Back from oblivion.

I have never ever gone this long without writing.  Over a month! Holy crapsticks, batman!  I apologize. I'm going to try to get back on track of updating this twice a week. We'll see.  In my defense, I have been sick for the entire month of November. No joke. I started feeling poorly the day after Halloween, and it developed into what was most likely pneumonia.  I'm  mostly recovered but still hacking every now and then. Please note that it is now November 18th.  And yes, I realize my last entry was October 8th. So what I was doing in October those three weeks before I got sick, I have no idea. I'm sure it was something extremely cool and social though, and certainly not me sitting around watching every available episode of Top Model on Hulu starting with Season 1.

Anyway. Still kicking it at the Uptown Restaurant, though I don't know for how much longer since they've just announced they're closing indefinitely in January.  In any case, it does sound like I got out of the Cafe just in time, as I've been hearing horror stories about how psychotic it's getting.

Anyway. Some random thoughts in general regarding the industry, before we get into Roasting stories.

I'm at the point where I just want to laugh at people who order Budweiser. Especially the place I'm currently working at. It's this gorgeous, secluded, somewhat finer dining place in the middle of the park....and you want BUDWEISER??

I also laugh at people who want "white zinfandel," but I'm pretty sure everybody does that.

Not a whole lot of  "crazy" has been happening at the Uptown Restaurant, aside from when we host weddings and you get a lot of drunk weirdos.  I remember one a couple weeks ago where half the family was from Staten Island and trying to act classier than they actually were. That was fun.  That and another wedding a week or so later where a guy promptly inhaled his fish within the first two minutes, then asked if he could also have a steak...just if I had any "extras lying around."  Of course. I always have extra steaks lying around. Piles and piles of extra steaks.  Dumbass.

On a side note, my friend Kathryn sent me this image several weeks ago, and I kept meaning to post it on here and never did.

This is true no matter where you work. Granted, I could tell you horror stories about brunch at the Cafe, and brunch at the Uptown Restaurant is still a million times better, but it's still brunch.  People at brunch are horrible. They're nastier than people during the week, and even more demanding. And I'll never understand it.  Unless you're in a service related job, Saturday is your day off. What the hell are you doing? Why are you in a bad mood? Calm the fuck down!

Anyway. I think that about does it for "current" stories. Let's get into some old school Roasting Lore.

January 15, 2012

"You order an apple at this place, and it comes with a pig!"

--man at table 30

Honestly, I have no idea what this means, whose table this was, or what the hell this guy was talking about.  I'm incredibly confused by all of it.  Also, The Cafe certainly isn't a fancy place, and in over four years of working there I don't know that we ever served roast pigs.  I mean....we didn't serve shit on a plate or anything, but we certainly weren't on the fine dining end of things.

Moving on to a much more exciting story.

January 16, 2012.

"A woman comes into a busy brunch (MLK Day) with a Bud Light can in hand. Obviously drunk and maybe a little crazy too. She asks for some hot water to put in her Ramen cup-of-soup. I say no, and she leaves in a huff. She comes back and wants to order eggs. I send her to the bar where she orders and then walks back over to me, gives me the receipt and tells me she doesn't have enough money, says sorry and leaves!"

And that, my friends is why I do not miss the Upper West Side at all.  UWSiders are kind of crazy in general, but I will say that the Cafe was definitely a magnet for a certain type of person. It probably also didn't help that we were across the street from a methadone clinic.

Winding up with one more quick anecdote:

January 20, 2012

"What gauge of plastic is the menu?"

And THAT is the kind of shit I dealt with five days a week for four years.  Part of me misses the crazy, but part of me is glad I don't have to worry about keeping my subconscious eye-rolls in check.

Til next time!

Ren Fairs, Star Trek, and a visit from the DBG

I suck at updating. I am the worst in the history of things ever. I'm also the worst at putting my laundry away. I've had clean laundry sitting on my bed for a week. Because...well mostly just because I suck at life.

So about a week and a half ago, there was a Sunday Medieval Festival in the park. Apparently the park does this every year. And I'm pretty sure I knew about it, because I remember one time I was going to the A and this dude with a tail was coming out of the elevator and I was like wtf is that shit?

Anyway. It's that time of year again. And my New Uptown Restaurant that I work at now had a special medieval menu (read: sausages and pretzels) and we all had to dress up, which basically meant the girls wore long skirts and the one guy with shoulder length hair wore it down instead of in a ponytail. We classy.

Anyway, to be honest I was expecting a lot of this sort of thing :

Because this is the extent of my ren fair knowledge. 

Oh, and as a bonus, THIS EXISTS:

RUB A DUB DUB

Yup. Some guy made a re-mix of that dude going rub a dub dub. I swear, sometimes I just love the internet. So, so much.

Anyway. All the freaks were out. But, you know, whatever. It's their special day. Let em be. The thing I couldn't get behind were the random  weirdos  who  just  took the occasion to dress as whatever weird fucking shit they wanted. Like, there was a chick dressed as some kind of moulin rouge/french prostitute/can-can dancer thing.  That was weird.  Even weirder, however, were the two dudes sitting at the bar in full on Star Trek uniforms.

Exactly

Then, to cap off that day, who the fuck should show up but Douchey Bar Guy. I don't even know what the fuck he was doing there. He lives on the UWS near The Cafe.  He shouldn't be so far uptown, he shouldn't be up in my hood, and he certainly shouldn't be all up in my zone in my new workplace. That was just friggin wonderful. And of course his horrible satan child was with him.  Luckily I was legit busy and didn't really have a chance to say more than "hello."

I have to emphasize though, that this all occurred on a very weird, random day.  On the whole, Uptown Restaurant is a million times better and easier than The Cafe.  That said, two days ago a woman attempted to follow me into the kitchen because if her friend didn't get a hamburger immediately he'd "go into a coma." 

Please, tell me more things I totally care about.

Of course that all happened more than once at The Cafe. The "coma" part.  I may already have written about this on here, but at one point a crazy old man told my friend the hostess that he needed his food RIGHT NOW BECAUSE DIABETES. Then the food came and it was a waffle that he proceeded to douse in maple syrup.  Ruh roh.  There were also people constantly trying to enter the kitchen, though I think part of that was them just looking for the bathroom.  I always wanted to say, "Bitch, do you SEE a toilet back here?  Wanna crap in that bus tub? Be my guest!"  One time a guy actually came back into the wait station though, and when I tried to direct him to the bathroom he told me he "needed salads" and proceeded to stick his face in the window and look through the food. WHAT IS THAT. GO AWAY.

