Pet Peeves: The Closing-Time Campers

For a long time I worked at restaurants that were open 24 hours. This meant no closing, just waiting for the relief staff to arrive. The restaurant I work in now actually closes at a reasonable hour, so I've experienced something new in the last few years: The Closing-Time Campers. This fast became one of my top 5 pet peeves about the industry.

Allow me to paint you a picture. It's fifteen minutes to close. Not a single table in the restaurant. The music in the dining room seems extra loud without the low drone of people's voices to muffle it. You've filled your salt and peppers, finished your sidework, maybe even counted your bank because you're feeling a little optimistic tonight. The cooks have cleaned their grill and stand on the line, relaxed and joking with each other, glancing at the clock. The busser has started vacuuming.

Then you hear it; the slamming of the front door. You pause, looking up from the piece of throwaway pie you've been snacking on. There is a moment of hope; perhaps they just want some dessert to go. No. They never want desert to go. They want to sit in your station, probably get food and dessert, and then sip of their coffees for another hour. These people, these Closing-Time Campers, are one of the worst tables you can get, because you know right away that someone who will ask to be seated in a restaurant at fifteen minutes to close is not a considerate person. Inconsiderate people are not good tippers, and usually rude to boot.

I had just this experience the other day; two kinda new-agey yuppie chicks came in at ten minutes to close.

“Oh, are you closed?” They actually seemed pretty nice.

“We close at ten,” I said, sounding a little disappointed, as though to convey that they had juuuust missed it.

They interpreted this as they had just made it! And wasn't it great! Thank goodness!

I seat them, skulk back to the kitchen to warn the cooks, then return to take their drink order. They order two hot waters with lemon. Just to put this in perspective for you, a hot tea is pretty much the biggest pain in the ass to get for someone at the restaurant. Hot waters with lemon are basically free hot teas. Swell. I bring those out and they're still not ready to order, but want an appetizer. Also swell, I can see they're going to draw this out as long as possible. A short time after their appetizer arrives they're finally ready to order. I bring them their soup or whatever they had and return to my pie.

I check on them a few times, refill their hot waters, chit-chat about the rain, etc. Eventually they get pie, which I bring them without complaint. I give them their thirty-something dollar check, and they pay with a credit card, but are still freaking sitting there. I have completely exhausted my entertainment in the back. The cooks are long gone. The poor busser can't finish vacuuming until they leave so we're just standing around trying to decide if my Spanish is worse than his English (it is). By this time it's 11:20; a full hour and twenty minutes after close.

Now the moment of truth: The ladies get up to leave, and as they walk toward the front door I go to pick up their credit slip. They have drawn a line through the tip line and totaled the bill. The bitches stiffed me. Clutching their credit slip, I call “Have a great night, ladies!” as they leave, allowing my bitterness show through in my voice. They look back smiling and wave “Bye! Thanks!”

-Penny