Regulars..More Like Regular-Pains-In-The-Ass!

There are two types of regulars, the ones that we enjoy and look forward to serving them, and the ones that we groan and pray that they aren't sat in our section. The latter deserve their own story, they are just as bad as some of the other stories you have read! While we applaud them and thank them for their continued patronage, we also wonder...how does it feel to have a meticulously set, detailed, methodical, monotonous schedule of when and where you will enter a local establishment and eat the same thing you have since it opened.

Exhibit A: Saturday and possibly Sunday mornings (depending on their mood), a couple comes out to eat...or drink, since in all honesty they consume more fluid than a camel that missed the last oasis in the Sahara desert. Saddlebags for bladders, they will consume two + pitchers of liquid without ever having walked into the restroom..how? I mean, seriously, my pea-sized bladder requires me to go at least once every two hours under normal conditions, even with a super big gulp for a bladder you still gotta go sometime. On top of that, I could understand the lack of release if they got in and got out, but thats not the case. They sit in the same booth everytime, switching sections of the worldest longest newspaper and reading every minute article - even those ones disguised as articles that are really ads for prescription drugs. It's almost as if they sit down in their regular booth, skewed with their ass prints, and are unable to mvoe until they hit an ungodly word count attainable to normal humans only by reading the dictionary front-to-back twice over.

How is it that you life can be so mundane and predictible that your idea of a good time is going out on a weekend afternoon and tourturing your server with your regular set up: drinks, ice, extra ice, a bowl of lemons (maybe two), a pitcher of liquid, sugar, extra sugars...and thats just for your drinks.

The managers may know you by name, and greet you with a smile, but us servers see you - grab a tray - and begin your set-up. Groaning as everyone walks up to us, announcing your very special nickname, and letting us know you have entered the building. Salud!

Exhibit B: While entirely unpredictable as to when they will come in, waiting on them is always a treat. Enter an older couple, the man looks like a modern-day version of Ichibod Crane and his wife, a human version of a bug. She follows him, exactly two steps behind him to wherever they may be sat. If you are lucky enough to get him on a good day, he may not be clenching a fork in his fist and threateningly pointing it at his already gunshy wife. Their order is always the same - since they have eaten there so much - he even knows the items not on the menu, and only found on the internal computer system.

Without missing a beat, he'll look you in the eyes with his squinty daggers and tell you, "I'll have the steak that is NOT on your menu, but is in your computer system, cooked medium with mashed potatoes and a salad." Of course, being a chivalrous gentlemen, he always orders first. Oh, and generally if he is eating, there has recently been a coupon drop, which miraculously coincides with the full moon.

On one particular evening, I had the pleasure of his company. Upon taking the salads to the table, he began to complain, not about the food, or the service, but about the background music, which had on a Jackson 5 song. Setting down the salad, Ichibod verbally acosted me. "Tell your manager to turn this shit down, I am highly offended by Motown music, I can't enjoy my dinner with this shit plaing, its too loud!"

Of course, many things are racing through my head, such as, "Sir, I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but the Civil Rights Movement passed in 1964, and its 2008, why don't you just stand up, put on your white cloak, and show me your swastika tattoo." But, since the customer is always right, and I need this job to pay my bills, I keep my mouth shut, inform mangement, who turns it down. At this point in the meal, I am avoiding his table at all costs, nevertheless, his food comes up and I am forced to walk it. Approaching the table, he lashes out again, like a rattlesnake coming out of the bushes. "You turned the music up, I know you did! It's louder than it was, I want this shit turned down so I can enjoy my meal, otherwise I am calling your corporate office". Looking around, I realize, the dinner rush is over, the restaurant is empty, and sure the music seems louder. I say nothing, simply turn and walk away, thinking to myself, please Sir, put down the steak knife and back away from the plate! No one wants to die tonight!

Exhibit C: It's a busy Friday night, we are on a wait out-the-door. A gumpy, googly-eyed, portly man enters. Going to the hostess, he requests a booth that seats four, in a non-smoking section, but facing the TV's in the bar so he can watch the game while he eats. He is eventually seated, and the server sees him and almost loses it, like I said, its a busy Friday night and this douchebag is sitting in a four-person booth by himself!

Knowing that he is a regular, the server already has a pitcher of soda for him (yes for some reason pain-in-the-ass regulars consume inordinate amounts of beverages) and goes to take his order. Not that its a big surprise, he orders the same thing every time, but just for formalities sake, they check.

Ringing in his food as early as possible, he eats his salad and gets his entree, eating painstakingly slow (another reoccuring theme) on a busy Friday night, stopping to say hi to every female server that walks by, using his lazy eye as an excuses to oogle their chest while he masticates - 40 times each bite - until the server is ready to pull out their hair or even pay him to leave! Thank you Sir, your $3.00 tip is greatly appreciated, by the way, who won the game?

Exhibit D: Its a normal Saturday lunch around 2PM, when an uptight, pompous know-it-all strolls in the door, newspaper clutched under his arm. He is led to a booth and seated. The server approaches and the man has not even cracked the menu, but has the sports page open to check the over/under on the bets he placed. Without blinking an eye, he recites his spiel.

"I need a diet coke - bring me a pitcher (told you!) , it will save me the hassle of asking you for refills. I want a lunch order of pasta, a side salad with no cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, crutons, or cheese (wouldn't it have just been easier to say JUST LETTUCE, Sir?) and two large sides of ranch". He immediatly clams up, and no eye contact has been made.

Returning with a pitcher, lettuce in a salad bowl, and enough ranch dressing to make lettuce soup, the server sets it down. Still no eye contact is made, he is waist deep in the sports section. Minutes later, the lettuce soup has been pushed over to the edge of the booth, as close to, without going over the ege (similar to winning prizes on the Price is Right). Peering over the tip-top of his newspaper with a glare as the server teeters by, balancing 4 plates, 6 glasses, 3 bowns, countless silverware and napkins, glaring harder as they walk by without grabbing his salad bowl, which apparently is hot lava, nuclear waste, or has possibly come in contact with the ebola virus and must be disposed of at once, utterly disgusted if you are unable to grab it while balancing the leaning tower of plateware.

By now, his food is up and is walked to him. Once again, he doesn't speak as the server sets the plate down and grabs the ebola virus bowl. The only words spoken are his spiel, and check please.

The spectacularness of this regular guest is two-fold; first, his uncanning ability to eat while not once taking his eye off the newspaper. This is a rarity, in fact, I would even go as far to venture that if he were to go on "America's Got Talent" he may actually be crowned the most talented American. Secondly, his tipping, you're thinking, oh he tips well, on the contrary. He may tip 15%, but no matter what his change is that he gets back off of the $20 bill he hands you, which is generally a $5, some $1's, a quarter, and a nickel, you're not getting it back! This man must sit at home - when the sports page runs out - and feed coins into his automatic coin sorter, a money miser so to speak. The only time he takes out coins is when he goes out to eat. Its never the quarters of the dimes, generally its an assload of nickles and pennies, equalling the appropriate 15% amount, shoved in the check minder, just waiting for the unsuspecting server to grab and shove it in their apron on their mad dash from one table to the next. Of course, the coins scatter all over the floor and the defeated server looks down at the carpet, patterned wtih nickles and pennies, their knees and back just won't let them bend over to pick it up. Silently, they curse at the sports-page-reading-money-miser and signal for the busboy, bribing him with the nickles and pennies all over the floor. Go to Coinstar Sir, a verbal tip would have been better!!