But enough of that nonsense. We've got Roasting Backlog to do!

January 12, 2012

Woman: I'll have a carafe of cotes du rhone.

Me: I'm so sorry. I'm out of cotes du rhone. Can I get you a different red?

Man: Okay, we'll just have a bottle of the cotes du rhone.

January 15, 2012

First table of the day. Table 45 brought their own maple syrup. It's organic!

Shit like that was  always happening at The Cafe. People were always constantly wanting me to microwave the maple syrup. Which...who gives a fuck? I could understand if it was refrigerated or something, but it's room temperature. It's not cold enough to alter the temperature of your food. So basically...No. No I won't do that. Eat a dick.

One more story for the day:

January 22, 2012

So...this scuzzy guy came in and told the hostess he was a casting director for a modeling agency, and he needed models to go to some church on Amsterdam. When none of the waitresses went with him he started soliciting my tables.

I remember this! If I recall correctly, it was already during kind of a busy brunch, and this guy that looked like a bum came in and started asking us all if we could model for him. And he was creepy. Like...picture some sleazeball pervert trying to pick up girls outside the Port Authority and lure them back to his "studio," after which they mysteriously disappear in a Lifetime Original Movie type scenario.  It was that kind of guy. I think I was eventually the one who got him to go away, mainly because I'm kind of scary and I very rarely showered before a brunch shift, because what's the point if you'll smell like eggs by 8 AM anyway.  So, you know. I'm good for protecting the pretty people and chasing off the scary dudes.

I swear on the newest episodes of all my favorite shows that I will update this more often. I SWEAR.

Keep reading

I still have so many roasting stories.

Yo internet! Here's a fun fact. It has now been a month....a whole MONTH since I left The Cafe!

omigod I know. I can't believe it either.

Haven't had much going on at the new gig, but there's going to be a medieval fair in the park on Saturday, so I'm sure all the code 3 whackadoos will be out, and I'll have some fun stories to share. Also, we're going to be selling turkey legs. Because nothing says class like turkey legs. We're encouraged to come in costume, but really, like I have money to go buy beer wench paraphernalia. I think not.

Okay. More stories

"January 7, 2012
Some lady called around 10 and wanted to make a 13 person "reservation" for noon

--I'm just gonna break in with some personal thoughts here.  The Cafe does not, and has never taken reservations.  No matter how many times we would explain this to people they would say things like, "well...what if we have a group" and "we're coming from far away" and "the attorney general wants to sit there."  Now really. I don't give a flying shit who you are. We don't take reservations, so fuck the hell off. But I digress.

She also wanted to order at that time (10 AM) and have the food ready exactly at noon. Uh...no. So ten people came in at noon, said they only had 30 minutes, then ordered steak sandwiches. And they wanted a free dessert "for a birthday." FUCK NO."

I'm not doing that.

Okay, so let's be real here kids. Unless you are going to a fast food place, there's no way in hell you're getting in and out at lunch in 30 minutes. Also, STEAK?! Fucking steak sandwiches! Do you know that meat has to cook? I mean do you? MEAT HAS TO COOK. Fun facts. Yeah...you're all a pain in my ass, but maybe if you ordered omelettes and salads I could get you in and out quick. STEAK SANDWICHES?! Fuck you. And you. And the eco-friendly adult scooter you rode in on.

Also...free dessert? NO. This is not a goddamn TGIFridays.

Please note: I worked at a TGIFridays for 3.5 years and found it lovely. 

But this is NYC. So no you can't have a "birthday dessert." You can buy a dessert and I will make them put a candle in it to shut you the fuck up. That is all.

Anyway. On to yet another story, also from 1/7/2012

Table 41- "Can I get a flashlight?! I lost the cap of my tooth!"

I don't recognize the handwriting on this one, so I don't know who wrote this, but honestly I'm just confused. Why do you need a flashlight? Are you going to open your mouth like a gaping chasm of doom and make me look in there? What is that? Who are you? I DON'T UNDERSTAND.  I do remember one time this lady came in at like 8 in the morning and demanded to look through ALL the garbage cans because she may have left her teeth in the bathroom the previous night.  And you know. sympathy for the dentures and all, but how did you leave WITHOUT YOUR DAMN TEETH the previous night? Isn't that something you kind of miss?

Bitches are insane. So glad I'm not working on the UWS anymore. And really, it hasn't been the same since Matt Damon moved to California.

I'm sure I'll encounter at least one or two ren fair loonies on Sunday though. And I just can't wait.

UPDATE!!

Addendum to the "tooth cap" story. One of my former co-workers has just informed me that they were working the night of the tooth cap incident and sent me a message with more detail:

"Love your blog. I worked the night of "lost the cap of my tooth". Next to 41 mice/roaches were running in and out by the heater pipe, remember? We were afraid that we will find animals instead of the fuckin' tooth! And there it was. The tooth cap on the floor! I couldn't believe it."

And there you have it.

dirty socks and creepy bread

Holy crap! Can it really have been almost two weeks since I've updated this blog? In my defense, I've been super busy doing important things and being important and stuff. Or...y'know...waiting tables.

The time must be going somewhere though because I haven't done laundry in almost a month, and I'm starting to run out of options.

I was going to update last Saturday, but I had to go to a crazy lamesauce wedding where they spent the entire ceremony warning the newlyweds about the "lure of the devil." So that was fun.

Some of my old regulars from the Cafe found me on Facebook, and according to everybody the entire place sucks balls now, and honestly who's going to tell all the crazy stories, if I'm not there to document them?  Luckily we're not even close to finished.

January 3, 2012

"Can I get the account, please?"

Apparently, this customer meant "the check." People are friggin weird.

January 4, 2012

"Tonight somebody came up to me and told me that somebody else had left their gloves next to the window. They were socks. Worn, dirty, SOCKS.."

Honestly, I don't even understand this bullshit, because this crap happened in January, which means either they changed their socks at the restaurant, or just took off socks at the restaurant and then....walked out into the winter? What the fuck? Who are you?  I bet you have foot herpes or corns or warts or something. Leaving nasty ass socks all over the place.


