mizChartreuse! redefining success

It was a nice relief to work a Bulls game after working multiple Blackhawks games over the past few days at the Chicago Stadium Club at United Center. Not that I don’t like the ice-arena-shorts-wearing, beer-guzzling hockey fans…I’m just more keen on the basketball peeps.

The night went well–I was getting 55% tips; some of my favorite season ticket holders came in to the bar; one of my favorite couples brought their precious 2-year-old daughter with them.

And, for obvious reasons, a lot of the black customers enjoy my fantastic service and were staying for extended periods of time, and I clearly know how to increase my gratuities by being fabulous. I also gave my biz cards to a couple of professionals with whom I think I can do some great writing, PR, and empowerment work. Always networking.

So things were great…until a strange group of men came in. They requested “waters with a twist” (seriously?) and ordered two servings of our buffalo chicken wings.

‘Nuff said.

But I’ll say more. When I went to check on how their food was, the youngest one in his late 20s, whom I’m assuming was the son of the oldest man, says to me, “This is great…but your body is greater.”

Suffice to say, the average girl who hears this from a dude will swoon/blush/giggle/be flattered.

I look at him and say, “Tell me something I don’t know. I hear that every day,” and walked away. The other guys cracked up.

Later, I go to pick up their check presenter when I saw they had left the cash.

“Any change?” I ask.

“Oh no no, it’s all you, baby,” the older man says.

“Wanna hear something you don’t know?” the youngest asks me.

“Try me.”

“7-7-3…” he goes on to recite his phone number, as though I’m going to remember it.

I wait until he’s almost finished and tell him, “Um, about that. I don’t call men,” and walk away again.

At the computer, I notice they left $42 in the check presenter.

Their bill was $37.85.

Four dollars and fifteen cents? Ten percent? And that fool wants to give me his phone number?

Offended and irritated, I decide to do something, even though it’s not generally acceptable behavior to comment on your gratuities. I would have been fuming if I didn’t at least let them know how pathetic their actions were.

I walk back to the table, check presenter in hand. Before I can say anything, the young one says, “Do you have someone special in your life?”

“What’s it to you?”

“It’s not a man, right? You talk to women, don’t you?”

“Excuse?”

“What’s their name?”

“What’s it to YOU?” I shoot back, making my classic face of disgust.

“You have a girl, right?”

So this douchebag is assuming I’m a lesbian because I didn’t respond to his advances and I said I don’t call men…and I tell him so, calling him out.

Um, I don’t call men because I don’t pursue men and I’m currently not looking for another one…and I’m definitely not picking up cheap tipping men in my place of work, for the record.

He tries to banter with me a little longer and I simply place the book face open on the table and say, “Here, don’t forget your change,” and walk away.

As I go back up toward the bar, I hear him hollering behind me, “Wait, that’s yo’ change, baby!”

“Don’t call me baby. You obviously need it more than I do, and you need to check your ego,” I say, never turning back.

Tonight’s incident reminds me of a couple weeks ago when a guy in his mid-20s paid for his and his friends’ four Stella Artoises with his credit card and wrote, “Please call me” and his phone number on the Merchant Copy of the bill.

Um.

I don’t know if people don’t know, but servers and bartenders don’t keep those slips. Second, he expected me to call him after tipping me four dollars on a $30 tab!!! Laughable.

So later, I’m up front near the hostesses, telling the story of the cheap phone number leaver. “A white guy?” Mershant asks. I affirm. “Was he cute?” she wanted to know.

“Um, no.” And as the words of the phone number and me not finding this guy attractive come out of my mouth, I realize this same non-cute guy in question is walking past the desk where I’m standing to the front doors, and I’m telling the story loud as hell. I’m sure he heard. Oops. I did genuinely feel bad, however, because he was sweet. But sweet and four bucks ain’t payin’ my bills.

When we were wrapping up at the end of the night, I told my managers about the high-rollin’ booty-requestin’ 20-something. They laughed and the older, stoic manager with the deep voice told he’d call the kid the next morning from the office and say, “I see on your slip you asked for someone to give you a call?”

Hilarious.

Lesson: if you want to even marginally impress a woman whether she’s serving you or dining with you, cough up a couple extra bucks. Nobody likes a cheapskate.

Whatever. My high tippers of this evening clearly outbalanced the shitty one from the rejected suitor, so I can at least say that one of those 55% tips was a 45% gratuity.

I still win. I’ll take it.