Tag Archives: craft beer

memoirs of an invisible blogger.

15 Jan

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is that January is supposed to be a little bit calmer than December and I’m supposed to have time to do some writing, or perhaps parenting or movie watching or January bargain shopping or sleeping. Instead, life seems to have gotten more hectic. All I really want to do is send out the 4 thank you cards I wrote out for gifts I received over the holidays and see Silver Linings Playbook. Modest aspirations, one might think. But the thank you cards have gone missing, never to be seen again. And three extra hours simply do not exist, except at 9am when I drop my babygirl off at school, but the movie theater doesn’t open that early.

I’m not sitting here having a pity party for myself. The pity is really for you, because you don’t get to read my genius musings with any sort of regularity. It’s just not fair. Seriously, fuck these people who keep calling to book their communions! I have fans to produce semi-sensical works of blog for! Screw trying to build my craft beer empire! You are losing sleep over the lack of entertainment in your life!

Anyway, these are the following reasons that I don’t have time to become a world renowned blogger:

  • I became an activist. I really can’t explain this. Somehow I’m this like political person, even though I totally don’t know the difference between a republican and a democrat. It all started when I found out that thermal receipt paper contains a staggering amount of BPA (google it. This isn’t a science blog, ok?) and my mom and I (and the rest of my employees, and you and your whole families) handle the hell out of receipts on a daily basis. So I switched to BPA free paper at the restaurant so that my mom and I can die from some other cause and I told a local Breast Cancer activist and somehow we became the “sample” business when it got introduced at the legislature and I had to go speak in front of these elected people even though I was dressed totally inappropriately and blah blah de blah, now thermal receipt paper is banned by law in Suffolk County.
  • I consequently became a movie star. Exaggeration? Um, yea, obviously. But I was on the news on 3 different channels so I think that counts. First the CW came to the house, giving us only about 15 minutes to prepare (Harry “cleaned the kitchen” by dumping any loose object in the trunk of his car, and I changed out of my pajamas and into a maternity shirt because it made me feel less nervous). Then a couple days later, they decide to sign the bill at the restaurant, and also decide that I’m to sit at the table with the politicians, and then, what the hell, they decide that I should say something. Which shows up on Fox and News 12. And now I’m a household name practically everywhere, and hopefully before that ever happens again I will have more than 1 day’s notice so I can lose 28 pounds or so.

outcast me, accopanied by handsome legislator and other people.

 

  • I got fired. It totally sucked. You see, sometimes in life you say stupid shit, and occasionally it’s during a family business meeting about opening a new restaurant and your father fires you. Next time I get fired, I hope it’s from both locations. Because I’m in way over my head, and nobody seems to be recognizing this fact. Like, hello, I have absolutely no business running a restaurant. I really just want to hang out with my babygirl all day doing puzzles and teaching her how to spell her name. I’m a socially awkward film major hippie who is like shorter than most of the kids who order off the kid’s menu. I didn’t even brush my hair today. Like not once. I tried at the end of the night, but it was too far gone. It’s one giant dreadlock. So really getting fired made sense. Unfortunately I think I was rehired. I was so looking forward to puzzles. 
  • I caused my father to go deaf. It’s one of those moments that “I meant well” really means nothing, because your dad can’t hear you say it. I got him tickets to see Queen (except that Freddie Mercury is deceased, which should have been the first indication that this was a bad idea) for Hanukkah because I’m like the best daughter and so so so cool. After purchasing 2 tickets that were on exact opposite sides of the venue from one another, we endured the most horrific cover band ever. During the intermission (fancy pants shit right here) I told my dad “This is a very special concert for us to be at together because Queen is the band that made music such a big part of my life, and you’re the reason I started listening to them.” He didn’t hear me though, so he bought me another beer because I guess that’s what he thought I said. So that part was cool.
  • I threw a wedding. Ok, it was really just a big giant party that just so happened to be a total replica of my nuptials sans religious ceremony and first dance and porta potties and sweltering heat. If you were at the party, you’d have thunk that an actual professional planned it, not just some girl with a gift for creating inspired Pinterest boards and buying old farm equipment. You’d have thunk it was the sweetest combination of rustic and elegant. In fact, I may have to give up my day job and switch my career over to planning hardcore amazing parties in barns. Hopefully there is no BPA on craft paper or burlap, otherwise that would have to be a whole new legislative hurdle.

genius barn party planner.