January 6, 2012

Table 17 brought their own bread and asked Meredith to make it into a sandwich.

NO. Just, NO.

And honestly, that wasn't the last time that happened.  A few weeks before I quit the cafe some crazy lady brought her own bread for me to toast.  WHY?!? Why would you do that?  First of all, it's just a dumb stupid awful pain in the ass thing that you should never ever do....but also, isn't it like, against health code to bring in outside food? I don't know where the fuck your food has been. Maybe that bread was just in your pants. I don't know!  Of course at that place, it was God forbid we ever say "no" to one of the precious UWSiders, so of course I'll take your bread and lovingly toast it with golden sunshine rays straight from the eyes of the baby jeebus.

One of the things I love about my new place is that people can't order anything that's not on the menu. And for the most part, the guests are pretty decent.

Of course, today I had a septuagenarian guy ask me if I'm a swimmer because he lives in a complex with a giant indoor pool and he wants to me to know I'm always welcome. So, you know , that's fun.

I promise myself to update this  more frequently. I've also been promising myself that I'll do the laundry, and that has yet to happen. 

One of these days. It'll happen!

Love to say "you've gotta be fuckin kidding me"

Hello internet!  I've been a bit MIA the past couple weeks due to working every day until going out of town, and then you know....actually going out of town.  And, well I love writing this shit but I'm sure as hell not going to update my blog via smartphone.  Way too much work, too much potential for typos, and anyway I was too busy living it up in my hometown, The Rubber City (that's rubber as in tires btw, though rubber as in condoms would be way sexier.)

I have to say, going back to my hometown and seeing how other restaurants are run, and speaking to Akron waiter friends, it once again occurred to me how goddamn weird my job is.  Not to say that it was always easy working at the chain restaurant but problems were pretty "normal" as far as problems go.....shitty tippers, unruly prom kids, drunks at the bar, Lebron being a non-tipping classless asswipe.  The rest of the time it could be a hell of a lot of fun.

I do love my job at the Cafe despite all the weirdness, but it really is filled to the brim with insanity.  Anyway.  We have a policy at work called "Love to say Yes." It's a pretty straightforward spin on "the customer is always right."  Basically, do whatever you can to accommodate. And, in the most basic sense, I do support this.  My job is to make sure that my guests have a good experience. It actually benefits me for my guests to have a good experience. If my guests have a good experience they will tip well, come back, and maybe even compliment me to my boss.  If my guests have a shitty experience, they won't tip, they'll demand free shit, they'll complain and they might yelp me.  I have never actually tried to make somebody have a bad experience.  Yet the entitlement in the neighborhood is off the charts, and often "love to say yes" just turns into "bend over and take it."

Way back when we first instituted "Love to Say Yes" as a rule back in January 2012, a co-worker of mine drew up this response in the notebook.

And honestly it's not too far from the truth. Everybody has gotten so chicken shit and paranoid about what crazy bullshit these nut bags may post on yelp, that they've taken to bending over backwards to please these people.

Here are some things people have asked me over the years:

Can you butter my toast in the kitchen?

Can you cut my food up in little pieces?

Can I have hummus instead of salad dressing?

Can I have pancakes instead of toast?

The list goes on and on. One time I had a woman who wasn't even my table flag me down and demand that I open her butter packets for her.

Which....just. How helpless are you? There's actually a guy who comes in who either has an artificial arm, or just a non-functioning arm, and he somehow manages to cut his own food and spread butter on his toast. If he can do it, so can you.

One time I had a guy demand that I have the kitchen hand make a custom sauce from scratch for his mussels, because he didn't like the sauce we offered. I made the mistake of saying no and he complained to the manager about what a horrible rude excuse for a human being I am. And honestly, I kind of am a horrible excuse for a human being, but not because of refusal to hand make mussels sauces.

The problem is that these people are so used to having everything exactly as they ask for it, that they actually don't know how to respond when any minor conflict may arise. Last week we had a woman come in who asked about a cocktail we featured last summer.  I recognized the name of the cocktail but couldn't recall the ingredients off of the top of my head.  I told the woman this and she started to tear up. Actual tears were dripping down her face.  And I kept telling her that if she could tell me the ingredients, we'd probably be able to make it for her. But the level of distress was unreal.

My former co-worker once told me he had a theory about Upper West Siders:

You could take them out of the neighborhood, drop them anywhere on earth, and they'd all look around horrified and say "What?! I have to wipe my own ass?!"

Yep. That pretty much sums it up.

Flashback Friday, etc.

     Before I get into the whole Flashback Friday thing, I just want to take a moment and jot down a couple weird things my co-workers said yesterday.  A few weeks ago I wrote a blog about our busboy Fonzie, and his weird love of Saved by the Bell, among other thing. Anyway yesterday he just came up to me, said "Star Wars" and walked away. Not like, "Yeah, I love Star Wars!" or "Hey, I just watched Star Wars!" just...moderate, calm voice..."star wars" and continued on his merry way. I really have no idea what the fuck that was about but....hey....Star Wars everybody.

Oh and then I had the following conversation with my little Ukrainian co-worker.

He: I am so stupid!

Me: You're not stupid, you're just from Ukraine.

He: What does this mean?

Me: It doesn't mean anything. It's just me teasing you about where you're from. You know, like when you say somebody isn't stupid, they're just from Florida.
He: Oh! Well people from Florida, they are like villagers! Everybody knows this.

Anyway, now I want a t-shirt that says "People from from Florida, they are like villagers."  I would totally wear the shit out of that shirt.

And now, let's wrap up the week with a few tales of Roastings Past.

Dec 16, 2011
Lady was here for about 3 hours, then asked to see the manager. Told Gus she didn't have any money because she's "dealing with settlements" but would pay us by January 2nd.

Okay, I totally remember this lady.  I guess I could have put this in the Funny Money blog from earlier this week, but I forgot about it til now.  Anyway. I remember this pretty distinctly because it was the first person I dealt with that morning.  This customer was a transfer to me from the overnight waiter, and I'd guess she'd been there a while.  So she finishes eating, then asks to see the manager. Then she explains to him that she doesn't have any money, but that the police are "aware of the situation" And then she wrote us this weird IOU on the back of some prescription for rash cream.

