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As I sit here,drinking calimocho, in both anticipation and dread for the weekend that lay before me, let us recap the events of restaurants past-

Rednecks. Redneck diners are the bane of my existence. They overflow from across the big muddy or from the deepest corners of the south.They want cans of beer and Cap't Pyrtle's chicken bucket-but feel the need to flood downtown memphis to torture the waitstaff and show off their favorite bolo tie or union jack tattoo.

I work at a restaurant that is delta kitchen meets the rest of the epicurean universe-and it is like fine dining in short pants. We have plastic table cloths and 4 star cusine. I love the concept and we have AMAZING food. But it is still delta kitchen and maintains enough, atleast at first glance, of southern comfort foods to attract unsavories. Oh, and everything is made to order and the chef won't allow you to change the menu. If you so much as alter a condiment we have to charge you 2 bucks and you will wait, without apology, and we will autograt you, we will piss off you and take your money.

It is like a safe haven for servers. Management hates the customer in the same way we do-Management understands the glue trap that we step in everytime we put on our aprons, dousing us with hot water before we chew off our legs to escape.

Last Saturday, Rascal Flats, poisoned downtown Memphis with their music and their fans. People who knew nothing about dining, but recognized catfish and informal decor,pushed through our doors and ruined our evening.

I told them,at the front end,it would be 45 minutes to an hour til they got food. I told them it wasn't grammy's tomatoes and spoonbread. They didn't listen. The mix of inbreeding and years of being mislead into believing the customer is always right -led them into that good night and into my own personal hell.

Some highlights:

Angry lesbian rednecks yelling at me, and me responding, quite tactfully with

" I thought you ladies would know something about EATING OUT, it always better when it takes time."

A Polish waitress, with her thick accent, telling a table that was insulting her:

"Relax, we are not saving lives here, we serve food. We didn't forget to recharge your defibrillator, we don't leave you dying on floor with heart-attack, we just make you wait for sandwich."

The chef, who is also owner,throwing tickets at tables who were in his face.

A husband standing in between his wife and I so she wouldn't hit me. I said nothing to her-but having to wait for her alligator roulade was so traumatic to her I wondered,quietly, what would happen if something serious were to occur in her life, like me stabbing her in the eye with a steak knife.

That said,I walked out of work, quite a bit richer, and into another bar, where I danced to hip hop music, laughed with other servers, and did shooters with names that rhymed.

The beautiful ,the damned and another night here in Memphis