“Garcon! Garcon!” she cried while waving her hand frantically in the air as she tried desperately to get the waiter’s attention. Anna thought Shelly looked rather silly, sitting there all prim and proper as she imagined Shelly thought a Frenchwoman would sit. She knew it was their day to speak French as much as possible in order to be fluent for their trip, but this was carrying it just a bit too far. “Shelly, drop the lousy French accent and just yell “Waiter”. I doubt the poor guy knows what you’re saying.”
The waiter was very nice and was there for our every need. he kept asking if we needed anything and else he could do for us. me and my friends really enjoyed the trip to the restaurant because of the waiter being there to serve our every need
I would like to be a waiter in my own pie shop. Indie and quaint. I would wear a flower apron and smile at my customers as they sipped tea and ate pie. It would be in a place that would rain every day, under a roof of an old Victorian home with a porch.
I found myself on this run….a slow-paced run….through banality and the mundanes of working here everyday. Treating all the hot-headed elderly, illiterate Southerns, and obnoxious oil-field workers. I found myself hating it, yet I started to understand humans better. They weren’t perfect. Especially when it came to ordering and making a large significance out of an out of place item through their meticulous eyes.
I sit here, hearing people want and need and nag,
I can’t stand the clutter and the filth, just oozing out of every warm body in the room.
Soon enough these people will see my potential and cry in the beauty of it.
My waiter never brought me my water. I wish I could get being thirsty out of my mind but I can’t. I was looking forward to drinking that water. Cool, crisp water. No tip for that jerk of a waiter.
They saw him standing across the room and wanted to yell to get his attention. It had been half an hour and he was still just staring off into space.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but he will be if he doesn’t get over here.”
Hah.
i went to the restaurant and i had a waiter. he wasent very helpful he took long to bring the food. it was expensive and i did not like the service. the food was nasty and it took forever. i am going to go to my regular restaurant
“Waiter, taste my soup,” Mike called to the waiter. “I’m sorry?” the waiter replied. “Taste my soup,” Mike answered. “Okay,” the waiter looked around the table and said, “Um, where’s your spoon?” “Ah Hah,” Mike said triumphantly as Marleen giggled helplessly. “I can’t believe you two just acted out that whole joke,” she said wiping tears from her eyes. “Joke? Actually I was being serious,” he said. “I needed silverware.”
During junior year in high school, I worked as a waiter in a elderly retirement home. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences, but I definitely learned a lot. I made a few mistake in terms punctuality and people skills. One time I clashed with a coworker and I don’t think he ever forgave me for the mistake. Ever since one problem, my job as a waiter went downhill and ultimately I was terminated.
I am shuffling my feet after years of standing very, very still. I’m sorry, my composure is slipping and my eagerness begins to show. How much longer? How much longer?
the waiter looked at me and asked me what i wanted to drink. i didn’t want to say anything. i wanted to just keep staring into his dark blue eyes. i was in the middle of Italy.. falling in love with the studd taking my order. was this real? was my life really this awesome? tonight is going to be awesome.
I don’t want the word waiter. Because that means to serve. Have you ever noticed that waiters always say “I’m here to take care of you” now instead of saying serve? Why is that such a poisonous word?
We went to a restaurant the other day and had a female waiter. She was cute and my friend wanted to ask her out. So I let him pay he bill so he could put his number on it. She never called him.
The waiter came to us and asked us yet again if we wouldn’t like a better table. I began to get angry, but then I saw that he was sweating. And so I said, “Please, give us a better table. This one’s too close to the kitchen.” And he did, and less than 3 minutes later, an explosion burst out from the kitchen.
He was a tall, thin man with a fading moustache. He had nothing to live for after he’d dropped out of music school, so he waited tables at Rossini’s. His shift started at three, and he left sometime after one in the morning. Then he would go home to his ginger cat and stare at foreign television.
The waiter stopped by and cleared the plates from the table. They sat there in silence, staring at each other through empty wine glasses. She was anxious for the check to arrive, and wished that she was getting a tip for all the time she waited on him.
The big, hefty man with the rings on all his fingers rang for me every 5 minutes it seemed. He talked down to me, and ridiculed me in front of my manager. But I got my revenge. You know they always say to be nice to your waiter, because he’s the one handling your food…*wink wink*
He narrows his eyes behind his spectacles and, throwing a cloth napkin over his arm, strides over to the table.
“Excuse me,” the disgruntled diner begins, “what kind of service is this?! We’ve been waiting for our order for over an hour–I’d like to see your manager and give him a word or two!!”
The waiter nods. There’s a metallic click under the napkin.
He is the waiter. Not the typical “Oh. Here’s your salty peanuts and dirty iced tea,” kind. He waits on people. Waits on change, his life in particular.
I had a waiter one day. He held this tray in a way I’d never seen; it was confident. He told me he had no other dream than what he was doing right at that second, which, he admitted, involved talking to me. I was moved, and I never saw him again.
The restaurant was bustling and the food was ferried from the kitchen to the tables so fast that customers only saw blurs. Or maybe it was just a blur to me, because I was too entranced by her eyes to notice much of anything else.