Who the fuck goes out to a restaurant with no money??? Who does that?!  I mean luckily it was like a 15 dollar check, and we just voided it but...what? What the fuck is that? And I wondered at the time if she had tried it before. Like....just spend a small amount of money at every restaurant in the city, and then explain that you have nothing because you're "dealing with settlements" but it's okay because "the police are aware of it."

And no, she did NOT come back by January 2nd. 

This also kind of reminds me of the time that my co-worker Cris had a table who only paid half their bill, and then they left her a note with an address where she could pick up the rest of the money.

Seems legit.

Funny Money

    Somebody gave me a traveler's check the other day, and after I figured out how the hell to process that bullshit, it got  me thinking about all the various ways people have tried to pay their bill.  I mean we all know old people can be cheap as fuck, and teenagers tend to just pay down to the penny because they don't know any better, but it's so much more than that.  Like, you know, this bullshit:

What am I supposed to do with this? No...really. I want to know.

Somebody just left my former co-worker a pile of Canadian coins once. I mean...why leave anything? What the fuck am I going to do with Canadian coins?    Fuck that shit and leave nothing. Because this is what we do with Canadian coins. Tape it into the bitch book.  Another time I had a dude pay everything but two dollars of his bill in legit, American money, tell me he was out of American cash, and give me a Canadian 5 dollar bill to cover the rest.  Because that helps me.

Foreign money done right: I recently had a guy leave me a twenty percent tip in proper money, along with a Euro. For good luck, I guess? I don't know. But now I have a cute little Euro in my change pocket and that's kind of fun.  I mean, if you want to unload a foreign coin or two on me, I guess I don't really care as long as you pay your bill in legal tender first.

Loose change and foreign coins aside, the best/worst thing that ever happened to me was when somebody paid his bill in pennies.  Straight up.  A few summers ago (I think it was 2011) I was working a lunch shift and had a guy who was a little twitchy sit at one of my outside tables.  He immediately emptied a large bag of coins onto his table, and though he ordered, he kept insisting that I didn't bring his food until he was finished counting.  He was really intent on his counting and kept meticulously organizing these coins, so at first I thought he was either preparing to roll them, or maybe he just had OCD.  However, towards the end of the meal, THIS was laid out on the table for me:

Five fucking dollars in pennies. 500 pennies.

And wanna hear something fun? This wasn't even the entire payment. Three years later, I remember the exact amount of the bill because the whole situation was so odd.  The bill was 22 dollars and some odd cents.  He laid out five dollars in pennies. He then told me that he thought he had a twenty on him, but he didn't so he had to go get it and he'd leave us his apartment keys as collateral. So for those of you that are up on your math skills, this means a full payment of 25 dollars, which is a less than three dollar tip, and also...fucking 500 pennies.  Anyway, he did end up coming back with the 20.  However, in the meantime I'd made everybody aware of the penny payment, took a picture of my phone, guests were pointing at it etc. So when he came back to drop off the twenty and get his keys, he saw some people looking at the pennies, and got all indignant that he was being mocked or whatever, and proceeded to tell us:

"You know, in Brooklyn this would be considered ART!"  

Fucking take that shit to Brooklyn then.

My bank cashes in coins for free, so I ended up putting all the pennies into a couple of to go soup bowls at the end of the day and lugging them home with me.   That shit was heavy, but I didn't know what else to do with it.

In conclusion:

1) Pay in American money

2) Tip in American money or don't tip at all

3) If you must pay in coins, at least use quarters so I can do my laundry

4) Don't ever pay with those godawful fucking annoying gold dollar coins.  You can't use them in vending machines or laundry machines and they're a pain in the ass.

Above all,

Use your common CENTS!
Get it? Sense/cents?  I made a fucking hilarious pun. Oh my god I'm so smart.

I'm going to end this entry now before somebody punches me through a computer screen for my horrible use of puns.

These are the people in your neighborhood....

Shout out to anybody who recognizes the song title in the heading, first of all.  No guesses?
It's this shit:

Yeah dude. This song is my jam.  Anyway. I think one of the things that makes work so "special" for lack of  a better word, is the fact that UWSiders are just all kinds of crazy.  Also, we're located directly across the street from an old people's/ people with various other weird shit problems home, and they come in a lot. Honestly, I feel like I have a unique perspective on this, since I did spend some time in a ward back in the day, and the guests we get at work could give those patients a run for their money.

Like that one time that guy came in at 9AM, demanded pork chops, was sad when he couldn't get them, and then  sat talking to his invisible friend "Ivan" for an entire hour, sipping grapefruit juice out of a soup bowl. He was fun.

Guys like that always stand out because they're so far gone into weird territory, but if we're lucky they're one time visitors.  Sometimes they're not. Leg Juice Debbie came in for God only knows how many years before we could ban her.  But often the crazies tend to come and go.  The severe ones anyway.

Then there's the lesser category of crazy, the "not quite dangerous but definitely weird and annoying as fuck" people that you're forced to see every day.  Specifically, the booksellers.

There's a group of crazy old booksellers that set up camp directly outside the restaurant, and damn are they weird.  They don't seem to sell more than a book or two a day, but they're constantly coming in to use the toilet or ask for change.  There's a few of them, but the most notable are the guy with the horrible troll laugh, and the guy who looks like Exeter from This Island Earth.

And actually, he doesn't even look like this anymore because over the winter he grew a giant fucking Santa beard and also grew his hair out. So now he just looks like a crazy bum with a yellow beard. But when he's clean shaven he looks like Exeter which reminds me of MST3K, and because of that I end up hating him a little less.

The troll guy is a fat little fucker who wears a squashed pork pie hat, a t-shirt that says "Feh", and headphones ninety percent of the time.  Sometimes he'll come in and eat yogurt or something, but mostly he sits out on the street laughing like a hyena in a blender. I've actually been waiting on outside tables and heard some sort of hair raising other worldly sound, only to discover our friend the cackler laughing about God knows what.

The other day they were all out there measuring the sidewalk. Maybe they're planning a hostile takeover.  Books V Baguettes the EPIC SHOWDOWN.   One day the crazy book men will storm the premises, and I'll lackadaisically barricade myself behind the chairs, while deciding whether or not I actually care.

