Fuck Sunday brunch.

I have been working at [the place where I work] now for a full year.  For the most part, I really can’t complain.  I am happy at my job and as far as restaurant industry jobs go I’m really spoiled.  But despite all the good things about [the place where I work], I still can’t get past motherfucking Sunday brunch.

God, how I loathe that shift.  It’s omelets and fritattas and creme brulee french toast and an entirely different clientele than I am used to.  Lunch shifts through the week are populated by overworked and harried businessmen and sales ladies.  Evening shifts are populated by a too-wealthy pool of patrons that pretty much stays the same.  They are picky, but generous.  Aloof, but never rude.  Then Sunday morning rolls around and evil bitches and screaming children crawl out of the gutters and into our restaurant, hungry and hungover.  (Yes, the kids too.)

Everyone wants two or three drinks on Sundays.  Coffee with cream and water and juice and a bloody mary.  And that is just for the first guy.  No one wants to order off the menu in front of them, instead asking for crabcakes that are on the menu during the week.  Folks are either cranky from too much blow the night before or are viscious since that is how their peers were to them at church that morning. 

Sunday brunch eaters will ask you what it was they drank a few weeks ago that was champagne with something in it.  You offer up a mimosa as the drink they are searching to remember, only to have her laugh in your face and say, "No, darling, I know what a mimosa is."  This is the point where I try as hard as I can not to scream:  LOOK, CUNT, DON’T ASK FOR HELP REMEMBERING A DRINK I WASN’T EVEN THERE FOR THEN LAUGH IN MY FACE WHEN I OFFER A SUGGESTION.  OR I’LL CORKSCREW YOUR BITCH ASS TO DEATH!

Sunday brunch eaters want me to suggest something on the menu that they can share with their baby.  Like I know their stupid baby.  Looks to me like the tyke would like to gnaw on a good pork loin.  FUCK IF I KNOW.  You’re the mommy.  Eggs, I guess.

Sunday brunch eaters order all egg white omelets cooked with no butter and wonder why their eggs are a little oily.  Then they fill out the credit card slip, complete with tip, then pocket it and leave, the empty, unmarked customer receipt still lying on the table.  No tip for me, even after you touched my boob.  On "accident."

Sunday brunch eaters ask if the coffee is fresh ten minutes after we open. 

Today after a particularly brutal Sunday brunch shift I stopped for coffee drinks.  Iced mocha for him, double macchiato for me.  I make it up the stairs, open the door and drop my macchiato all over the hallway.  After taking drinks to thankless pricks all day without so much as spilling a drop.

I’m off next Sunday.  This is good.