So let's see, in my little orgy of list-making so far, I've managed to piss off professional restaurant critics, amateur restaurant critics, cooks, chefs, and servers.
Hmmm... Ooh, I know.
Assholes, cheapskates, the clueless, the entitled, and the just plain psycho all conspire to make the lives of restaurant employees -- most of whom work damned hard for wages that could generously be described as "shitty" -- even harder and shittier. So here's a toast of sour milk and Jägermeister to all of you in all your various permutations, the Restaurant Customers From Hell.
Go ahead and get pissed off. You know who you are.
Penny Pincher. Penny doesn't just pinch her dollars; she straps
them down with rack and thumbscrews and tortures them until they scream.
Everything is overpriced, from a $6 burrito to a ten-course meal at the
French Laundry. She's the one with a fistful of two-for-one coupons, a
calculator, and the attitude of a banker foreclosing on widows and
orphans. And don't even get her started on tipping.
Everybody knows someone like Mr. Head. He's the crotchety old man who
yells at kids for playing on the sidewalk, who throws a fit when people
park their car on the street in front of his house. He's a pathetic,
needle-dicked loser whose chief pleasure is harassing other people and
making them as sad and miserable as he is. No wonder servers add a little
something extra to his entrée before taking it out to the table.
Ms. Picky doesn't eat onions. She doesn't like garlic or chilies or
ginger. She can't stand spices. She hates cilantro. Bread and potatoes
make her fat. Rice and pasta too. Meat is gross. Fish is disgusting.
Chicken is scary. She picks vegetables out of everything. Everything
else is either too hot or too cold, too spicy or too bland, too rich or
too diet-y. What does she like? Whatever the restaurant doesn't have.
Mr. Know-It-All. This genius knows everything about restaurants. He knows how choucroute garnie
should be made, and that's not how the chef did it. He knows his server
isn't boning his fish properly. And he certainly knows more than someone
who has spent his entire life studying wine, who can identify
varietal, vintage, and region with a single sip. The only thing he
doesn't know is that he's a raving idiot.
Spawn, the Family.
The sight of Ma, Pa, and their darling Customer From Hell-in-Training
entering a restaurant fills servers' hearts with terror. Within seconds,
the little monster will be screaming like a banshee at a Megadeth
concert, then start throwing food across the table and running around
the dining room, while Ma and Pa sit chewing their cud,
oblivious. The perfect argument for forced sterilization.
I know who you are, you're the washed-up, Z-list reject of that
canceled "reality" program who imagines people remember you or actually
give a shit. They don't. Or you're that richer-than-God celebrity who
thinks kissing your ass for several hours a night is all the
compensation anyone deserves and tips $10 on a thousand-dollar tab.
Here's a tip for you: Fuck off.