Weekend Update: Blasts from the Past

Once again, I've proved myself horribly incompetent and for the second week in a row failed to write a Flashback Friday entry on an actual Friday.  Anyway, I've been delving into the Notebook of Roastings Past and reminiscing about things that happened a few years ago.

Like this delightful gem:

"Today I found a cheese sandwich sitting on a chair by the coat closet."

This was actually me. Like I've said before, the old journal that I get a lot of my old school postings from was a communal employee journal for a while, but the cheese sandwich thing actually happened to me.  I'm pretty sure it was a brunch shift, because that's when all the weirdos come out of the woodwork more than usual.  Anyway, I happened to look over towards the supply closet/bathroom area, and sitting on an extra chair was a plastic baggie containing a cheese sandwich. And I was just like....

Seriously. Bitches be leaving cheese sandwiches everywhere. Who the hell do you people think you are? I mean really.

I'll never understand people who bring extra food to a restaurant.  I mean....our purpose is to have food for you.  Do you think you'll get trapped in here and we'll run out of food and you'll need your cheese sandwich to survive? But then....if that's the case you should take better care of it and not be leaving it on random chairs by the bathroom.

I also had somebody pull out a pizza once, and just start eating it at one of the outside tables.  I didn't really know what to do, because it was after they'd already ordered a bunch of food. I just thought it was really fucking weird that they didn't like....finish eating at our restaurant and then go to a pizza restaurant or something.  Actually I can't remember if they ate the pizza pre or post brunch.  Maybe they brought it with them ahead of time because they were SO STARVING that they needed to eat a pizza while they waited for their eggs. Or something.

Speaking of fun food items, let's kick it back old school to the days of misspelled specials.  We used to have an adorable little Israeli manager.  And seriously, she was fun and I miss her, but her spelling was atrocious.
This was often listed as our soup of the day

I don't know how many times I had to explain to her that we don't want people to think our food will make them "leaky" this happened time and time again.  I think at one point we also had "Pumpkin Brisket" (bisque) soup and "Butternotscoth" cookies. I don't know what the hell a Butternotscoth is, but to me it sounds like some kind of freaky character from The Dark Crystal. 

These days there are less misspellings on the menu, and less weird random food items to be found, and I'm not sure if that makes me happy or sad.    

The weird shit keeps it all interesting, that's for damn sure.

Things you shouldn't do in a restaurant

    I wasn't planning on making such a "generic" post this week, but then my sweet overnight waiter was punched in the face late Sunday night/early Monday morning. So I thought I'd make a list of guidelines for those who seem to be in the dark on the dos and don'ts of...you know, not being a complete fucking asshole. Some of these reference past blogs, some are just things I'm thinking of off the top of my head.

DON'T
Talk to your waiter about your sex life.
This is grossly inappropriate.  I don't care how many chicks you banged, who you went to Vegas with, what sort of weird hookups you had.  I just do not want to know.

DON'T
Make gross sexual advances towards your waiter. Casual flirting/joking is fine, but don't be pushy. If the server or bartender actually IS interested in you, they'll let you know.  One time when I was a 19 year old hostess in Ohio, an old man asked me to sit on his lap. Don't do shit like that.

DON'T
Change your kid's diaper on the table in the middle of the dining room. That's fucking gross.

DON'T
Come in and shit all over the bathroom floor. We had a problem with this for a while. There was this dude we called "The Pooper" because....well, he'd come in and shit all over the bathroom floor.  We had to ban non-customers from using the restroom for a while, and of course that got people all crazy as well.

DON'T 
Wander around the outside of the restaurant topless, and then eat the potted shrubbery when a manager asks you to put a shirt on.

DON'T 
Punch your waiter in the face. Seriously. Who does that?  I don't care what you think they did, or what's going on, you can't go around punching people in the face. Wanna punch people in the face? Go start a Fight Club or some shit like that.

But really, it all comes down to:

The Saga of the Butler

    After about a year of butler-free bliss, we've recently seen a resurgence of The Butler at the restaurant.  The Butler is a curious looking fellow. Short, portly, bald except on the sides. Snow white hair on the sides of his head, and a snow white handlebar mustache.  He also wears a monocle. I've never met anybody in real life who wears a monocle.  Basically, he looks almost exactly like this:

except minus the tux, and plus a monocle.

     The Butler is English, and plays up his accent quite often.   By the way, full disclosure here, he's actually an ex-butler.  He went to a special "Butler School" in England, and I guess worked for a family here on the UWS til they couldn't pay him because of the recession, and now he's a doorman or something.  Still, he must be proud of his past, because he seems to begin every other sentence with "Back when  I was in butler school....."  Now honestly, I couldn't tell you what happened back when he was in Butler School, because I kind of just learned to tune everything out after I heard that phrase. Something about folding napkins into swans, or something.   I also somehow got it into my head (maybe because of the whole England thing) that there's some kind of secret Hogwarts-esque butler school out there, where they have secret passages, and I don't know.....magical wine cellars or something.  I was actually thinking about this for a while, referring to it in my head as "Butwarts" but I realized that doesn't sound too enticing.

(Also, I was totally tempted to google image search "butwarts" just now, but I completely wussed out.)

Anyway. Back to our friend the Butler. The Butler drinks house vodka martinis with extra olives, no matter what time of day it is. He also loves red wine, and actually threw a fit when we changed the wine glasses around a couple years ago. That in itself actually prompted an entire "butler school" tangent, and a lecture on proper glasses for the serving of red wine.  It was quite the kerfuffle, to say the least.   He's also got a bit of a pervy side to him, and when I say that...I mean he's a fucking creepy motherfucker. Way back in 2010, when I'd only been at work for a couple months, he added me on Facebook.  Because he's the kind of guy who likes to stalk the entire restaurant staff on Facebook. Maybe he doesn't have any real friends? I don't really know. Anyway, I didn't know that much about him at that point, so I added him back.  A few days later he was in with his wife. I waited on them and chatted about the weather, and mentioned that I had the next day off and would most likely be going out to Brighton.  He looks up and yells, "Oy! Does this mean we'll see more pictures of you in a bathing suit?" I'm sorry...what?!? First of all, don't say shit like that in front of your wife, and don't say shit like that to your waitress.  Secondly, I'm not ashamed of my body or anything, but I've never been the type to make a bathing suit pic my profile picture.  The most recent bathing suit pictures of me were from an album two years prior.  Meaning...he basically went through all of my photographs.   That was a little creepy, but I didn't delete him until I got annoyed as fuck by him making weird comments on all my posts. So I "unfriended" him, thinking he wouldn't even notice.  Of course he came in the next day and called me on it. So I had to block him completely.  Honestly though, this isn't even the weirdest shit.

