I know we all have to work, but if you HAVE to work (at something

other than your chosen vocation, it's nice to work at a place that has


The Mont is such a place. The waitresses have monster stations, and

are expected to be very efficient, and pretty fucking bright. I've

said it before, but 1/3 of the wait staff have Master's degrees. As a

consequence, the owners leave customer relations pretty much up to our

judgement. If customers give us shit, we give it back, though for the

most part, we take alot more than we give. We wear whatever we want

to, and there's an easy camaraderie between us like you find in old

veterans, and crisis management teams.

Restaurant work is a lot like warfare. It's US against THEM...they

must never find out HOW we win the battles...they must never discover

our weaknesses, they must never break our spirit. I'm serious; after

you've worked a 7 table station at the Mont on a Nebraska/Oklahoma

game day...you deserve a fucking medal.

So how do we get Slack? Sarcasm is the preferred method. By using

sickening sweetness to an asshole, you can make a point much better

than by giving him an excuse to fuck you over. Demanding folks get my,

"Why certainly, Sir...I LIVE to serve YOU."

Today, Sister Mac (our token black nun(tm)) was telling us about a

customer she served last night. He ordered Manhattan clam chowder.

When she brought it out, he said, "Oh, I thought it was the white

kind...not that I mean anything racist by that." She just looked at

him like he was loony. Later, he asked for a pen. She handed it to

him, saying "I'm sorry...I only have a black one...not that I mean

anything racist by that." I love her.

Tiffany was serving a bunch of jocks one night last week. We serve a

top sirloin butt steak. So one of these clever fellows asks Tiff,

"Tell me about this butt steak." She smiled at him sweetly and said,

"It's the best piece of ass YOU'RE going to get in this town for under


Slowing down also works, though that one is usually reserved for

people you KNOW aren't going to tip you, but want to make you their

personal servant for the evening. We have this beautiful patio.

Everyone wants to sit out there. It can be bone-chilling cold, and

they'll ask if we can light the heaters, and serve them outside. They

sit out there in the rain, the wind, in 100+ weather...anything to

make a waitress work harder than usual.

One night it started pouring down rain. Most of the intelligent

people paid their tabs, and either went inside to continue drinking or

left. Sister Amy and I were closing down the outside waitress station

when TWO tables came in and sat under tables with umbrellas. They

actually expected us to serve them in a thunderstorm. Amy found an

umbrella to make her point as she walked out juggling plates and the

unbrella. I was more vicious. I stood in the rain just outside the

station saying something to Amy while the rain poured down on the

plates. Then I casually s t r o l l e d over to the table and set

the wet plates and wet silverware down on the table. "Can I get you

anything else?" I asked sweetly. The woman glared at me, "More water,

please, " she said acidly. I took her glass from the table, smiling

at her the whole time, and held it out in the rain until it filled,

"Straight from heaven to your lips, " I said, and walked back to the


What else? Well, we dance. We tape little signs to each other's

backs, for the pleasure of the entire restaurant. We have Saturday

night shot club (where we all take a quick break and a shot.) We tell

the customers that the mist system is: a) Malathion and DDT b)smoke

from the kitchen..."Your lunch MAY take a bit..." c) aerial

spermicide. We fake quick lesbian love scenes (mostly kisses and bump

and grind stuff) . Shock, attitude, and excellent service are the

hallmarks of a Mont waitress.





Reverend Mutha Tarla Star of the Little Sisters of the Perpetually

Juicy; a Proud jism schism of the Church of the SubGenius.

Worshipping Juicy Retardo and "Connie" Dobbs since 1986.