Who's Your Daddy?

The bistro I work at is on the fancy end for this part of Central Wisconsin. People here (as in most of middle class America, I'd suggest) rate a restaurant as good if it has massive portions that are cheap. Not a shock, I'm sure. The Bistro bucks that mold with some high quality ingredients and causal fine dining. Some people get uncomfortable with the atmosphere, like we are snooty and will look down on them. And of course, some get kind of defensive, and some act like idiots. Consider this case in point:

The restaurant was having one of our "Chef Dinners" - you know, special menu, special ingredients, all that. It's a night that is almost always balls to the wall busy. Crazy busy -- no time for bullshit, no time for one table of assholes to fuck around and get you in the weeds.

I get the first table of the night. As the hostess is coming to tell me I've been sat, I think I notice a certain look she's giving me, trying to give me, but I can't confirm it. No time - more customers are coming in and she can't sidle up discreetly and whisper what I am sure is information I need. But really, I already can tell by her wide eyes and tired sigh what her look is trying to tell me. Servers know this look, in fact all restaurant staff know this look - it's the look that tells you the table you are about to approach is going to get you seriously wondering if you wouldn't mind trading your server job for the momentary joy of shoving a dinner roll so far down some fuckers throat that his prostate gets covered in bread flour.

I walk up to the table hoping I had misread the hostess' body language. There are three of them - one guy sitting across from a man and woman.
"Hi," I say. "I'm Tony. I'll be your server."
I continue, blah blah, tell them about the specials, blah blah, end by asking if anyone would like a drink.
"I don't know," says the dude next to the woman (side note – in your head, please do a deep southern white trash accent for this guy's dialogue. Why is it, no matter where in the U.S. you are, if someone is a dumbass redneck, they talk with some pseudo-southern accent? We're in Wisconsin, but this guy talks like fucking Bubba from the block).
"I don't know," says the dude. "Depends how much a beer cost in this place. What are they like $10 a bottle?"
In my head, I've already stuck my wine key into his eye.
I say, “Just typical prices – three dollars for a domestic, three seventy five and up for imports.”
The two men order beer, and when the lady begins to order a wine, Bubba from the block stops her.
“I’m already paying enough for the beer, I’m not paying another five dollars for a glass of wine.”
Of course you’re not, I think. In my imagination I’m now turning the corkscrew of my wine key into his eye.
I bring the beers, no wine of course, and do my best to seem good ole boyish to the fine gentlemen. One of my strengths has always been my chameleon-like ability. Without trying, I seem to know how to talk to almost all social groups. I am able to fit in with whomever. So the dude seems to get along with me. When he jokes about his wife (I’ve been told by now they are married) having a big butt, I give him a “nothing wrong with big butts as long as there nice ones” response. Then a wink, wink, nudge, nudge. He guffaws and she actually looks please by the compliment (compliment?).
It’s a tedious table to wait on. Every interaction becomes a complicated middle-class struggle. He doesn’t know what to order because all the descriptions are too damn fancy ("If it's a sweet and sour like sauce why can't it just say so?" for example). The beer has a different label one time (God only knows why, but of course it had to happen with this douche bag), so this now becomes a scam we are trying on him. Apparently there is a cabal of label switching desperadoes bent on world domination. His wife warms up to me in a big way, and he tells me she’ll be here next Tuesday with her friend for lunch – her friend is a real horny babe, so they will “treat me good!”
Finally they are reaching the end stage of dinner. I’ve bantered my way through classless remark after classless remark. I’ve done my best self-deprecating laugh with each “there goes your tip” comment. I’ve feigned laughter when he asks about a waitress, and after finding out she’s barely eighteen, says it’s ok, she won’t feel weird calling him daddy. The crowning bon mot – that he was disappointed we had no bathroom attendant to hand him towels, or at least shake off his dick. I’ve redirected the energy of each stupid remark like a verbal judo master. I've gritted my teeth, ground them to nubs really, created a permanent cramp in my jaw muscles.
But now the end is here. Check dropped, payment received.
Mercifully, the trio leaves. Assuring me they’ve taken good care of me with the tip (turns out that means a giant 10%, which is probably more than they've ever tipped), the wife winks and looks me up and down. Bubba laughs and grabs her around the waist.
“See you Tuesday,” she says as they push through the door and are finally gone.
Finally, I can breathe again.
I immediately tell the floor manager I will burn the place down if I’m ever scheduled to work another Tuesday ever.