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epic battle: water flavored beer vs. marijuana flavored tea.

24 Aug

One of the best parts about my job is that I basically get to do whatever I want to. For instance, today I took glamour shots of lobsters for the restaurant’s new Instagram account and offered a girl who was celebrating her 17th birthday at the restaurant a martini with no booze in it so she could impress her friends with her mature glassware. Some things are more long term, and require acute planning and execution. Lately, I’ve been devoting much energy to two arenas: Trivia Night and Craft Beers, both of which I knew literally zero about providing for my customers until like yesterday.

Trivia night came about because I’m tired of watching Jeopardy! all alone at the host station every night at 7 and impressing only myself with my vast knowledge of three syllable Shakespearean characters and shit like that. I hired a “professional” host, this man-child who lives down the way who has really good posture and taste in music (as far as I know, although he can’t tell the difference between the Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel so now I’m like seriously questioning that judgement) but does not know the definition of the word sibling and will only drink weed in the form of tea. I have him there so that I can feel free to participate and frolic around the restaurant with other trivia nerds and whisper sweet answers in random ears. He’s both entertaining and strange, two characteristics that I find close to my heart, so I like totally love when he comes, even though I think he’s drunk when he arrives but who cares because drinking makes you funnier and more interesting. No wait, you only THINK you’re funny and more interesting when you’re the drunk one. No wonder he giggles so much and mutters under his breath. Mystery solved. In any case, trivia night is literally the greatest thing that’s happened to the restaurant in years, unless you count regrouting the tiles behind the bar to stop it from smelling really bad. That was also pretty great.

Then there’s the beer. As we’ve discussed in the past, I like to drink whatever brew tastes the most like water (most often this is Bud Light but I’ll also settle for MGD 64). But it turns out that some people actually like their beer to taste like something, and I’ve made it my mission to make that available to them in the form of hipster-friendly Instagram-worthy bottles. Of all the things I’ve done in my life, and this includes taking the SATs and birthing a child and picking out a paint color for my office, choosing a craft beer list was by far and away the most difficult, stressful, awful occasion of my life. Like, the destiny of a beer lover’s evening literally lies in my hands. That is just way too much pressure. Plus, in the typical procrastinator fashion I’m so accustomed to, I waited until I had exactly 27 minutes left to order for my weekend delivery to choose a totally perfect list of beers. So basically I Googled the name of every craft brewery and whichever beer came up after the name on that instant result thing, (Harpoon……., Dogfish Head…….) that’s what I chose. And then just to solidify my decision, I asked the Spanish speaking women in the order department of the beer companies, who literally don’t give a fuck if I do or don’t order beer, and have no idea what is “trendy” for their opinions. And honestly? I feel really good about my decisions. Who cares if I’ve tried it or not, nothing is ever going to compare to my refreshing Bud Light.

Don’t think I’m gonna unveil my final list to you on here. You’ll have to wait patiently until tomorrow just like my customers. What, you think because you read this shit you should be privy to some sort of insider information? Um, no. Not happening.

In all honesty the list is like all the way on the other side of the house and I’m way too lazy/tired/comfortable/cold to go get it.

PS. My makeup bag is one of those purple drawstring felt bags that bottles of Crown Royal come in. That’s yet another perk of the restaurant business. INSANE free shit.

sex, fries & videotape.

15 Aug

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is that it elicits lots of romances, many of which last for about 8 minutes in the back seat of a car parked next to the dumpster at work.

What is it about this industry that makes people want to take their clothing off for one another?

At first glance, you figure well, if you put a bunch of people who are the same age-ish in a room that they can’t leave for 6 hours, then it’s inevitable that sparks might fly. Except what about the uniform? It’s less than flattering. All the girls wear men’s shirts and the men wear aprons that look like skirts. The guys don’t shave and the girls don’t wear makeup or brush their hair unless we force them to. So what’s the attraction?

Is it the inevitable workout of a busy night that causes all of the touching and sex talk and massages? Is it the undeniable sexiness of a sweaty Salvadorian covered in black bean dip and fry oil that gets those juices flowing? Is it the allure of an eerily empty restaurant and recently mopped ladies room that makes people want to go at it?

