Stupid cheating husbands
You would think that if a guy cheats on his wife he’d be smart enough not to take his mistress to a restaurant him and his spouse patronize regularly.
You would be wrong of course. When guys think with their dicks the IQ points start falling off.
One lunch shift at Amici’s, my old job, such a Lothario walked through the door. A rich, successful business man, silver haired, imperious and rude, the wait staff loathed him. Berating bus people, waiters, even the owner, if he had to wait a moment for a table, a drink, or his food. He was a lousy tipper to boot.
He strode in with a real piece of eye candy; blond, twenty-five or so, with high heels and long legs that disappeared up into a plaid mini skirt.
“I hope that’s his daughter,” Rizzo our head waiter groaned.
“Probably not.” Scott the resident belligerent alcoholic sighed. “Oh shit the fucker’s in my section.”
The moment lover boy’s ass hit the chair he was yelling for the waiter. Passive-aggressive Scott took his sweet time getting there so the customer took it upon himself to deliver a customer care in-service. After giving his order, asshole’s hand went so far up his date’s skirt that, unless he was a transplant from Arkansas, there was no way this was his little girl.
Scott, counting down the hours until his next drink, was in no mood to deal with this prick.
“Man he took his wedding ring off.” he whined. “I mean what he is thinking? He comes here all the time.”
“The rich live in an alternate reality my boy.” Rizzo observed. “An alternate reality.”
The girl played the coquette, laughing, tossing her hair, gazing at shithead with unabashed admiration. Already at the age where a girl transitions from ingénue to worldly woman, I had a sinking feeling this asshole was going to speed up the process.
Lunch went as about expected. Entrees sent back, shouts for more water and wine, impatient fingers drumming on the tabletop, dirty looks for everybody.
Scott, after a long life of suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous yuppie scorn, finally snapped.
Dropping off the dessert menus he inquired in his most obsequious voice,
“Would your daughter like some ice cream?”
The girl tittered while Viagra Junkie’s face flushed bright red with anger.
“No ice cream?” Scott asked innocently.
“That’s not my daughter.”
“Terribly sorry sir.”
Scott walked away, savoring his payback moment. Lothario, however, went to the hostess stand and demanded to speak to the manager. Today Rizzo was playing supervisor.
Shooting a “thanks asshole” look to Scott he went over to the hostess stand and put on his trademark bullshit customer friendly smile.
“Yes sir, how may I help you?”
“I want to make a complaint about my waiter.” aging stud announced, puffed full of self importance. “He thinks he is a real smartass.”
Rizzo, still smiling, said “I’m so sorry sir. I will talk to him.”
“And where is your lovely wife today?”
“Out of town.” An uneasy look crossed Lothario’s face.
“She is one of my favorite customers.” Rizzo blabbed happily. “I just luvvv her. She will be so happy you’re having lunch here. You normally only come for dinner.”
The man’s self satisfied affect collapsed like a bad soufflé.
Rizzo’s smile abruptly faded. “You understand me? Right?”
This guy made a mint in the corporate world. You could hear the gears spinning while he crunched the profit/loss ratio for this transaction. He couldn’t avoid his wife’s favorite bistro without arousing suspicion and one waiter slip of the tongue and she would be banging the cabana boy in Barbados with half his loot.
“Forget I said anything.”
“Very good sir.”
Tail between his legs, the man retreated to his table and quickly departed.
(When Lothario came back with his wife a few weeks later, Rizzo sent her a drink with his compliments. Just a friendly reminder.)
And that, my friends, is that.
The moral of this story? Waiters don’t care if you cheat. We’re not morals cops. But if you drag your private shit into our place you had better treat us well. We could really fuck up your life. Or end up fucking your wife!