Through the dimly lit room, a shadow emerged. Among the cluttered noise of the crowd, a tall, slender sillouette gliding in the darkness. My heart raced as the flickering candle light traced the lines of his face. I could feel her hand clam up in mine from across the table.
Need money for tips, but don’t have any, can’t go out, hate credit card adding up always food, augh, would be a better job there woudl be tips so many tips, all over again. But then what, then what the food industry sucks so much waste so much refuse I m mean seriously?
I had a waiter once named Mitch. He worked at Montana’s and he was really nice and quite pretty, which was a good thing because he was a really shitty waiter, he didn’t even clear any plates or cups away after we were done, but I tipped him nicely anyways.
The world is moving oh-so-slow while the thoughts in my head are flying by like bats on the wing hunting bugs in the porch lights or a waiter with eight drinks on his tray balancing and trying not to slip. My brain is so busy bug-eating and drink-bringing that I have no time to visit the great vast line in which all of the rest of the world is waiting.
An image of a typical butler comes to mind, brandishing a meal covered with a graceful metal dome, with a handkerchief draped on his other arm and a look of smug sobriety on his face. He gingerly places the dish on the table, removes the dome with a pluck of his fingers, and announces its name softly as his customers crane their heads to examine the chef’s creation.
There once was this guy that appeared to have this world’s shittiest job, at least in his mind it was. Spending most of his time carrying heavy shit on a tray for people that liked to gripe about every little fucking thing. Sure he managed to get your occasionally nice people but half the time they didn’t tip well even though he just busted his ass to get them everything they wanted.
It is a good idea to be nice to your waiter. Even if he isn’t doing a good job, hold your thought until after dinner and deciding how large of a tip to leave him. Up to this point…they hold all of the power…if you catch my drift.
standing there, timid, not wanting to break the silence but knowing he must, he step forward to the table. all eyes are on him and he stumbles over the daily special. his eyes, never leaving his notepad, are glued to the floor as he shuffles away from the table
“Garcon! Garcon!” she cried while waving her hand frantically in the air as she tried desperately to get the waiter’s attention. Anna thought Shelly looked rather silly, sitting there all prim and proper as she imagined Shelly thought a Frenchwoman would sit. She knew it was their day to speak French as much as possible in order to be fluent for their trip, but this was carrying it just a bit too far. “Shelly, drop the lousy French accent and just yell “Waiter”. I doubt the poor guy knows what you’re saying.”
the waiter looked at me and asked ‘Mint tea? What kind of tea is that? We have all kinds of tea, but mint tea, I am sorry but no.
The waiter was very nice and was there for our every need. he kept asking if we needed anything and else he could do for us. me and my friends really enjoyed the trip to the restaurant because of the waiter being there to serve our every need
I would like to be a waiter in my own pie shop. Indie and quaint. I would wear a flower apron and smile at my customers as they sipped tea and ate pie. It would be in a place that would rain every day, under a roof of an old Victorian home with a porch.
“Waiter!” The man calls for him, tips a wave and two quid. The waiter nods his thanks–a slight bow.
I found myself on this run….a slow-paced run….through banality and the mundanes of working here everyday. Treating all the hot-headed elderly, illiterate Southerns, and obnoxious oil-field workers. I found myself hating it, yet I started to understand humans better. They weren’t perfect. Especially when it came to ordering and making a large significance out of an out of place item through their meticulous eyes.
She waived, irritated. Who was this person? Did she not work for tips? If only the day had been different…the forests of tomorrow seemed vast.
waiter
the waiter walked over to my table with a bright smile on his hansom face.
I sit here, hearing people want and need and nag,
I can’t stand the clutter and the filth, just oozing out of every warm body in the room.
Soon enough these people will see my potential and cry in the beauty of it.
My waiter never brought me my water. I wish I could get being thirsty out of my mind but I can’t. I was looking forward to drinking that water. Cool, crisp water. No tip for that jerk of a waiter.
who services in restaurant
They saw him standing across the room and wanted to yell to get his attention. It had been half an hour and he was still just staring off into space.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but he will be if he doesn’t get over here.”
Hah.
i went to the restaurant and i had a waiter. he wasent very helpful he took long to bring the food. it was expensive and i did not like the service. the food was nasty and it took forever. i am going to go to my regular restaurant
“Waiter, taste my soup,” Mike called to the waiter. “I’m sorry?” the waiter replied. “Taste my soup,” Mike answered. “Okay,” the waiter looked around the table and said, “Um, where’s your spoon?” “Ah Hah,” Mike said triumphantly as Marleen giggled helplessly. “I can’t believe you two just acted out that whole joke,” she said wiping tears from her eyes. “Joke? Actually I was being serious,” he said. “I needed silverware.”
During junior year in high school, I worked as a waiter in a elderly retirement home. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences, but I definitely learned a lot. I made a few mistake in terms punctuality and people skills. One time I clashed with a coworker and I don’t think he ever forgave me for the mistake. Ever since one problem, my job as a waiter went downhill and ultimately I was terminated.
