Monologue: The Waiter

Would you look at this – I mean really – I don’t care what kind of person you are. I don’t care what you do for work, or what you’re going through in your personal life. Maybe your mother died, or you’ve just been diagnosed with butt cancer – whatever.
Whenever you pass your whip to the camel valet out there, when you walk through those beads, when you wipe your dust covered sandals on that welcome mat out there, when you park your robe covered ass on one of our chairs – there is an unspoken contract made.
I would like to think that was perfectly clear.
You’re gonna have an overall culinary experience and quite likely life-changing meal!

Who am I?
I am the vehicle of that experience – that’s my job – I’m a waiter – and I’m damn fucking good at it.
First of all, I keep myself neat – clean clothes (I beat em against the rocks myself), clean body (2 schvitzes a day – whether I need ‘em or not!). I keep an accurate, intimate knowledge of all our wines and the exact details of what the chef has prepared for the day – You see any fucking papyrus on me? Fuck no, it’s all up here.
Your order gets to your table on time – still steaming from the kitchen.
I have it down to a science exactly how much time I should take in between coming back to the table – “
How is everything this evening, Can I get you some more complimentary dates, Can I water your slaves?”
You know shit like that.
And banter? I can bring anyone to tears of laughter just goin’ through the wine list!
I’m that good.
So, given that you and your party of 12 just received the best fucking service you’ll ever get this side of the Meditaranean Sea – why would you think it’s okay to leave a 2 dinar tip. Huh? Look – one – two dinarii. I don’t carry an abacus with me, but I think I got enough math skills to realize that this is barely scraping the edge of 5%!
What the fuck!


At first, I was pretty excited – the boss – and between you and me he’s a real Roman asshole – he tells us there’s a big party booking. Now normally we have a reserve list that would make you choke on your unleavened bread. By the time we got to this one group of Sumerians and their table for 6, their civilization died out.
But this big party – 13 people – apparently some heavy-duty VIP’s, the head guy is some sort of big time political figure – popular with the people – right?
So the boss knows, as much of a dickhead as he is, that I’m the best he’s got – so naturally, I get the gig.
I set up the banquet room myself – hey, I’m a perfectionist – I wanna know exactly where everything is set. I got a system that works, and works well. I get all the chairs out, set up the giant table – a little bit of frankensense burning in the corner – crack open one of the windows – fucking great view by the way – everything couldn’t have been more picture perfect.

Then it starts –
First off, they’re a half-hour late – and I’m busting my ass already cause Meshach calls in sick – dipshit gets blitzed with his two fuckwit pals every other day – plus there’s this party of Assyrians who’ve been cooling their heels at the bar, waiting two hours to get seated – so the situation is tense already.
Thankfully the boss was out “getting more olives at the docks” – which means getting a “massage” from his Greek boytoy – so I took charge and got the VIP’s into the banquet room.
It figures they meander around as if they didn’t realize they were fucking late, then they go and start rearranging the table setting. I just kept my mouth shut as they take the chairs and shove em all on one side of the table. And not even the side with the view.
Then they all line-up and the head guy starts washin’ everyone’s feet.
I don’t own the restaurant, so it ain’t my call. But c’mon, other people gotta eat in here you know?
Whatever, no big deal, they booked the room, they can do shit like that if they want.
I try to keep out of their way as they figure out who’s sitting where – takes them long enough – then the head guy calls me over and asks me to take the Frankensence out of the room – no big deal – but as I’m going he whispers something to the guy next to him and rolls his eyes and laughs. Fucking jerk. I paid for that shit outta my own pocket.
Fine. I can go with the flow, I’m a professional.


So I get back a few minutes later – when I realize no one is saying a word. You could cut the tension with a spear. Everybody’s fidgeting and staring at the guy in the middle. I was standing there patiently, goin’ nuts, the only sounds in the room were people adjusting their robes and politely coughing.
Some guy on the end goes to pour himself a glass of water and gets an elbow in the ribs.
I was just waiting for someone to at least pick up a fucking menu or something when I spot my old squash buddy.
“Judas!” I say trying to be all friendly and then all of a sudden everyone gasps, and Judas spit-takes all over the bread.
I wasn’t sure if I fucked up or anything, but I’m a fast thinker, always on my toes right? So I take the opportunity to slide to the middle of the table and go into the specials. I’m about half-way through describing the rack of lamb with pomegranite sauce and the long-haired honcho says something.
I had to get him to repeat it twice, he talked so softly. What kind of a fucking guy goes around expecting everyone to just listen to everything he says.
“Bread will be fine”
That what the guy says.
“Bread will be fine”
So I bust my ass to the kitchen. The kitchen is the place where pros like me let off the steam of dealing with assholes like that. You’ll never notice from the beaming smile on my face but I just spent 5 minutes detailing what an asshole you are to the Louie the prep cook.
I come back and no one’s the wiser.
I got my arms loaded with some hot fresh baked joy, one trip thank you very much – but when I get there – the whole table is literally covered in bread. Baguettes, rolls, fucking pumpernickel as far as the eye can see.
I was like “Holy Shit did Isaiah hook my fucking table again? I’m gonna stab him with a spear!” but then I see the head guy pour bread out of his sleeves like he was the opening act for the Gladitorial Games or something.
Then – everyone passes over their goblets and he waves his hand over them – I’m waiting for an “Alacazam” or something – and everyone sits back down with fucking WINE!
I’m about to belt out a “You can’t bring your own booze in here!”, cause I mean we have vintages you’d sacrifice your son for, but the guy gives me a look as if I say anything, he’s gonna come across the table and hold me down while his pals beat the shit outta me.
Fuck, I’m standing there with hot bread in the middle of some magician’s funeral.
I shove what I got in the middle of this magical yeast smorgasboard and I just stand back and wait for the next part of the freakshow.
Well, yeah, I didn’t have to wait long, cause the head guy gets up with his arms raised, and immediately I go for the fire extinguisher cause I figure he gonna shoot fireworks outta his sleeves for the big finale or something, but no he just hold up his cup says:
“This is my blood – drink it in remembrance of me.”
I’m like “What the fuck?” And I wasn’t the only one, I could see at least five people gagging and when no one’s looking Judas goes and pours his cup into the azaleas.

Pretending not to notice anything is a skill one needs to hone in my line of work.
When Mary Magdalene comes in with her three o’clock and “drops her fork” under the table – you just keep the guy’s coffee freshened up – and move along – you know what I’m saying?

Man, the stuff I have to put with. You have no idea.
People say the customer is always right, that’s half true – customers are usually too fucking stupid to know what they want. I tell them what they want and let em think they came up with the idea themselves.

So the magic bread and wine weird fest wraps up after some freakin’ long yadda-yadda from the head guy. Note to self: just get to the fucking point already. Everytime someone asked him a question, he went off into a long winded, heavy handed metaphor.
I had to look out for my buddy Judas and kick his chair a few times, cause I swear, into the third story – everybody was baby-heading.

So after all that, they shuffle out – all I get from the head guy is this “What are you gonna do look” I root through the pile of random coins under the bill, it’s all in small change – do these guys have jobs at all?

Now here we are, a hellava mess, and two dinars for my putting up with that shit.
If this was my restaurant, that would have been their Last Supper.
Do me a favour, tip your waiter.