But then I delved further into the general pickup practices of the Normal People population. When the workday is done for you, the 9-5er, you hit up happy hour and that’s where you find somebody to fuck, then you go to bed. But in the restaurant business, when you’re done with work the next stop is normally bed because you’ve worked well past happy hour and all the good flings are off the table. So you need to find someone before you leave work, and thus explains the swinger party that is a restaurant staff. Essentially, a dinner shift at the restaurant is one very long, very sober happy hour. Unless it is an all female or all male staff, and then it’s like total misery for the single set.

Don’t think that my restaurant is some sort of exception to an otherwise angelic group of foodservice workers. People have been fucking their fellow waiters and line cooks for eons. This sort of stuff happens everywhere from Pizza Hut to Pastis. If you think I’m the first owner’s kid who married a kitchen guy because the hanky panky went too far, then you’re just plain crazy. And if you think that Harry’s the first kitchen guy who I adored, then you should really consider reading my blog a little more closely. Because HELLO I went through puberty in a restaurant. Do you know what that was like for my raging hormones? Plus bedding the owner’s kid is like literally winning the Heisman Trophy of the restaurant industry. Harry scored bigtime (so did I).  I’m surprised he isn’t endorsed by the Food Network! Why does Guy Fieri have a show and not my husband? What the hell? Who’s daughter did he get???

In case you’re wondering about the “videotape” in the title of my post, the reasoning is twofold. For starters, I’ve got this newly single liquor rep who is OBSESSED with women, and today he kindly informed me that he only reads my blog if the title makes it look like the topic is sex. His recommendation for a title was “sex, lies & steak,” which is lame lame lame so I amended it to be far more hilarious. (I can devote quite some time to the “VENDOR-VENDED” hookup between someone like a liquor rep or dumpling salesman, which is quite unlike the waiter-waiter connection in that there’s a slew of mutually beneficial perks, but I’ll just stash that idea away for a rainy day.) Secondly, we have a closed circuit camera system at the restaurant which the smart people (me and Harry) have learned to navigate quite efficiently. And for the rest of the idiots, me and Harry basically have free porn.

Do you think a hit man would barter?

5 Jun

People come into your life for all different reasons. Some teach you dance moves, and others lead you to treasure. And some tell you secrets and many change your heart. Oh, and there are some who just totally fucking suck (but give you good perspective and make you appreciate what’s good even more).

An altercation with one such person got me really really upset tonight, and my mom AND Harry were out of town so I didn’t want to bother them so I kept it all in and then yada yada yada I threw the phone down and ran outside crying. And any other supportive family, the Monday night staff came to my emotional rescue:

The Sous Chef came outside immediately to make sure I was ok. Did he sense that I really needed someone to rub my back (in a completely non-erotic way… get your mind out of the gutter, his wife reads this shit) and just listen and say everything will be alright? Or did he just want the juicy gossip, essentially as it was happening? I would say it’s a 50/50 split. Besides, what’s one more piece of gossip about little ole’ me? We all know it will make a really good blog post when it turns into its usual game of Telephone.

When I came back inside one of the waitresses handed me her iPhone, all loaded up with a sneak peak at the first ten minutes of Pretty Little Liars that isn’t even airing until TOMORROW!  Nothing says “Hey, relax girl, life isn’t so bad” like a snippet of brand spankin’ new ABC Family teenager programming.
Then Nicole made me a not-too-big-so-I-hate-life-even-more chocolate milkshake that was like 85% chocolate syrup and 15% ice cream and was lumpy and just perfect perfect perfect. She reads my Chocolate Milkshake Mind. This was after telling me that if I didn’t feel like staying at work that she would close for me. Oh, and she took my step kid off the bus for me today.

By the end of the night, and thanks to my work family, I had calmed down quite a bit, assessed my situation and come to the conclusion that I either need to hire a hit man or a lawyer to improve things. (The grill guy, like the protective Guatemalan brother that he is, told me he knew a guy. Didn’t ask him to specify which.) I can’t decide what side of the law I prefer to be on, because I’m not sure which one is more cost and time effective. It’s like, I can’t put a hit man on a credit card and get miles. That’s like a huge drawback. But lawyers can really drag things out sometimes, and that’s ineffective use of my retainer. But if I get caught hiring someone for murder, I’ll probably need a lawyer anyway and then I’ll have to pay two people instead of one. Maybe to protect myself financially now I’ll see if I can hire a hit man who’ll barter. I’ve never assessed a person’s life in how many pulled pork sliders they’re worth, but I guess now’s as good a time as ever…

Author’s note: If anyone who I know dies in the next EVER, kindly note that I did not hire a hit man to kill him/her.