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.
11 comments ↓
Brutal day. I’d be pissed if I dropped my macchiato also.
Umm smile. It could be worse…
I DO NOT APPROVE OF THIS
I DO NOT APPROVE OF THIS AT ALL
Damn those “accidental” boob touchings! Damn them to HELL!!
-Thanks for saying what you really think,
I feel honored…(for real)
P.S. humans r asses!!
P.P.S. sure everyone thinks I am a pervert but then you post pictures of yourself “adjusting your bra”
like “look, look at these, aren’t they awsome!”
damn I am only human woman!
Hah. I used to work at Hometown Buffet. I don’t know if you have those over in TN, but man, on Sunday mornings, its a damn nightmare. The shifts were from 7 to 3:30 and the place was packed to capacity for ever single goddamn second of it. At 7 a.m. there was already a line, and the clientele started out old. They’re not that bad, just slow. As the morning went on, the clientele got younger and FAT and MESSY. The place became a trough. It was not uncommon for one of the employees to lose a finger to a fat ass fat woman while trying to switch out the old roll basket for a new one…in the frenzy you know? I had to concoct these huge buckets of OJ in the back that were too damn heavy for my skinny ass, like every 10 minutes cuz these people sucked it down like a porn queen sucks down…well you know. Anyways, I feel you. Urgh…just thinking about it makes my stomach hurt and that was like 6 years ago!
Great post!
Also, If you haven’t read it already, definitely check out Anthony Bourdain’s excellent book “Kitchen Confidential”. Aside from being a great warts-and-all look at the restaurant industry, he has a section wherein he rants at length on how he loathes the brunch shift above all else.
I had the same shitty experiences waiting tables, but damn if I don’t love my coffee, water, and OJ with brunch…
What’s funny (to me, at least) is that I was housesitting at my sister’s condo right around the corner and Sarah and I almost stopped in there for brunch. “Brittney will be soooo happy to see us,” I thought.
Of course, we’re broke, so we settled for Frito’s Scoops and bean dip.
My ex girlfriend’s mum made me do Sunday Brunch once, I drank orange juice with champagne in it. What the fuck’s up with that?
WOW, what an angry bitch!
Leave a Comment