Yummy Yummy, Bitches.

I bussed with my good friend and coworker Frank for our usual Saturday lunch shift. We’re the only ones at the front of the house.

Fifteen minutes after I got there, we got a table of five–rich, intellectual, middle-aged white women. Any server will tell you that these are the worst kind. Frank gives me a look as they ignored the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign and plopped their fat asses down at the first table they saw.

One of my responsibilities as a busser is to take people drinks.

“Can I start you off with any drinks besides water, soda or tea?” I asked.

The older, fatter one picked up our tea menu and asked me a laundry list of questions about whether we prepare the tea by pouring the water directly on the tea leaves, if it’s organic, why we don’t carry white teas, etc. I was patient and answered each question to the best of my ability.

“Eh, maybe next time.” she shrugged. I gave her my best “thank you for wasting my time” smile.

Frank made three trips to take their order because none of them thought to touch the menus when they first sat down. He had to shout over the cackling to get their attention. As he took their order, each one asked his opinion between two or three menu items. New tables kept coming an Frank was looking like a deer in headlights as kept changing their orders and asking for ridiculous requests, like “Make sure the vegetables are STEAMED” or “Sauce on the side.” The entire process took him almost twenty minutes.

In the time between taking the order and delivering the food, all five sows gulped down their waters faster than you could say “WASP” and shot both of us piercing glares over chubby pink cheeks as we whisked by their table taking care of other customers. Every table in the restaurant was filled by this point.

I winced as Frank delivered the food. Sure enough, like some kind of hag-magic, three of them found something wrong with their food:


“I said STEAMED vegetables” (They were steamed.)
“Where’s my paratha?” (It only comes with the dinner portion.)
“I didn’t think this would be this oily” (It’s fried fucking rice!)

They finished their lunch with few grumbles and the plates were cleared, but none of those bitches one moved for a half an hour. We had a line out the door and I remember staring longingly at the unpaid check lying in the middle of the table.

I could have philosophized and lamented on how historically disrespectful the upper-class can sometimes be towards us with the blue collars, but then I remembered some banter between two of our cooks, Larry (who is African-American) and Mr. Dingo (a sweet 75 year-old Filipino gentleman who makes our appetizers):

Larry: Ringo, white women!
Dingo: Yummy yummy!

…and I smile.

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