The Comfy Corner

So I recently started waiting my first tables. I work at a mid-range chain restaurant that serves overpriced "specialty" pizzas, salads, and pastas. For the sake of keeping my job, it shall remain nameless. The food is actually very good, but as far as being a "classy" establishment, I would say it is an upper middle class destination. We serve wine, but we don't have white, linen table cloths. So here are a couple stories of people who got confused about how "classy" my restaurant is.

1. A teenage ballet company from New Hampshire came down to see the Boston Ballet. It was a group of twenty five. Five adults, eighteen skinny, pretty girls, and two skinny, pretty boys. This story is about one of those boys who walked into the restaurant in his loafers, his pressed, white shorts, his polo and his knit, white sweater elegantly draped over his shoulders. Age estimate: 14. I casually took their orders trying to convince them that I was just as young and cool as them, when this boy asks "Do you have fresh lemonade?" I got him his fresh lemonade, and then he said "Do you have personal sized pizzas?" By the look on his face he might as well have asked if I would run put change in the meter because he had an important business meeting to go to. "In that case, I'll have the traditional cheese." Give this boy a Bentley and call it a day. He is the next Queen of England.

2. A pair of older women breezed into the restaurant as if they owned the place and when I asked if they would like something to drink, the woman in seat one (restaurant lingo, it's a whole system) said "No." And when I looked at her in confusion she said "I'll have a water." As I walked away she looked at her friend and said "Well, this is a far cry from the W." Look, I'm sorry we don't have wheat bread. I'm sorry we don't have water in wine glasses already on the table as soon as you sit down. Give us a break! We are humble pizza makers trying to scrape out a decent existence.

3. Europeans don't tip. It's a fact I've come to accept. Even though they know they should, they don't. When I go to Europe I know I'm not supposed to tip. When they come to America, they act like they don't speak English. In any event, a group of European ladies came in and immediately ordered a round of Coronas. After several pizzas and another round of Coronas, I asked if they would like to look at dessert menus. They did. After giving them a reasonable amount of time to make decisions I came back and asked what they would like. The woman in seat four said quite abrasively "No, we're too fucked for dessert." Then she laughed loudly and repeated "We're too fucked" just to make sure I heard her. It was as if they had just Googled some American cuss words and they were trying the worst one out on me. I laughed uncomfortably and got the bill. They didn't tip.