warning: work rant

It's a Christmas miracle! My faith in humanity has been temporarily (very temporarily--expect me to be bitter again by tomorrow) restored! I got a table of four hockey dads and their five sons. They weren't TERRIBLE, at first (although Daniel was going to murder me because of the five chocolate milkshakes he had to make), but there was a definite vibe of "ignore the waitress while she stands there politely because we need to discuss HOCKEY, and that is much more important than anything else" coming off them. At least one of the dads is a regular, although they usually sit on the bar side; I only recognized him because the son both badly needs a haircut and also whizzes around the restaurant on those roll-y shoes whenever they come in. Seriously, although I'd like a pair of those shoes myself (it'd be a disaster because of my questionable balance), they really are MENACES. Suddenly, the whole world is a roller rink, but without the fun disco music. And at least you know what you're getting into when you walk into a roller rink. In a restaurant, balancing a tray of drinks, you don't expect a ballistic child to come at you out of nowhere.

Anyway, when they finally got down to the serious business of ordering wings, the dads were all shouting down to the other end of the table about sauces and whether or not their offspring would eat the wings if they were done in such and such a way. The kids merrily ignored them, of course, but the adults managed to place their orders with a minimum of fuss. Off I go. About ten minutes after said wings arrive at the table, another round of beers has been delivered, etc, one of the dads turns to me and says, rudely, "Uh, are the kids getting THEIR food soon?" Blankly, I stare at him. "You didn't order any other food for the kids," I say, confused. He glares at me and bites out, "Well, I THOUGHT you would have ASKED them. Get them some chicken fingers and fries. And can you make that FAST?" So I order his two kids some chicken fingers--the other three kids are, as expected, sharing their dads' wings. I went back to the table to inquire about drinks, and the guy actually says to me, "No, I'm fine. I'm just worried about my boys' food," as if I were deliberately starving his children! "It's on its way," I say, smiling grimly. Ooooh, was I ever mad. When the food did arrive, he bellowed down the length of the restaurant for his sons, who had scarpered off to play games in the bar.

Anyway, to get to the restoration of my faith, the dads all paid separately, and the one who left last tipped me nearly thirty percent and said, "Thanks very much. And, by the way... the rest of us knew he didn't order any food for his kids. Sorry about that." You see, class? Good CAN exist in a restaurant. And thus, a killing spree at the local TJ's was narrowly avoided. I never know what to say to people who apologize for their friends, but it certainly is appreciated.

In other news, one of my coworkers is clearly insane. Laptop guy has been working on a paper and presentation about dinosaurs for the last week or two (pretty much the entire FOH staff knows him and will chat to him now), which has prompted Nicky to treat us all to her theories. Namely, that she doesn't believe in dinosaurs, and that whatever fossils we have are just wrongly re-assembled modern-day animals. This has prompted ME to try and explain science to her in escalating tones until I have a headache and need to leave the room. Even laptop guy (cult member, remember?) says there's too much evidence NOT to believe in dinosaurs. I suspect he believes something about god creating them for some mysterious purpose, but at least he admits they existed. Nicky believes in aliens, but not dinosaurs. And here's another scary fact for you: she's a supply teacher. You kind of have to wonder what the world is coming to.