a grain of salt people. We’re not out to get you, and we’re certainly not racist. Well, unless a party of fifteen Indians come in five minutes before the restaurant closes. So sit back and enjoy, laugh with us, at us, and at yourselves. But please don’t hurt anybody.

Our first installment: chocolate milk. Anybody with a strong affinity to the Nesquik bunny should stop reading now.

Picture this if you will. I am standing near the wall of my restaurant, bullshitting with some co-workers about who knows what, catching up with my Twitter timeline, munching on chips and salsa. I see the host take a family of five to one of my larger tables. Fuck, I quietly say to myself, but not a big deal. I’m not really doing anything anyway and I’ll be damned if I go into the kitchen to run trays of food. So I’ll greet them with the fake smile I’ve perfected over the two short years that I’ve been waiting tables. Kids. I fucking hate kids.

See, I used to like kids. That is, until I started working at a restaurant. I worked with my mom, who’s a kindergarten teacher, for a year every Wednesday in high school. I loved those kids. I’d go to the moon and back for them, and if I saw any of them today all grown up, I’d be so thrilled. But kids at a restaurant? Hate em all. And you’re about to find out one of the reasons why.

“Can I start you guys off with anything to drink?”

This phrase is the most telling, and as such, is one of the most nerve-wracking questions a server will ask. It’s a barometer for how the table is going to turn out. Round of beers ordered by kind Caucasian people in shirts and ties? CHA CHING. Round of margaritas ordered by blinged out Indian Americans? FML. Round of waters with no ice ordered by Indians dressed in their native garbs? They’re getting their waters garnished with a healthy dollop of my phlegm.

Dad comes first, he orders a Miller Lite, just the regular size. Way to go HAM, pops. Mom gets a Diet Coke. You know, because she’s watching her weight. Then, it’s the three kids’ turn. They are too preoccupied doing their mazes and jumbles and crosswords and whatever else is in the damn kids menu. Mom is trying to get their attention. “Kids, kids what do you want to drink? KIDS DAMNIT LISTEN TO ME! What do you want?”

At this point, I’ve been standing there for a solid couple of minutes, the awkwardness of the mother yelling at her demon seeds washes over me. She decides to list the drinks that we offer to them. She neglects Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper, all the soft drinks. Too easy I guess. Whatever happened to giving a kid a Coke and having him shut the hell up? She proceeds to rattle off the juices. Apple, orange, cranberry, pineapple, grapefruit, fruit punch. Sorry, since when did you become the fucking server? We don’t even have grapefruit and fruit punch you stupid cunt. The kids are still too busy connecting the dots and sticking crayons up their nose that none of the drinks caught their ears yet.

“How about milk? They have chocolate milk…”

Now you’ve fucking done it.

“Chocolate milk!” the first one yelps. And if the oldest has it, the other two have to as well. Chocolate milk huh? I pretend to write this on my pad as I mutter profanities to myself and pray for these children to grow up sterile and deprive their conniving parents the grandchildren they will one day dream of.

Let me explain the annoyance of chocolate milk to you. I am programmed to take ‘X’ amount of cups out and scoop ice into them and then, one by one, put them under the fountain, and watch the combination of soda water and your desired syrup cascade into the empty glass. Pick up any drinks I need from the bar on my way to the table and I’ll get back to your table in under a minute, no problem at all. Some fucking brat orders chocolate milk, it’s a different story.

I pour out Mom’s Diet Coke, but remembered that she said she wanted it with a lemon. I walk on over to the fridge and set down my tray, Diet Coke, and three empty kids cups onto the ledge. Open up the fridge and get the carton of mi…wait a minute. Seems like the last dipshit who used the milk decided it’d be a good idea to leave just a half glassful at the end and that’s it. I can jizz more milk than that last lazy bastard left. So I gotta go in the back and get a fresh carton. Pour that out and then get the chocolate syrup. I like to take pride in my chocolate milks as opposed to most of everyone else so I stir it until it’s brown throughout, not just white with a shit colored stain at the bottom. Sure that’s probably what the kids deserve, but I’m not that heartless. Plus, I gotta fake it so the parents give me some more money. I place the drinks on my tray, head on over to the bar, scoop up the Miller Lite, and five minutes later, I get back to their table with their drinks. Dad is pissed because his beer isn’t foaming anymore and Mom is pissed cause I forgot her lemon in the hassle of getting the milk, syrup, and bitching to all the other waiters about having to make a goddamn chocolate milk. Did I mention that a chocolate milk is free for kids? I make no money in this ordeal.

I give them their drinks and ask them if they’re ready to order. Mom and Dad order some of the cheaper items on the menu and tell me to get them some more chips and salsa because the kids devoured all of them in the time I was gone constructing their drinks. When it comes time for the kids to order, do you think they order a nice and juicy skirt steak to accompany their beverage and satisfy their refined palate?  Of course not. Chicken tenders with fries. Looks like I’ll be drinking some scotch tonight.

By the way, I’ve neglected mentioning people over the age of eight who order a chocolate milk. I don’t care if you’re willing to pay the $2.29 for me to make your chocolate milk, you’re still an asshole. And a pussy.

Same applies for a Shirley Temple by the way. If I ever met her, I’d kick her old sorry granny ass just for inventing such a dumb drink.

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One Response to “Mein Kampf: A Server’s Manifesto Presents…Chocolate Milk”

  1. Erik July 13, 2011 at 5:35 pm #

    Can I write the article about the 4th person at the same table asking what salad dressings we have?

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