The Lemon Lady.
The Lemon Lady, and her 'Handler', as I call her, used to frequent our restaurant twice a week or so. This is common in parts of the world populated mostly by retirees who have managed to alienate their children somehow--They hire an aide, who then takes them out on the town to attempt to alienate strangers. Lucrative business, that.
Anyway. Whenever the Lemon Lady and Handler would arrive (usually right after we opened) there would be much scrambling around and '123 NOT IT' going on--No one wanted to wait on her. She is a mean spirited, high maitenence, never pleased customer who rarely tips anything. Her handler is rude and barely speaks english. (I can't begrudge her the rudeness--look at what she does for a living! I would hate my life as well.)
The Lemon Lady was given her name by the fact that she demands lare quantities of lemon wedges with her meal, water, salad, french fries, air, and anything else we may have to offer her. So vast was her lemon usage that we had to start charging her for lemons--After the random freeze in California last year when all the citrus crops died and fruit of that genre was rediculously expensive especially. This made her already cantankerous demeanor even worse, and she stopped coming to our restaurant.
No one was sad.
Last week I mentioned her, and how we hadn't seen her for several months.
'Maybe she died', volunteered my co-worker. (Eternal optimist, can't you tell?)
I hoped that she hadn't died. As much as she was a HUGE pain in the ass, she was probably that way because she was lonely and scorned, right? She was mean and demanding because life had screwed her somehow, and we should cut her some slack.
Today, that all changed.
Shortly after we had opened, in walks the lemon lady and her handler. They take a table on the deck, (which suprised the shit out of me, as this is a woman that once yelled, really YELLED at me for the sun being out last winter) and I realize that I am alone in the restaurant. My coworkers have deserted me, and therefore damned me to serving the old blister.
I walk out to the table. Greet, menu, silverware and water them. Lemon lady looks at me and says
"What is your fish special today?"
"Well, in the fish and chips, today the fish is cod." (I didn't want to even tell her we don't offer specials anymore. I would rather have stabbed myself in the eye with my pen.)
"I want that."
Shit, that was easy! Normally it's a ten minute fight to get her to order something. Hell, maybe the old scab is on new medication or something. Huh.
The handler orders a salad, and I ask if they would like something besides water to drink.
"Maybe she want the wine," says the Handler. I look to the Lemon Lady. She glowers up at me, her rhumey eyes narrowing.
"You know, every time I eat here, I swear I'm never coming back. And look at me now." Even the handler was shocked at that one. I couldn't have cared less. I have so much shit going on right now, this woman being a bitch was a walk in the park.
"I'll take that as a 'no' on the wine order, then." And I walked off.
Suddenly, the restaurant is filled to capacity. FULL. Standing room only. There are two servers, including myself, on the floor. We are slammed, and running. Not good.
The food arrives, and I take it to the Lemon Lady's table. She is now surrounded by other people, who are looking at her food. (Aside: Dear Woman Who Stopped Me While I Was Carrying a 30 Pound Tray of Food to Ogle It And Demand That I Tell You What Everything Is: Go fuck yourself sideways, you dumb bitch. Read the fucking menu.) I drop off the salad for the handler, and the fish and chips for the Lemon Lady.
"What the hell is this?", she says, jabbing a knotted finger at the coleslaw.
"Coleslaw, ma'am."
"And this? What the hell is this?"
"Tartar Sauce, ma'am."
"I don't want any goddamn tartar sauce! I want LEMON! Are you stupid? I want LEMON!"
I point out that there are seven lemon wedges on her plate. That, as far as I am concerned, is LEMON. Less than five wedges, lowercase letters. More than five? LEMON!
All the surrounding tables are now staring at us. All the world's a stage and all that.
"I will bring you some more lemon, ma'am."
"You better! I hate this restaurant! And you! I hate you!!!"
I really, really, really wanted to say,
"Really? I hate you too."
But I didn't. I smiled, dropped a check at another table, and retrieved more LEMON! Oh, and I charged her for it.
Then I left her the fuck alone. Screw you, bitch. At least we know you won't get scurvy.
Time for the check, now. I am really running by this time. Sweating, out of breath, running to take care of all my tables. (We don't have sections at my restaurant. So you get tables on the deck, in the bar, by the windows--it's not a huge joint, but it makes for some good footwork. Oh, and the kitchen is up two flights of stairs. Hooray!)
I bring her her check. Did I give her the local discount? Yes. Did I make sure not to over charge her? Yes.
Wait a minute.
"What the hell is this? A side of fruit? I didn't order a side of fruit!"
"Ma'am, those are your lemons. (LEMONS!) Remember, when you have four whole lemons worth of wedges, we have to charge you."
"Who decided that?"
"Our executive chef, ma'am. I believe he spoke to you about this one of the last times you were in."
"Your executive chef is a bastard!"
Silence wrapped itelf around the deck. Everyone stopped eating and looked at her. She realized it, too, and was embarrassed.
She paid.
And tipped a whopping three dollars.
