I found this in my computer. My writing instructor in college asked me to write about my biggest pet peve. It was and still is manners, though my views have changed a bit. I have learned a good company does it's very best to have little for customers to complain about and I realize it is my job to make them happy, or at least try really hard, even if the customer is unreasonable, rude and entitled and I do it with a smile.
Doesn’t anyone practice manners anymore?
By: Ozmarelda Korvinos
“Gimme’ a giant pepperoni and a half order of spuds.” She says, chewing her gum obnoxiously while fumbling through her purse. I stand there looking at her blankly until she looks up at me, mirroring my expression. “That’s all!” her head shakes making her double chin quiver as she blurts out at me impatiently. I stand my ground. I will not, I repeat, will not continue on with this order until this “church going uppity pants” says a simple please and thank you. Even if she half mutters it, I’ll be happy. I will press the pay button with my handy-dandy light pen, hand her the drinks and give her tickets to the cook.
It’s becoming a trend with people these days and like a gallant crusader I plan to battle it, the monster named “ill mannered.” People come to my counter and act like barbaric idiots. They are rude and impatient, offer strained smiles and rarely do I hear these magical words, “may I, no thank you” or a simple, “yes please!” These words have been replaced with, “gimme’, yeah, and hell no!”
The worst part is that for some reason, Sundays are the worst days of all.
One would think that Sunday the church crowd will come in and it will be a nice easygoing day. Birds will come in and sing us songs and Jesus himself will come in and pass the garlic bread and turn our watered down diet Pepsi to White Zinfandel. These church people, so pissed off that they had to pay their tithing, sit in wood pews with whiney hot children for two hours, come into this fine family restaurant with an attitude of biblical proportions, apparently forgetting everything they have just learned. Lessons like doing unto others and the like. They come up to the counter with scrunched up faces and pinched expressions as if they’re coming in to a dentist appointment. These same people will come in and rearrange our tables while glaring at us for having our blessed tables so far apart. How dare we not rearrange our dining area for them because they go to church and God is their best friend.
These same people feel the need to complain about everything. “Do we really need to have football on the television? How about some nice 3ABN?” Keep in mind that this is football season and this is Sunday. Some people go to Abby’s to watch football and they go to church to talk about God and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna’ watch some doe eyed, red-headed lady on television tell me that making sweater vests gets me closer to heaven. I feel that since God just chewed them out for two hours for doing the senseless and immoral, they are coming into this fine family restaurant with a bible-sized chip on their shoulders. No one likes to be humbled. No one likes to recognize their own shortcomings, so leave church and head to this fine family restaurant with a guilty conscience. Maybe they just got tired and impatient at church. Maybe they just really wanted to be at home watching football or knitting heavenly sweaters while listening to Tammy Faye Baker give testimonials on her gluttonous makeup days.
Nothing is good enough for these people. The coffee is too strong, the chickens too crunchy, they didn’t get enough ranch with their mini pizza or our beets are dyed and we just can’t serve dyed beets. These are just a few of the ridiculous complaints commonly heard on a Sunday.
They also make the worst messes I have ever seen. I didn’t even know people could make messes like these and still call themselves homosapiens! Not only do they rearrange the dining room, but somehow they manage to get salad, ranch, pizza, spuds, chicken, napkins, plates, cups and crayons all over the place. Our highchairs have more food crammed in them than what actually got into the child. Some parents will skip giving the child a plate all together and will in turn just dump the Jell-O and cottage cheese onto the table. I shudder when I see this. These are the same people who wonder why their toddler is always sick with something.
In most cases, a family will try to consolidate their mess into a single pile in the center of the table. I am thinking because they don’t want us to think that they are slobs.
One would think that people would get embarrassed if others saw them leave behind a huge god-awful mess. Not the case on Sundays. These tables look like Slimer from
“Ghost Busters” sprinted through there. They do the same to the salad bar. Sometimes I think they just stuck their faces in the crocks and ate out of them.
All I want is for people to say please and thank you and not start a sentence off with gimme’ this or gimme’ that. You can bet that if their children were to say gimme’ this or gimme’ that to them, that child would be corrected immediately. I want people to ask themselves if it is really necessary to complain about things. I am not saying that complaints are not valid. If we screw up on something than we ought to fix it, but telling us that we shouldn’t serve dyed beets is a bit much. I want parties of thirty to not show up 15 minutes till closing and stay an hour after we’re closed.
I just want people to be courteous and think of others. I want to see some
Goddamned manners! Is that too much to ask?
I stare at this woman in front of me. I listen to her sigh as she looks back at me exasperated. I tilt my head “will that be all for you ma’am?” I say offering a false smile.
“Yeah, I already said that!” she says, replacing her blank stare with confusion. I know that she is asking herself right at this moment, “What the hell is wrong with this girl?” I am asking myself the same thing about her.
“Thank you for being so polite and your manners, well, your parents would be proud! We will have that ready for the trough in 30 minutes.” I say as my manager drags me across the kitchen by my shirt.
