Diary of a Restaurant Hostess

Dear Diary–

What a night!  Sometimes when I think I’ve seen it all, I’m shocked at the depths that diners at classy restaurants like mine, Chez (which for some reason is pronounced “shay”) Ignacio, will stoop to.

Tonight, it was the old “the-rest-of-our-party-isn’t-here-yet-can-we-still-be-seated-anyway?” gag.  (Note to self–stop by Staples today to get a new box of hyphens.)  Like I haven’t heard that one a million times before!


So this couple comes in, there’s only two of them, but they’ve reserved a table for four and I ask “Has all of your party arrived?” and the man says “We just wanted a big table to be alone together.”  (Gotta save that one in case there’s an oxymoron question on my English final next year!)  So I says to him I says, that is strictly forbidden by the Code of Restauranteurship, all members of your party must be ready, willing and able to be seated.  Only exception is groaty old people on walkers and oxygen tanks.

Then the guy tries to slip me $5, like I could be bought off that cheap.  “No way,” I says.  I drew a line in the carpet and stood my ground!  So it cost them $10 to be seated, which is only fair given the poverty wages Ignacio pays me.




I am so glad I took biology last semester.  It helps me to understand the genetic differences between restaurant hostesses, who are always slim and pretty and well-dressed, and waitresses, who sometimes have big tits but also beefy arms from carrying trays of entrees and dishes and stuff around.  They are also usually pretty fugly.  And sweaty from rushing in and out of the kitchen–P.U.!

No, hostesses and waitress are two entirely different genuses, or species, I don’t remember which, but it matters!  Ignacio shouldn’t ask me to clear off a table so some party of four with two screaming babies can be seated.

Why can’t they just go to Chuck E Cheese?

Need to eat some Jello today–I’ve got a hangnail.



Diary Dearest–

I’m coming to realize–you can’t eat glamour.  Yes, I enjoy being the face of Chez Ignacio.  (You wouldn’t want Ignacio to be the face of Chez Ignacio–very oily T-zone.)  Yes, I enjoy getting dressed up every night in chic stylings–that I don’t get to write-off as business expenses according to the stupid duboheads at H&R Block.  And yes I like having a job where I’m really, truly helping people in need, doing my part to feed the hungry, which will come in handy if I ever run for Miss America.  Those other girls can say they want to end world hunger–I actually do something about it!

But my two roommates say if I don’t start paying my share of the electric bill they’re going to throw me out.  Why don’t they understand–I work nights so I don’t use as much as them! 

Anyway, I either need a raise, or to get a higher-paying job like airplane pilot or chief information officer at some big company.  I already know how to work the CompuReservation 4000, the most sophisticated time and table sorting device in the restaurant industry!


Ignacio got mad at me last night because I wrote on the screen when people didn’t show up.  Well, what was I supposed to do–use Wite-Out Correction Fluid?

I already tried that, and it ran down the screen.

“You’re late.  And your excuse is?”


It’s good I’m keeping you, a diary I mean.  I think I could write a best-selling book and make money that way and quit this God-forsaken . . . I hate it when Ignacio hovers like that!

Seriously, there was like this geisha girl who wrote “Memoirs of a Geisha,” and she made a lot of money.  And the Harry Potter lady was on welfare fer crap’s sake, now she’s like a billionaire.

Or I could go back to stealing tips.

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