I am shuffling my feet after years of standing very, very still. I’m sorry, my composure is slipping and my eagerness begins to show. How much longer? How much longer?
the waiter looked at me and asked me what i wanted to drink. i didn’t want to say anything. i wanted to just keep staring into his dark blue eyes. i was in the middle of Italy.. falling in love with the studd taking my order. was this real? was my life really this awesome? tonight is going to be awesome.
I don’t want the word waiter. Because that means to serve. Have you ever noticed that waiters always say “I’m here to take care of you” now instead of saying serve? Why is that such a poisonous word?
We went to a restaurant the other day and had a female waiter. She was cute and my friend wanted to ask her out. So I let him pay he bill so he could put his number on it. She never called him.
The waiter came to us and asked us yet again if we wouldn’t like a better table. I began to get angry, but then I saw that he was sweating. And so I said, “Please, give us a better table. This one’s too close to the kitchen.” And he did, and less than 3 minutes later, an explosion burst out from the kitchen.
He was a tall, thin man with a fading moustache. He had nothing to live for after he’d dropped out of music school, so he waited tables at Rossini’s. His shift started at three, and he left sometime after one in the morning. Then he would go home to his ginger cat and stare at foreign television.
The waiter stopped by and cleared the plates from the table. They sat there in silence, staring at each other through empty wine glasses. She was anxious for the check to arrive, and wished that she was getting a tip for all the time she waited on him.
The big, hefty man with the rings on all his fingers rang for me every 5 minutes it seemed. He talked down to me, and ridiculed me in front of my manager. But I got my revenge. You know they always say to be nice to your waiter, because he’s the one handling your food…*wink wink*
“Waiter? Waiter!!”
He narrows his eyes behind his spectacles and, throwing a cloth napkin over his arm, strides over to the table.
“Excuse me,” the disgruntled diner begins, “what kind of service is this?! We’ve been waiting for our order for over an hour–I’d like to see your manager and give him a word or two!!”
The waiter nods. There’s a metallic click under the napkin.
“Right away, sir.”
Bang.
He is the waiter. Not the typical “Oh. Here’s your salty peanuts and dirty iced tea,” kind. He waits on people. Waits on change, his life in particular.
I had a waiter one day. He held this tray in a way I’d never seen; it was confident. He told me he had no other dream than what he was doing right at that second, which, he admitted, involved talking to me. I was moved, and I never saw him again.
The restaurant was bustling and the food was ferried from the kitchen to the tables so fast that customers only saw blurs. Or maybe it was just a blur to me, because I was too entranced by her eyes to notice much of anything else.
Through the dimly lit room, a shadow emerged. Among the cluttered noise of the crowd, a tall, slender sillouette gliding in the darkness. My heart raced as the flickering candle light traced the lines of his face. I could feel her hand clam up in mine from across the table.
“How may I take your order?” He asked.
I could never be a waiter. Taking everyone’s orders, awkwardly barging in on people’s dining experiences? No thank you. Although I am a people person.
please be hot! i hate a really ugly waiter. its so much better to be served your food by an attractive person. it’s true. you’re thinking it too…
Need money for tips, but don’t have any, can’t go out, hate credit card adding up always food, augh, would be a better job there woudl be tips so many tips, all over again. But then what, then what the food industry sucks so much waste so much refuse I m mean seriously?
I had a waiter once named Mitch. He worked at Montana’s and he was really nice and quite pretty, which was a good thing because he was a really shitty waiter, he didn’t even clear any plates or cups away after we were done, but I tipped him nicely anyways.
The waiter served me the wrong dish. I ordered fish, but he brought me cheese. Was it my pronunciation or he was really deaf?
The world is moving oh-so-slow while the thoughts in my head are flying by like bats on the wing hunting bugs in the porch lights or a waiter with eight drinks on his tray balancing and trying not to slip. My brain is so busy bug-eating and drink-bringing that I have no time to visit the great vast line in which all of the rest of the world is waiting.
An image of a typical butler comes to mind, brandishing a meal covered with a graceful metal dome, with a handkerchief draped on his other arm and a look of smug sobriety on his face. He gingerly places the dish on the table, removes the dome with a pluck of his fingers, and announces its name softly as his customers crane their heads to examine the chef’s creation.
There once was this guy that appeared to have this world’s shittiest job, at least in his mind it was. Spending most of his time carrying heavy shit on a tray for people that liked to gripe about every little fucking thing. Sure he managed to get your occasionally nice people but half the time they didn’t tip well even though he just busted his ass to get them everything they wanted.
I am always a very good tipper. It embarrasses me to go to dinner with my father because he never leaves a very good tip for the waiter.
he was handsome, yet nerdy
he didn’t give me eye contact,
other than asking me what i wanted for dessert.
i knew what i wanted, i wanted him.
It is a good idea to be nice to your waiter. Even if he isn’t doing a good job, hold your thought until after dinner and deciding how large of a tip to leave him. Up to this point…they hold all of the power…if you catch my drift.
standing there, timid, not wanting to break the silence but knowing he must, he step forward to the table. all eyes are on him and he stumbles over the daily special. his eyes, never leaving his notepad, are glued to the floor as he shuffles away from the table