Tag Archives: Amex


26 Nov

I left the restaurant for a month, to work on a project.  When I came back Wednesday night, it was jarring to interact with the guests; my restaurant caters to a subculture of people so entitled, that their behavior is truly out of adjustment with the rest of world, and I had forgotten just how pathological some of these people really were.

Enter my first table of the night, two twenty-something female business suits, who drank ten “grey goose n’ sodas” between the two of them, in two hours, while discussing sales demographics, and dirty office assignations.

The blonde alcoholic seated in the banquet asked me if “there were any bones in the chicken,” as if bones would certainly render any entrée inedible. I responded, “yes, there were some bones in the thigh meat,” and “no, we couldn’t remove them from the dish.” The notion that a chicken had bones, which could not be removed, revolted the blonde to such a degree, that she opted for the chilean sea bass instead.

When the sea bass arrived at the table, I checked back with the blonde. She was indignant, and began a passive aggressive tirade.

“I’m not difficult. I’m not,” she said. “… But you remember how I asked you if the chicken had bones?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I can’t eat something with skin. This has skin on it. You didn’t tell me there was skin on it. I can’t eat this. It’s disgusting.” (the very thin  and tasty skin –easily removeable– was on one side of the filet.)

“Do you want Chef to remove the skin in the kitchen?,” I offered.

“No, now that I know it has skin. I can’t think about it. Just get me whatever she’s having,” the blonde said, pointing to her friend’s plate, and waving me away with her wrist.

I personally brought the blonde her new couscous entrée, but she had to get a little dig in first, before I was excused.

“Are you new here?,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Well, I guess you’re a little slow on the learning curve then.” (her implication being that someone who doesn’t like bones in chicken, obviously can’t tolerate skin on a fish). 

“Yes,” I happily agreed. “I guess I’m a little slow on the learning curve.”

“Going forward. If there’s skin on a fish, you really should mention it.”

“Thank You,” I said, with the most saccharin smile I could muster. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I will make sure to mention it… Going forward.”

I kept my cool, but couldn’t resist when the perfect opportunity to one-up her presented itself: the blonde at the banquet paid with a novelty “alum” credit-card, sponsored by my alma mater. We were both graduates of the same over-priced university. Cute! And she was treating me like shit. Cuter! 

The second she handed me the card, I noticed our alma mater’s iconic university building, clearly featured on the card-front, and I uttered the building’s name under my breath, as if it was a passing thought.  The blonde was drunk, but she picked up on my cue immediately. Oh, the look on her face. I didn’t even give her the satisfaction of apologizing. I just dropped the check and said, “Have a wonderful evening, ladies.”

Chilean sea bass, at a swanky NYC restaurant: $32 dollars.

Ten Grey goose and sodas, with two-limes: $160 dollars.

Letting a privileged bitch know that she’s a bitch, without calling her a “bitch,” and losing your job: Priceless.


“I’m Swipin’ Sexy Back”

22 Sep

Despite previous Socialist musings, I would like to take a moment to lust over the Amex “Black-Card,” officially marketed as the Centurian Card.  Does anyone else suffer from a class hard-on, every time you swipe that sleek,  Titanium? I do. 

With “no personal spending limit,” the Black-Card is something fantastical, the consumer equivalent of  Willy Wonka’s “Golden Ticket.” You could probably kill someone with its Titanium edge to the jugular, and still get a Personal Concierge to clean up the blood (full benefits listed here, *notice Carnage Privileges).

For those of you who do not handle thirty credit cards a day, the first thing you’ll notice about the credit card is its weight, a heft worthy of the $250,000 requisite.   One of my co-workers Anika, who is from New Zealand, encountered her first  Black Card, tonight.  Her response, was much like mine: sensual.

“Oh my god, feeeeeel this,” she said.  

Anika then began to smell the card, as if inhaling its metallic scent, might transfer the cardholder’s funds into her personal checking account. And she didn’t stop there. Anika kinda started to kiss it, like a young bride-to-be might kiss an engagement ring (or other things).

It’s no surprise that men flash them about like an expendable penis –a black one, nonetheless–.  If the nebbish cardholder at table 32 had seen Anika’s response, he just might have been able to swipe his way into some Elite Status Kiwi.

Later in the evening I opened a check presenter to find my own Golden Ticket.  I wondered what would happen if I swiped my ass with it? What would happen… Might I turn to gold? And so I tried –just between the pants, not the flesh mind you–. No luck. I guess not even Midas could afford the $5,000 joiner fee.

Welcome to New York, asshole.

16 Sep


“Does it have to be this noisy in here… are the portions really this small..  is this beer really fourteen dollars?”

I am very sympathetic –too nice– when it comes to people adjusting to the ways of New York.  Instead of administering tough love, and letting them swim on their own, the Midwesterner in me wants to help (i.e. Seeing French people freak, when they find themselves headed Uptown on an “A”-Express-train, headed straight for Harlem); however, I have no tolerance for visiting Americans who are dead-set on hating New York.

Why do Americans become so  enraged at New York for  being, well, New York?  You came here because this city is known for being loud, fast-paced and over-priced. Yes, when you leave the door of your hotel, you will pay ten dollars for breathing air, but what did you expect? It’s New York City .  Aren’t you here because the air does cost ten dollars?  Where else does a breath of air cost ten bucks? Nowhere, so fucking enjoy it, you Connecticut fuck. You don’t go to Italy, and then complain that the people are gesticulating with their hands  too much, so why are you complaining that this place, in the words of Daft Punk, is “Harder, better, faster, stronger?”

After comping  half of this guy’s check,  for asinine complaints that not even a corporate fun-house like Houston’s could honor, he still accused me of taking advantage of him. It was insulting. 

Do you honestly think that I care  for fourteen more bucks on a bill?

The daughter of this man was mortified, voicing my precise protest,  “You’re in New York,” she insisted. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Ironically, the man who was so concerned about his “un-opened mussels,” didn’t even check the bill when it was handed to him. You’d think a man so neurotic about an expensive beer, would atleast look at what he was paying for, before handing off the credit card; but no, he cleary was so rich that it truly didn’t matter what was going on the Amex. What mattered was the “principle” of the thing.

“A beer shouldn’t be $14, ever, not even in New York.”

The Midwesterner in me said, “No problem sir, you’re upset; I’ll take it off,”  but my manager wasn’t going to let this man suck up New York’s pride.

“I’m sick of these games,” my manager said. “He drank it. Gimme the check.” And my manager marched over and demanded that he pay the bill in full.

Sometimes you don’t know you’ve got it good, till a veteran New York manager is making you feel like the cheap piece of shit that you really are.

OVERHEARD: The guest speaks.

13 Sep

Female, late-forties, wife to a mafia-esque character who carries a black Amex.

“And I knew then, when he hugged me at the funeral, that that cold blooded bastard had killed her; and tommorrow he’s gonna be on Nightline.”

Needless to say, I dripped a bit of the wine on hearing this one.