     One time he found out via Facebook about a birthday party for a co-worker of mine. No, he wasn't invited, but I suppose lonely butlers have nothing better to do than stalk wait staff.  Anyway, he ended up showing up at this party on the LES, and he was already there when I got there and I spent the entire time hiding from him, which wasn't exactly easy to do in a tiny dive bar.

     I used to work with a  girl who happened to have rather large breasts. As in, sometimes she couldn't button her uniform shirt all the way up because....well, it just wasn't going to happen.  Anyway, one day we caught The Butler taking pictures of her with his iphone....and when we called him on it, he basically laughed and said "Can't blame me for trying!" DUDE. I totally blame you for trying. You're gross.

     Lest you think The Butler spends all his free time visiting the restaurant and harassing waitresses, I'll have you know he has a very exciting collection of hobbies.  He's some sort of volunteer New York policemen, which I've gathered involves carrying a fake badge and riding a horse around Central Park. I'm not sure if anything else is involved, because like I said....I try to tune it out. I also remember him telling me in great detail about some sort of British war reenactment that he participates in.  Again, not sure what all is involved, but he showed me some pictures and I know it involves wearing funny clothes and carrying a musket.  

     However, probably the most legendary of all his odd jobs would be "writer of erotica."  I actually don't know too much about this one because I heard it from a co-worker rather than The Butler himself, and that was traumatizing enough, but apparently The Butler has a little side business writing dirty stories for the internet.  Some kind of secret website that you have to have a password for, and also have to pay money for.  Fifty Shades of Butlers, perhaps? Honestly I really don't know.  All I know is that he gave the "business card" for these stories to my co-worker and she promptly threw it out.

     He stopped coming in for about a year, but now he's back with a vengeance.  He tries to chat me up by asking about friends of mine who haven't worked there in years, but so far he hasn't done anything too terribly disgusting. Then again, he's only been back a month, so only time will tell.

Rated PG (For Pervy Ginger)

     One of my favorite regulars at work is Pervy Ginger. And when I say "favorite," of course I mean "hide when I see him coming/avoid eye contact/ DO NOT ENGAGE/ oh god I hate him." You know. That kind of favorite.  Pervy Ginger (aka PG) has been coming to the restaurant for as long as I've been working there, and it's coming up on four years now.  In that time he's regaled me with detailed stories about his sex life, come to the restaurant with various "dates" that he then asks me opinion on, and more recently, given his phone number to DBG's crazy baby mama.

    Pervy Ginger is at first glance, a rather average seeming fellow in his late 30s/early 40s, who seems nice enough, even if he is unfortunate enough to resemble a slightly younger Danny Bonaduce.

GET HAPPY MOTHERFUCKER

The first time I had any interaction with him other than simple order taking was my first summer at the restaurant, when he came in looking hungover as fuck.  He said something about not getting any sleep the night before, and I guess I appeared interested or sympathetic or  did something that said "Oh please, tell me more" because the next thing I know he's going into a detailed story about how the night before a chick he'd dated once or twice phoned him to come over, but when he got there she was wasted, and he wasn't wasted, but he was "already there" so he had sex with her anyway and he's not sure if she remembers.

DUDE.  You just basically gave your waitress a detailed story about how you date raped somebody.  That's wrong on so many levels.  I mean, shitty enough that the whole thing even happened, but talk to the chick, or if you're too filled with self loathing to even do that get a therapist or something. I'm here to get you some goddamn coffee and eggs.  Safe topics: the weather. movies, how much we hate the MTA, popular television programs.  Not safe topics: politics, religion....and MOTHERFUCKING DATE RAPE should go without saying.

Anyway, now he always wants to chat me up. He can often be seen coming in and out with a parade of women who look like mail order brides, so that's always fun.  A few weeks ago he told me about how he took a trip to California with some chick, and while they were out there she dumped him and went back to her ex, which he doesn't think is fair, because apparently HE (Pervy Ginger) regularly goes down on her and the ex does not. OH MY GOD.  WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS?  Seriously. I didn't even know how to respond to that one. I think I just said something to the effect of "Wow....bummer" because I really had no idea what the fuck was going on there.

But anyway.  Further illustrating the weird incestuous nature of the Upper West Side, I'd like to present a story involving Pervy Ginger and Douchey Bar Guy, who I featured here in this blog a few weeks ago.

Sometimes Douchey Bar Guy will come in with both the Terrible Baby and Crazy Baby Mama, in an effort to have "family togetherness" or some such nonsense.  It's always a complete shitshow because the child is screaming, both parents hate each other, neither of them pay attention to the little girl, and it's generally painful to watch.  Anyway. One day the family from hell was having a nice little "I drive a dodge stratus" type moment:

 and Pervy Ginger was sitting in the corner, being his creepy self and watching the whole thing.  Anyway, I'm not sure what the argument du jour was about, but it culminated in Crazy Baby Mama spitting in Douchey Bar Guy's face (which I'm sure he deserved.)   A few moment's later Pervy Ginger walked over, hit on Crazy Baby Mama and got her number.  So apparently in addition to date rape and mail order dates, he also enjoys a bit of spitting.

Ladies....as far as I know he's still single, so let me know if you want me to hook you up!

Brunch shenanigans.

A couple things that happened today:

A woman came up to me and said "I'm going to leave my bag in the corner there while I use the bathroom. Just....I didn't want you to think it was a bomb or something."

Well SHIT. Now I think it's a bomb!  It wouldn't have occurred to me at all to be suspicious of a bag at a table, until you know...you fucking suggested it may or may not be exploding some time in the near future.

But, you know. It wasn't a bomb and we live to roast another day.

On an even more bizarre note, a man came in this morning and asked for the general manager. He said he'd already spoken to the overnight manager and wasn't happy with the results.  According to my manager, this dude came in barefoot last night, was refused service on grounds of aforementioned barefoot-ness, and then began to yell that somebody in the restaurant had stolen his shoes. Apparently he also called the cops, and demanded to look at the security cameras.  Anyway, he showed up again this morning and kept yapping about missing shoes.  Fun.

