Age Of Consent

I had a rather pivotal night of work tonight.

At about 8:20 p.m., I had one inside (staying at the resort [jack shit for tips]) table of 8 who were grumpy about their bitchy kids, and one outside ($$$ if you play your cards right) table of 8 who seemed to really dislike me. I was feeling down; the outside table just seemed totally dissatisfied with me. Motherfuckers called me "Mike" about an hour into service. They seemed to want a super-professional, elegant, graceful, French-fluent ballerina for a waiter, not dumpy old Max Kuehn. I was strongly considering my alternate summer job options for the future, such as the blue-chip ditch-digging racket Sam and Josh are in on.


Then, SUDDENLY:
Someone at the table made a little joke, I joked back, and they started to warm up to me. I got a sweet bit going; one dude kept talking about how he was paying the bill, so I was pandering to him in an outlandish fashion ("Can I get you anything else? Especially you?"). The capper came when I brought out the bill and gave it to the guy, and he said "I've been lying to you Max, I'm not actually the one paying the bill!"

I stood up straight, sighed deeply, and said "Well, to Hell with you then."

And they LOVED it. They were applauding, hooting, rolling in the aisles. After their meal, they took a picture with me in the lobby.


In conclusion: apparently, there is a place at Lost Lake Lodge for an ironic asshole waiter. If you get the people in the right mood you can basically stand there and insult them and they pay you for it. Kinda like Al's Breakfast, but with better tips and fewer health code violations.



P.S.: I hit 40 hours tonight and I'm working a double tomorrow. Delicious overtime gravy.