Meeting Mr. Mogul

By: Mel Ryle


“Good evening, sir. Are you ready to order?” I asked with a forced smile on my face while pulling out the white pad paper. I was poised and ready to take his order. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same for the customer. He browsed through the menu once, twice, thrice, and so on, clearly taking his sweet time. Around the fourth time he re-checked the menu, he was starting to get on my nerves. I mean, come on! It’s not like the words would become different every time he flipped a page. I just didn’t understand what was taking him so long to decide. He finally made his choice almost four minutes since he arrived, which was time I could have used more productively.

“I would like your filet mignon with lemon sauce and some white wine to go along with it. That would be all,” the man in a gray suit briefly stated as he closed the menu he held. He then looked away after he pulled out his phone, which vibrated his inside blazer pocket.

“It will be served in ten to fifteen minutes, sir,” I replied with a smile after jotting down his order.

“Oh, hello! I thought you were in Paris,” the man said as he waved me off to answer his phone.

I excused myself with a slight bow before I walked towards the computer on the far right side of the room to punch in his order. I scowled in annoyance at the man’s rudeness, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. Since I worked as a waitress for a three-star restaurant, this kind of treatment was typical. Whenever someone started to shout and scream, my night would go downhill from there.

“Why are you so serious?” Terry asked as I reached the small stall, where a touchscreen computer was set up for us to place the order, which is synced to an identical computer in the kitchen.

“First douchebag of the night,” I stated, sighing in defeat.

“Ah… so the contest for the number one douchebag is on,” Terry stated with a smirk while his fingers continued to tap on the computer screen.

“Anyone in your table up for the running?” I asked seriously as I quickly glanced at his designated tables.

“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t come across one yet. But I’ll get back to you on that,” he answered and turned to me with a wink.

“Good for you. I hope he would be the only one for the night. I’m pretty worn out,” I said with resigned disinterest.

“I’m all done,” Terry announced and turned towards me. “Do you want me to punch that in?” he offered with a smile.

“Sure. Thanks,” I replied, giving him the sheet with the orders. “While you’re at it, I’ll wait on some of your tables. You sure there are no assholes?” I asked as I slowly stepped away from him.

“None. Nada,” he smirked. “Oh, there are orders on the counter. Check if any of them are for my section,” he continued as he glanced behind me.

“Right. Roger that.” I headed towards the counter where loads of dishes were put on trays.

I checked if any of the orders were from my section or from Terry’s before I delivered them to their corresponding tables. When I was finished, I went to wait on the new customers seated in my section. As I headed back to the computer to punch in another order, I bumped into Terry again.

“Andy, table fifteen’s order is up,” Terry whispered while I punched in an order.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I replied with a soft smile.

I got the tray from the counter and carried it to its designated table. Table fifteen. The douchebag. I smiled as I placed his order in front of him, regretting that I did not spit on it when he rudely waved me away again. I saw Terry giving me a sympathetic smile as I walked away.

To be honest, this job sucks. But I’m only doing it for two reasons:

1.) I have bills to pay, which are sent to me almost nonstop.

2.) This was the only job that accepted me without any fuss.

It’s been a month since I got here, and I’ve applied for many jobs to get out of this hellhole. However, it’s not much of a hellish experience with Terry here.

“If you want, I could totally ask some guys to follow him outside and kick the living shit out of him,” Terry offered as I went back to the counter to place in other orders.

“Thanks for the offer, Terry. It sounds appealing, but I’ll pass. He’s not that bad,” I replied with a soft chuckle as I got the tray filled with plates – all orders from my section.

“Okay. But if you change your mind…” he offered, trailing off.

“You’ll be the first to know,” I called out in reply as I walked towards my section, balancing the tray in my hand.

After serving the customer’s meal, I saw Reyna, the maître d’, walk inside the restaurant with a beaming smile. She gestured a man to sit in the empty booth with a reserved sign, which was under my section.

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