Flashback Friday!

Happy Friday everybody! Let's kick it old school and enjoy some excerpts of Roastings Past.

Nov 18th, 2011

A woman, barely speaking, comes in and holds up a piece of paper with a list containing 

4 pcs fried chicken, 1 leg, 1 breast 2 thig (sic) & mashed potatoes:

"I need this" 
I said 
"We don't have this here"
 To which she said 
"WHAT?!" very incredulously, then walked out shaking her head. 

I actually remember the day this happened, and my bartender's expression of absolute confusion when a woman came in off the street and demanded fried chicken.  I honestly will never understand people who randomly wander in, not knowing where the fuck they are, and demand whatever the fuck they want at that particular moment.

Let's move on to this moment:

Nov 25th, 2011

Table 41 stared down Monda and told her that if he didn't receive his breakfast immediately he'd drop dead due to diabetes.  He then proceeded to slather his French toast in boatloads of maple syrup. Really??? You have diabetes?

And then there's this one.....

Nov 25th, 2011

Apparently a guest asked one of our staff:
"Can I get a flashlight? We need to see if there is glass in his eye!"

I just....what??? What the fuck were you doing that you got glass in your eye? Sword fighting with wine glasses? WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?!

What's in a name?

   Yesterday I was at work and I accidentally bumped into my co-worker in the wait station.  We had a good laugh about it and I said, "Oh! Hello there!"  Our  busboy Fonzie was standing nearby, and immediately responded to this with:

"Hello? Like Lionel Richie?"  And then he started singing:

PS. Did anybody else realize there was a really weird lengthy intro to this video?  God, the internet teaches me something every day.

So anyway. Now I can say I've heard "Hello" poorly sung in broken English by a Mexican busboy....and really, if something like that doesn't make you smile, nothing will.

However. This was not Fonzie's first foray into old school pop-culture references.   Fonzie has been calling me "Kapuffski" for the past few years, and the first few times he did it, I honestly had no idea what he was talking about, but I let it slide because....well he's just fucking weird and I figured it was some weird thing only he understood.

To understand where he's going we need to backtrack a little. All the dudes have various ways of pronouncing my name. It's never bothered me, because I'm sure I have a horrible American accent when pronouncing their names, so really...who am I to judge? I've been called Kayla, Kite-leen, Kaylynn, and even Kissling. Really, none of this bothers me aside from the fact that "Kissling" somehow devolved into "Kase" which gave way to "Esslee" which is really nothing at all like my name. But hey, whatever.

Anyway. Fonzie has always pronounced my name "Kaylynn," which...close enough. After I'd worked with him for a few months, he started calling me "Kapuffski."  Again, no idea where that's coming from, but never cared enough to question it.  Then he started calling me "Kaylynn Kapuffski."  Til one day he finally comes right out and asks me:

"You know? Kaylynn Kapuffski from the TV?"

No. No I do not know Kaylynn Kapuffski from TV. I still have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. We go through a few  more awkward  moments of insistence that I must know what he's talking about, followed by Fonzie exclaiming:

"On the TV! Kaylynn Kapuffski! With Screech, you know? Screech is my favorite!"

I finally figured out what he was referencing

KELLY KAPOWSKI

Motherfucking Kelly Kapowski. From "Saved By the Bell."  This is how Fonzie's brain works.  Anyway, nearly 4 years later he still calls me "Kapuffski," and honestly...at this point I've just given up.

On a not restaurant related but definitely Kelly Kapowski related side-note, I'd like to point out that THIS glorious piece of artwork came up in my "kelly kapowski" google image search.

Yes. A scary Kelly Kapowski tattoo is actually a thing. Sweet dreams, kids.

Flashback Friday!

Per usual, today will be a celebration of excerpts from "The Book"

Anything in bold italics is recounted here exactly as it was originally notated.

Nov 7, 2011

Some lady was yapping about getting dysentery from tomatoes.

Because, you know....that's a thing.  Looking back, I could have had much more sucess with my Oregon Trail games of years past.

Events of November 15, 2011

1. Homeless man shows us his pubic hair while demanding bread and butter
2.  Homeless man asks for can opener to indulge in his can of corn. After being told that we don't carry can openers, a guest demands that we bring his can to the kitchen to open it.
3. An innocent young girl, sitting at table 10.got her purse stolen from the back of her chair. A car that was passing by told her that a lady just grabbed her purse.  The young girl ran down Broadway to see the old lady toss her purse in the trash.
4.  A woman left the bathroom door open while relieving her lady parts. Not unlocked, OPEN.

Wow. Evidently November 15 was a hell of a day.   I think I may actually need to dedicate a future entry to all the weird shit that people do in our bathrooms. Because...I mean...there was the woman who used to go in and change her juicy leg bandages, the guy who used to shit all over the floor, the people who just didn't lock the door, and of course that woman body-checked a guy who was politely waiting in line for the bathroom and started screaming "You can't go before me!!!"

I guess we'll do one more flashback story before we close for the weekend.  Real quick:

November 17, 2011

A woman at 46 looks at the specials and asks, "Is this food?"

No, bitch it's a fuckin practical joke.  We just PRETEND to have food, to mess with your head.  "Bouillabaisse" is actually code for "something that is totally not food, and I'm just going to bring you a can of Febreeze instead."

I swear to god, writing this blog I'm going to run out of eye roll gifs.

Flashback Friday: Paid Escorts Edition

     One of my favorite things that has ever happened at work happened a little over 3 years ago, when I dealt with a cranky old man and his somewhat sub-par paid escorts.  It was around 10 or so in the evening, early spring 2011, and a rather odd trio came in.  It was a man in his late 60s/early 70s and two very young women.  They ended up sitting in my section, and I remember  trying to figure out the relationship between the three of them early on.  One of the girls had an American accent, and the other had some sort of Eastern European accent, so I thought maybe I was dealing with a cranky old man, his daughter, and his mail-order bride.  Oh no.  The truth ended up being so much better.

     They were an odd party to begin with. They changed tables about three times and bickered over the menu.  Eventually they ended up getting bottled water, wine, cocktails, and a shit ton of food. First course comes out, no problem.  They finish it, I clear the plates away, bring new silver, etc. A few moments later I go over to see if they want more cocktails, and as I'm taking the order, all of the sudden the man looks at one of the girls and yells:

"STOP PLAYING ON YOUR PHONE AND ACT LIKE AN ESCORT! I PAID 800 DOLLARS FOR THIS DATE!"

