I hate you Mr. Nathanson

I hate Mr. Nathanson and his big sausage fingers. He’s a disgusting human being, cheap, ridiculously nit-picky in the restaurant, and fat as hell. His hair is greasy, he’s bald with a comb over, and fits all the stereotypes that you hear about Jews. If I could just grab him by his fat fucking face and yell, “You make racist stereotypes a reality!” I would feel better, but it would change nothing.

This man is notorious for loving Blue Cheese. Not just on salad, on his steak, on his potatoes, and he’s even eaten it over ice cream and cake. He bitches until they give him a small tub of it that he can take home.

He is also a lousy tipper. Valet is complimentary, one of the only places in the whole city where this is the case. Our average tip is over $5 a car. This guy tips one dollar, sometimes two if he is feeling extremely generous. He would rather bury his talents. One time, he gave his two year old the tip to give to us. “He really gets a kick out of it” he told me. Of course he does, disrespecting Gentiles is always hilarious to two-year-olds. “One for each year old he is” I said as I grabbed both dollar bills out of the kids hands, “I can’t wait until he’s five”. The fat bastard smiled as he lugged a whole cake in one hand and cradled a tub of Blue Cheese in the other.

This night was going to be my payback. There is a policy here that if someone uses the valet but doesn’t go to the restaurant, they’re charged a $15 charge. The Nathansons walked straight through the restaurant and over to the theater to see, I shit you not, “Fiddler on the Roof”. The show let out 40 minutes after the kitchen closed, so I was elated to able to charge him the $15. It would be payback for his past cheap tipping and arrogant ways.

When the show let out he came up to me and asked, “You guys are going to be here a while right, we can leave our car here?”

“No we are done in the next 15 minutes, if you go somewhere, you’ll need to take your car.”

He wanted to think about it, so he and his wife hung around for another 15 minutes. We had gotten rid of all of our other cars by then. When he came back over to me, he had a take out bag. I was pissed, now we could no longer charge him the $15 because he’d bought something.

“We only had a credit card with us, so we bought some pie so we could tip you. Would you like some Key Lime pie?” He held the bag up to me, the Key Lime is amazing . . .

“I’d love some.”

“Too bad, I’m going to eat it myself”. What an asshole . . . and I fell for it.

“Here’s your tip,” he handed me two crisp one dollar bills.

I hate you Mr. Nathanson.

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