  • I missed my first blog birthday. This is possibly the most devastating thing that’s ever happened in my entire life. I mean, I vowed to not give a fuck, I really did. But the fact is, writing on the regular is like the sort of thing that actual writers do. Like, as in writers who write professionally and publish things and call themselves writers and I did it! Still truckin’ even! (sort of) So really I missed out on a really good opportunity to publicly sing my own praises and have some sort of party with milkshakes and noisemakers and wear a sparkly dress (Restaurant people don’t participate in New Year’s Eve. We rely solely on bigtime parties where we are the guests of honor to break out sequins. It’s true.) and do showtune karaoke and eat the shelbytown cake that some of my biggest fans (of which there are at least one) baked for me, anything but red velvet because that shit is literally just food coloring.happy blogday to me.

 

  • I got eaten by a puppy. This is actually the real reason I can’t write anymore. As a result of literally being consumed by a lab pointer mix, I have resorted to writing this blog post in the dark hallway outside my bedroom door. There’s simply no place left for me to turn. 

adorbs puppy after he ate my leg.

In conclusion, thank you to Brad and Jen for the cell phone case. Thank you Susan for the platter. Thank you Mom and Dad for the Clarisonic, seriously my skin has never looked better other than all the stress breakouts I keep getting but that totally doesn’t count. Dad, sorry I’m an asshole and drag you to concerts. Next time I will give you ear plugs and a weed brownie, so it won’t be as bad. Mom, thank you for watching the Golden Globes with me after the concert. It’s the best having a mom as nocturnal as you. Thank you Harry for the trip to Texas that we are taking in less than a week. I am thoroughly looking forward to eating and drinking more than ever thought humanly possible, and also to not having my body parts ruptured by puppy teeth. Also thank you for the skateboard, you sure know how to keep a girl young.

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if i only had a penis. (a poem)

9 Dec

Like any typical Saturday, tonight I spent part of the evening having extremely super professional craft beer discussions, and the remainder lurking in a dark corner of the restaurant, checking out who on my staff sucks and things like that. I’m not necessarily into voyeurism, but I will say that when people don’t know you’re watching, you get to see awesome things such as sexual harassment, deep wedgie pickings, and your manager standing behind the host station daydreaming for ten minutes while the restaurant functioned around him. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, I mean we’re obviously all entitled to completely tune out our job after a nearly-completed work week filled with a shit ton of drunken Christmas parties. What I am saying is that I watched Ryan stand at the desk for an extended period of time, staring at nothing in particular, just maybe reflecting on who he still needs to buy gifts for / where he’s going to drink after work / how bad he has to pee but someone is taking a really long time in the men’s room. I cruised over to where he was to wake him up and to grab a very important document, (the Costco coupon book, if you really need to know) and he scampered off to check on a table or whatever. Moments later a man who had been sitting no more than 3 feet away from Ryan the Dreamer approached me.

“I just want to make sure that you have our reservation down. When will our table be ready?”

“Oh, I apologize, I just came over here to retrieve this very important document. I’m not actually in charge of seating, but I will find out if your table is almost ready from Ryan, who is.”

“Oh, I just assumed that because you have tits, that you are the hostess,” he didn’t say.

“No, sir. We are an equal opportunity employer. We let people with breasts AND without breasts bring you to your table,” I didn’t say back.

“Wow, I didn’t realize that men could be hostesses. I thought they could only play golf and make chauvinistic comments about chicks and eat steak.”

Ok, so the conversation was somewhat more lighthearted than that, and I obviously got him his stupid table. And I ALSO WROTE THIS AWESOME POEM!!!!!

IF I ONLY HAD A PENIS.

If I had a penis, oh the things I would do!