Oh. My. God.  I'd like to say, I stayed pretty damn calm when this happened, and managed not to bust up laughing.  It was supremely awkward though, so I just kind of muttered "Uh....I'll give you a minute" and walked away backwards.  I turned around to see our bartender at the time absolutely losing his shit, which was kind of amazing. I mean...this dude was so stoic and rarely laughed. Very serious, middle aged Israeli guy. Every now and then he'd crack a joke or two, but for the most part he was pretty stone faced.  Not when this happened. He was laughing so hard he was shaking, and for a second I thought he was going to wet himself.  It was that great.

Anyway. I'm sort of keeping an eye on the table from a distance, and I see the phone girl get up, throw her napkin on the ground, and leave.  Prior to the phone girl leaving, the other girl had been trying to mediate and I guess calm the old man down, but it wasn't really working.  So the dramatic exit happens, and you can see the other girl kind of going over the situation in her head....you know, her girl left so maybe she should go after her, but on the other hand she's getting paid, so maybe she should stay.  Speaking of which....is the 800 dollars for the two of them, or is it 800 dollars per girl?  Inquiring minds want to know.

After a few moments, the second girl leaves. Then it gets good.  Remember when I said they ordered a shit ton of food? For the second course the girls had each ordered two entrees, and the man had ordered one as well.  So after all this business at the table happens, the old man is sitting at the table by himself, and then five friggin huge plates of food come out.  And of course the food runner is totally nonplussed by the fact that a cranky old man is now sitting completely alone, and just keeps putting the food down on the table.  At this point I'd kind of decided that I wasn't going anywhere near this guy unless he beckoned me over, because the whole thing was just too weird for me.

So he sits there awkwardly for a minute, kind of tasting a little something from each plate. Then he waves at me. I steel myself and go over.  Before I can even say anything, he opens the conversation with this:

He: That's the last time I go out with a 21 year old!
Me: Oh...uh....yeah...
He: How old are you?
Me: (kind of thinking "oh crap" in my head, but too flabbergasted to do anything but be honest) 28.
He: See! You're mature! You wouldn't do what they just did! *pause* Do you know what Bemelman's is?
Me: Uhh...no?
He:  Bemelman's is the most expensive bar in Manhattan! I told these girls I'd take them anywhere they wanted for dinner, and then we would go to Bemelman's!  Shouldn't they treat me nice? Shouldn't they be better to me? etc etc.

I ended up just saying yes and agreeing with him that he'd been horribly mistreated, mainly because he hadn't paid his bill yet, and I didn't want him to ask me to void any of those uneaten entrees off of his check.

A few minutes later he asked for the check, gave me some "dating advice" that I honestly don't remember, and left.

Over three years later that's still one of the best things I've ever dealt with at work.

I like to think that cranky old man is out there somewhere, wining and dining escorts who don't play on their phones, treating them to a life of luxury at "Bemelmans" that many girls can only dream of.  Oh...if only...

Flashback Fridays

So in between essays on restaurant life in general, and writing down things as they happen, I have about three years of backlog of stories that I've been collecting.  Some of these are straight out of a notebook that we used to have at work where we'd all anonymously write snippets of our day.

Every Friday will be Flashback Friday on the blog, and I'll post a few old snippets of conversation or descriptions of events.  Some of these are things that happened to me, some happened to co-workers. These are unedited, just copied from my notebooks:

October 13, 2011
Waiter Story
---I got home after work yesterday and fell asleep in my uniform. I woke up at 6:30 AM in said uniform, rolled out of bed without showering, and came to work.

October 14, 2011.
Conversation with a guest

Waiter: Hi! How are you?
Guest: I'm waiting for someone
Waiter: Anything to drink while you wait?
Guest: yeah....I'm waiting for someone.
Waiter:  Okay, so would you like a beverage?
Guest: I'm not eating right now.


October 15, 2011
Conversation with a guest

Waiter: Hi, how are you doing tonight?
Guest: No, no, no, no.
Waiter: Okay, but how are you doing?
Guest: Peru!

     That's all for now.  Plenty of stories where that came from.

Look, Don't Touch

A woman grabbed my ass on Monday.  Straight up.  I suppose it wasn't a full fledged ass grab (although I wouldn't blame people for grabbing my ass, because I have a hella juicy booty.)  It was more of a weird little poke.  Or maybe a pinch.  I just felt somebody kind of grabbing on my butt/back fat, and I turned around and this crazy old bat was staring at me.

Before I could say anything, she got a crazed look in her eye and asked me if there was a Radio Shack nearby.  I didn't even know how to respond.

I feel like there's certain shit that should be obvious, and one of those things is...don't grab my ass. I personally don't like strangers touching me in general, but DUDE! My ASS!

You should not be touching my ass unless I'm fucking you, or maybe unless we're in a theatre dressing room situation. Ass grabbing runs rampant in theatre dressing rooms. It just kind of comes with the territory.

 

But in public? At a restaurant? Because you need to know if there's a RADIO SHACK nearby?

Bitch please. If you're close enough to pinch my butt, you're close enough for me to hear you say excuse me.

It still isn't as bad as the time I was talking to a table and some old dude came up behind me, grabbed me, said "thanks for everything" and kissed me on the cheek. 

Now, by popular demand

I've been working in hospitality for the past decade or so.  When you're a writer/singer/pianist/photographer/comedian/post-suicidal college dropout/ general waster of potential, it sort of comes with the territory.

And somehow, I've stuck with it. I always tell myself that one of these days I'll get a "real" job, but the truth of the matter is, I kind of love waiting.  Especially since I've moved to NYC.

I'm originally from Akron.  When I lived in Akron I worked at a chain restaurant for a few years, and really, back then all I had to worry about was staining my shirt with making virgin daiquiris for prom kids, or maybe getting dicked over by a non-tipping Lebron James. (Seriously, the guy's a shit head.)

These days, I work in a café on the Upper West Side.  And somehow, the lunatics gravitate towards us. More so than any place I've ever worked in NYC, or any restaurant I've ever worked in in general.

So hop aboard the crazy train.

Let's get going