where i come from…

7 Jan

So there’s this restaurant in a stuffy shopping center not too far from here. After twenty-three years, this weekend is the last weekend it will operate. It means pretty much nothing to quite a few people, probably even you. Maybe you had a first date there. Maybe it worked out, maybe it didn’t. Perhaps you sat outside in the summertime and had a salad, or took your Nana there for her birthday.

Unless you were me.

In the case that you were me, you did your homework in the office above the ladies bathroom. You made pets out of soft shell crabs before they became someone’s dinner (sorry.). You brought your best friend to sit in the corner after school and ogle cute waiters, hoping that they’d risk their job to take you to a house party and get you drunk on jello shots. You got paid a crisp 20 dollar bill to essentially complain from opening, to lunch rush, to shift change, to dinner rush, to closing, all while wearing a pristine uniform of black pants, white shirt and red bowtie. Yes, if you were me, you’d do all of these things quite regularly. Because if you were me you’d have been the owner’s kid.

If you ever worked in a family-run restaurant, then you hate my type (or adore, believe me I have had a fan or ten in my time, many of whom hail from Central America …). I’m pretty spoiled, but know how to cut the shit out of a lemon. If a toilet breaks and is filled with unidentifiable substances, I fix it straight away, but bitch about it for like two weeks as though it’s the worst thing that ever happened to me in my entire life. I complain that I’m broke but buy a new outfit before every hostess shift.

Anyway, that’s where I come from. A restaurant that’s going out of business, and even though we haven’t owned it (I say “we” because at 14 years old I was undeniably essential in the running of the business) since 2001, I’m freaking out and having a nervous breakdown and the only solution I can come up with is to start a blog.

My parents have owned restaurants my whole life and after years of resenting the fact that we have to talk about plate origin and linen bills at the dinner table, I decided to jump on board after graduating from college with the clearly logical TV, Radio and Film degree. Then, to add to my stupidity, I married the chef, and now raise my children in a far more spacious office than the one above the ladies bathroom. So maybe I’ll write about that. Or perhaps I’ll push my opinions of tween TV programming or Amy Winehouse on you. (I miss her everyday.)

To conclude my first post, which I realize has absolutely no direction (as most of my thoughts often do) I will list some tips I picked up at this special restaurant which we will not name. How can I mention the name when really the fact that it’s closing is totally a rumor and I don’t like to start rumors?

1. If you are a teenager in the ’90s, you should probably not acquire all your musical taste from the Wurlitzer in the corner. Patsy Cline has nothing on TLC at the homecoming dance.

2. Even though it can lead to serious injury, it is VITAL to be able to close a metal takeout container faster than the person next to you.

3. Jappy women are people too. I’m Jewish and from Long Island, I can say that.

4. Learn to speak words in Spanish other than “ella.” Because while it’s nice to know that you’re talked about, it is also helpful to know what is being said.

5. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so having unlimited free meals at your disposal makes you popular. Choose wisely.

Disclaimer: I rarely choose wisely.

How are you supposed to end blogs? See you tomorrow?


5 Responses to “where i come from…”

  1. Josh sands January 7, 2012 at 2:06 pm #

    Nice post I will miss the restaurant

  2. Lisi January 10, 2012 at 10:15 pm #

    “Jappy women are people too.”

    This should be the title of your first novel.


  1. real jewish housewives of long island (with poetry!) « shelbytown - March 6, 2012

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