I’d have a firm handshake and a secret one, too!

I’d wrestle with dudes but still say that I’m straight,

And not use shampoo, it would be fuckin’ great!

At Home Depot no one would ask to help me

Because buying tools as a dude is so easy.

My martini’d be cold, because men can shake harder.

And I’d know so much more, because men are just smarter.

Probably I’d have to drive a Ferrari

And when my wife got mad I’d never say sorry.

My job would be more important than yours,

Because women are mostly just teachers or whores.

I’d open a bar and then when I went broke,

I’d hire an experienced chick to consult.

‘Cause when a man and his penis are poorly maintained

There’s no better fix than two tits and a brain.

In conclusion, it’s a man’s world. Just kidding.

a conversation with the coolest girl i know.

2 Dec

Once upon a time, like three weeks ago, I didn’t know anything about beer except that I like pretty bottles, and I prefer Bud Light when I’m at like a house party (those are really common for working moms these days, seriously, we throw keggers like as soon as the kids are in dreamland). My beer selection at the restaurant totally blew, and then one day I woke up and had a mirror conversations that went something like this:

Me: Ugh, I have so much to do today, such as catch up on the pile of paperwork that is teetering off my desk. Babygirl just started calling me by my first name, I was thinking of trying to retrain her, but first I have to take her to gymnastics class and chase her around for an hour. I wish I had something to distract me from the chaos in every square inch of my life!

Me: Oh really? I have something perfect for you! Why don’t you serve craft beers at the restaurant?

Me: Craft beers? What are those?

Me: I seriously have no idea, but there are a lot of them in Brooklyn.

Me: Brooklyn seems pretty entertaining. I love mason jars!

Me: Totally!

Me: I also love skinny jeans in all different colors and textures!

Me: Having craft beers would involve things like drinking all day, and figuring out what the fuck it means to be extra special bitter instead of just regular bitter. It would attract both hipsters and faux-hipsters and avant garde performance artists who live in the back seat of their SUV even though they’re also investment bankers on the side.

Me: Cool! Would it also mean that I would get to spend every single night prowling beeradvocate.com? Acting like I know what I’m looking for? And then talking to customers as though I have even the most remote bit of credibility? And they’ll believe me and spend $8 on a beer???? And maybe I’ll never ever ever sleep again because all I’ll do is google beer things and figure out how to be a cool beer person?

Me: Totes!

Me: This shirt is not your color.

Me: Thanks, bitch.

The end.

suck it, wine. there’s a new bottle in town.

28 Nov

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is that I fucking hate wine.

For like however many years, I’ve been acting like I give a shit about the wine list, but the truth is, I really truly honestly completely don’t. There’s like a mute button on the remote control of my life, and, like clockwork, it immediately detonates anytime vino comes up in the convo. For instance, the chick who sells the wine for the liquor company. She comes in and talks to me about blah blah blah barrel aged blah blah dry blah blah blah. And she pours me a sample and  my response is always “I’m pregnant” and then she lays off and rubs my belly which is in actuality just filled with iced tea and Today’s Soup. I feel sorta bad for restaurant people in my boat who don’t have ovaries and various other necessary reproductive organs, and therefore have absolutely no excuse as to why they can’t drink stupid wine.

The reasons wine totally blows are sort of endless. Some highlights:

