A couple of days ago, we published a translation of a lenghty rant about foreign tourists written by a waiter from Split. Judging by the comments, people were either amused or appalled – no indifference in between.
A woman from Split who obviously has experience in the service industry felt the need to add to the original post, as Jozo the waiter forgot to include one very important group of restaurant guests: Croats. So, to all of you who were outraged at stereotypes being thrown around at people of foreign origin, this time we’re making fun of ourselves. Enjoy:
“I don’t know why everyone jumped on the poor lad who shared his pain caused by restaurant guests. What would’ve happened if he’d written about the worst guests? The locals!
The average Croat takes a seat at a terrace in a quiet street in any given town and the moment he sits down, the peace and quiet are gone.
First he drags the table around, then he pulls out the chair so he can lie back like a king, then he waves at you. You greet him, hand him the menu, and the first thing the Croat says is that his table is wonky. No shit Sherlock, it was nicely arranged before you came along. Then he goes on to inquire who the owner is, where the fish comes from, are the calamari frozen or fresh… when we all very well know he’s going to order meat.
He asks about all the wines and all the beers, but ends up ordering Ožujsko. If you bring a small one, he says that’s as good as eyedrops.
So you bring him a beer and the utensils and leave to serve other guests but no, he has a question. Where are you from, you’re so pretty, my oh my you Split girls, are you married, give him the wi-fi password, do you have the sports journal and why not, and who makes your olive oil? Because he has a guy for oil. You manage to get away even though he yanks your apron, and you bring him the meal.
He drowns the food in a litre of oil and he works the pepper grinder for half an hour because he is a major gourmet after all. Then he talks on his phone and chews with his mouth open, he burps and laughs, and as soon as he’s done, he calls for you even though you’d come to take away the plate anyway.
He comments on the dish just to come off as smart after the whole terrace saw him guzzle the entire meal like a seagull. Then he rolls some tobacco, smokes, picks his teeth with a toothpick, and leaves it in the middle of the table after he tore the wrapper in a million pieces.
He asks for the check. He doesn’t want dessert or coffee because only Italian faggots have coffee after lunch, he says.
You bring him the check and start to walk away, but he yells ‘doll, can I charge this’, waving the check holder around so everyone can see the 1000-kuna bill, and you’re dying to tell him than he can pay while only the person standing in your shoes can charge an amount, but you decide to keep quiet. You give him the change, he slips you 10 kuna, winks and walks away, leaving you to clean the ashes around his table and the pieces of the toothpick wrapper scattered all over the place, and you don’t say a word.
Let me know if I forgot anything.”