Hello, My Name Is "I Hate You" and I'll
Be Your Server
I’ve worked in several restaurants throughout my life, and
there are two things that have always remained consistent:
- The customer is always an asshole.
- If the customers knew how the food was handled, they would
never eat in any restaurant ever again.
One thing that patrons have to understand about waiters is that
we don’t like you. We couldn’t care less about you.
I’ll laugh at your stupid jokes and smile like a dipshit,
but once you’ve left your tip it doesn’t matter to
me whether you live or die. And yes, it does bother me when your
autistic brats run me around like a fool fetching little cups and
highchairs for them. Some parents have no shame. I’ve seen
children drinking from ketchup bottles, slobbering all over them
while their parents, fully aware of this, do absolutely nothing.
Apparently they go out to eat to show the entire world what lazy
unhygienic slobs they are.
The most amazing thing to me is that these people still have the
gall to be absolute pricks to their servers. Somehow they haven’t
made the connection that we have unsupervised access to whatever
hulking plate of garbage that they’re about to consume. The
food is filthy enough by accident, or by highly illegal cost-cutting
restaurant policies. Tainting the food intentionally just makes
me feel better. It might make it a little bit more dirty and unhealthy
than it already was but it’s really done for sentimental
reasons. Watching some rude behemoth shovel fettuccini that’s
been laced with your spit and urine into his gaping hole can be
The last restaurant I worked in had a policy of doling out free
cottage cheese as an appetizer. No matter how long the cottage
cheese sat out in the dining room being sneezed on and fiddled
with, if there were no visible cracker bits in it, back into the
bucket it went. That should clue you in right there. People who
care about their food do not store it in massive plastic buckets
that they never clean forever. That bucket never left the cooler.
In the four months I worked at this place, nobody touched it except
to dump more cottage into it or to scoop out an appetizer.
The chains are no better. I worked at a prominent taco chain just
as this particular location was opening. In the beginning, the
managers pretended to care. After the first week, they realized
that the situation was hopeless. It’s frustrating working
at any restaurant because you clean all this shit time and time
again, several times a day, and it is never clean. It just keeps
getting worse and worse. So eventually you do the only reasonable
thing there is to do: you give up. Maybe if someone is watching
me like a hawk and demanding that I clean this disaster, I’ll
pretend to work on it. Otherwise, the thing can do whatever the
hell it wants to with itself. It obviously wants to turn itself
into garbage, so who I am to argue with it?
The obvious advantage of working in a fast food place is that
the cows are left to fend for themselves for the most part. They
tote their little trays, they have unrestricted access to the bins
that hold an infinite amount of highly questionable condiments
and to the soda machines. They make a mess of themselves, as almost
all patrons do, but it isn’t any worse than anyplace else.
The obvious disadvantages are that you don’t earn shit and
that you still get a steady influx of psychotic primadonnas. Your
way my ass, where the hell do you think you are, the Ritz-Carlton?
Look around you for fuck’s sake! Gorge on your 50-cent tacos
like everybody else and shut up. If something tastes funny, dump
more hot sauce on it. I make minimum wage. I am not here to make
you happy. I am here to help you kill yourself by eating this poison.
One event that surprised me, maybe because I was still young,
just beginning in the food services industry, was a burdened female
voice placing the following drive through order:
Lady: I’ll take 10 meximelts, four steak burritos, a fish
Me: Ma’am, we don’t have those here. You’re thinking of McDonalds,
across the street.
Lady: Scratch that then, make it two bean burritos instead, and a fribble.
Me: Ma’am, you’re thinking of Wendy’s, right down the road.
Lady: Ok, make it a super-sized DIET Mountain Dew.
The line people building this twisted experiment in food gone
horribly wrong busted out laughing. This lady just ordered 1000%
of the FDA’s daily recommended allowance of lard and she
thinks that a diet Mountain Dew of all things is going to save
her? And the order of a single beverage foreshadowed a dark side
to this meal. It was indeed for just one person.
As the battered old van pulled up to the pickup window, I saw
that this lady was indeed a beast, a real monster. The deuce was
an ancient memory to her. The interior of the van was littered
with fast food wrappers, an empty KFC bucket, and several massive
empty paper cups. It looked like I was handing her a week’s
worth of groceries. That’s another warning sign people, if
you spend over $20 on yourself at a fast food restaurant in 1992,
you are doing something horribly wrong and unnatural to yourself.
I used to wonder what would happen to a person if they ate nothing
but fast food and now I know. First they explode, then they die.
Right before I quit, I was pissed off at one of the managers,
so while he was watching me work the line, I reached barehanded
into a huge vat of meat and crammed a fistful into my face, making
sure to allow most of it to fall out of my mouth and back into
the vat. The manager said nothing. He knew that we all ate out
of the vats like that all the time; it was garbage, but hell, it
was free. That was the day that any illusions of even pretending
to handle the food properly evaporated permanently. Think about
that the next time you bite into your chalupa.
This is really only
the tip of the iceberg. I’ve walked in on dishwashers
hiding in the cooler, eating ice cream out of a bucket with their filthy scumbag
dishwasher’s hands. I’ve seen pizza dropped face first on wet muddy
tile floors only to be scooped up, paper toweled off, popped into the microwave
for five seconds (to supposedly kill any insects or germs), and loaded into
a box, “good as new.” I’ve heard managers instruct dishwashers
to fluff up the salad with their ruined hands to make it more appealing to
the customers. Personally, food that hasn’t been mauled by a dishwasher’s
perpetually filthy and waterlogged hands appeals to me a hell of a lot more
than a fluffy salad.
There is a new trend, it started in the major cities and now it’s
spreading. Restaurants are bringing the prep areas out from behind
closed doors, so the patrons can watch as their food is prepared
hygienically. They see some bit of meat dropped on the ground,
and they see some poor bastard scoop it up and throw it out. Still,
you have to be very skeptical. From the slaughter yard to the meat
wagon to your plate, how many people have dealt with your food?
How many times has it been dropped, pissed on, sneezed on, shat
on (I am not exaggerating) before it got to your plate? How many
insects have been mashed into it? How many rodents got sucked into
the meat grinder with it? Traveling in some third world shithole
my father saw a load of mashed coconuts slowly rotting on a dock.
It was due to be exported to the USA. Alongside the mashed coconuts
were several water buffalos, and as buffalos or animals tend to,
they felt free to take several liberties with the coconuts. They
pissed on them, shat on them, ate them. All the while some poor
Asian slave is shoveling the coconuts into the hold of some creaking
wooden boat. He is completely indifferent. He makes almost enough
to afford one value meal a year. Why the hell should he care? It’s
probably the only thing that keeps him going, the thought of all
the American slobs gorging themselves on violated coconuts. He
imagines that someday he’ll kill them all, and then he won’t
have to shovel mashed coconuts into a boat ever again.
If you want a decent meal, this is my advice. Buy a gun and a
knife. Start a garden. You’d be better off eating your average
diseased neighborhood squirrel. You couldn’t be doing any