  • Wine is not refreshing. Nobody* says “Ooh, that shit is spicy! Let me wash it down with a lukewarm glass of water!”
  • Wine is high maintenance. You need to let it breathe. You can’t leave it too long or you need to throw it out. You need to constantly check its legs. It is positively far more difficult to drink a bottle of wine than it is to raise a 2-year-old.
  • Wine bottles are really big. That’s like a serious commitment. Beer is like a few sips and onto a different one. Iced tea is free refills. Wine? It’s like Chinese takeout – no matter how much you have, there’s still a bunch left. The only time that changes is after you’ve finished the first bottle and then it just goes down way too fast and you do silly things like strip karaoke to “Don’t Stop Believin'” at a gay bar or drunk dial your mom to thank her for “just everything” while sobbing like a bipolar madwoman. Or madman.
  • I burned my taste buds on a hot piece of Toaster Strudel when I was in high school and it destroyed my ability to tell the difference between a cabernet and a merlot. It’s a sore subject and I really don’t want to talk about it, ok? Just lay off.
  • There is no way to taste wine without either looking like or feeling like a total schmucko. I naturally feel and look like a schmucko on the regular without any involvement with fermented fruit, so why participate in more awkwardness?
  • No matter how much you know about wine, you don’t know anything about wine.
  • I would rather pay my mortgage than drink wine. If we could all take an honest vote, how many of us can truly (stop lying to yourself, yo) tell the difference between a $42 bottle and a $15,000 bottle. Oh don’t go acting all high and mighty, you’re just saying you can because nobody is testing you. Watch your back, I may just call your bluff.
  • Have you ever gotten lost and somehow ended up by the vines on an Italian vineyard and stolen a few bunches of grapes for a yummy afternoon snack? That shit is nasty. Unlike my cougar mom, grapes simply do not improve with age.

In other words, I switched to beer.

More on that another time, though. (Like maybe tomorrow or something)

Don’t get the wrong idea. There are lots of things other than wine that I hate about the restaurant business. :

  • Mussels.
  • Grammatical errors on menus.
  • Servers with dirty aprons.
  • Customers who get physically abusive upon learning that we don’t have matches. We’re not a 1950s catering hall, ok?
  • Missing the Green Day concert at Giants Stadium because there was a big reservation and I felt guilty about leaving the place understaffed.
  • Ugly people who sexually harass you.
  • Cold garnish on a hot dish.
  • Drinks made with Blue Curacao.
  • Cilantro.
  • Anonymous Yelp! reviews from disgruntled douches.
  • People who try to stick their empty pack of cigarettes in the slot on the ashtray that’s clearly meant only for cigarette butts and maybe a peppermint wrapper.
  • No-shows on parties larger than 6.
  • People in general.

In conclusion, if we go out to dinner please don’t ask me my opinion on the bottle of wine we’re all sharing, because I probably hate it and have absolutely nothing intelligent to contribute to our conversation. Unless it’s Manischewitz on the rocks and it’s Hannukah or Passover or frankly just a Tuesday, ’cause that is one YUMMY GLASS O’ WINE.

*Note: Some people in Europe may prefer lukewarm water to ice water, but that’s just because there’s no ice in Europe.

dishwashers have the worst taste in music. like ever.

27 Nov

Sometimes in life, you lock yourself out of your office, and subsequently lock yourself out of your car, and are forced to either wake someone up, or sleep at work using wadded up cocktail napkins for a pillow and a bottle of Malibu to keep me warm.

For me, that time has arrived. It wouldn’t be so bad here, but the dishwashers are playing the most godawful music I have ever heard in my fucking life. I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round in Mexico City that is surrounded by an accordion-centric mariachi band. I’m all about world music, but seriously? EVERY FUCKING SONG IS THE SAME (sort of like Mumford and Sons only somehow worse) AND I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY LONGER BUT IT’S RAINING AND COLD AND I ALSO LOCKED MY RAINCOAT IN THE OFFICE TOO.
Know what? I give up. I’d rather sit in the rain than listen to this shit. Why can’t they listen to like country music or the Les Mis soundtrack like a normal person?

So now I’m outside. I opted to call Harry. He woke my babygirl up and will bring my spare set. No offense, restaurant, but I hate you right now and I don’t want to spend any more time inside of you than I have to. I still love you though.

It’s cold. My phone is dying. You can still hear the music. I think they just said “please save us from singing this crapolaaaaaa” en Español. Not positive though. I’m about to start walking.

In other news, Harry just got here and my keys are not in my office. They are, in fact, nowhere. Tomorrow I will search high and low, and most likely surface in the mint basket or in the front pocket of my raincoat, which I am currently wearing.

The moral of the story is: I am responsible for not only a business, but also a small child and 35 brand new poinsettias. Good luck to those suckers!