Back, by popular demand.

     Hi internet! I'm totally back and stuff. Basically, because my one friend who reads this messaged me and was all, "where'd your blog go?" and I was all, OH SHIT I DON'T KNOW.  Fear not, my loyal fan base of approximately 5-10 people, for I am with you.

     A lot has happened since I last wrote.  The Uptown Restaurant finally went under, which we all kind of suspected and "re-opening at a later date" turned into "bought out by a coffee shop." C'est la vie. I now work legit around the corner from The Cafe, aka the original inspiration for this  blog. That's kind of awesome though, because I can visit my Cool Former Boss after my shift at my new job and get free beer which is always a plus. I never visit my Asshole Former Boss because he is an asshole.   Anyway, the new job is pretty decent.  Good money, super laid back, and decent bosses. That said, we're open til 2 on the weekends which does provide its own share of adventures.

Last Friday I was working late and around 1:30 a group of heavily inebriated people came in.  I  made the decision not to serve them booze, but just kind of avoided the mention of alcohol because I hate having that conversation and it's always super awkward. Anyway, after I finally wrangled their food order I noticed one guy seemed to have pulled a bottle of beer from out of who knows where.  We only serve draft beer where I work, so I knew he had to have brought the bottle in from somewhere else, which 1) is trashy and kind of stupid and 2) is illegal (damn open container laws!)

So I went up to him and as politely as I could (believe it or not, I can be super awesome polite if I want to....all those years of theatre training didn't go to waste!) told him that we didn't allow outside beverages and I'd have to take the beer away from him.  He gave me a stunned look, and said :

"But it's from next door!"

exactly, Obama, exactly.

It's from next door??? What the fuck does that even mean? Why should I give a shit?  I don't care if it's from up your ass, you can't have it in here!  Dumbass.  Anyway, a bit later they asked me for drinks and I had to turn them down, which I hate doing because it's always awkward, and I like to avoid coming right out and saying "You're drunk, bitch" unless I absolutely have to.  So I went through a few excuses, "It's 2:05 and we close at two, you brought in outside alcohol, etc."  Finally, I went with the ultra pc "I don't feel comfortable serving you as you appear to already have been drinking this evening." And what answer did that get me, you ask? One of the girls in the group looked at me and said:

"DUHHHH.  It's Friday!"

okay then.

So, to reiterate. Things I have learned.  You can break open container laws if your beer is "from next door." And you can be a drunk asshole as long as "Duh, it's Friday!"  Obviously.

Of course, my long awaited (by perhaps two people) return to blogging wouldn't be complete without a few Roasting Stories.  So let's get crackin.

January 29, 2012

"So for my dad I would like a chicken baguette, with no baguette, just a chicken.  He is gonna split it with my mom. So make it bigger, because they are adults. It has to be a decent size for 2. (I suggested they get two, but she was like: no, just make it bigger.)"

THAT IS NOT A THING. I WILL NOT DO THAT.

So. Here are some things: 1) If all you want is a chicken breast, go to the store and buy a fucking chicken breast.  2)  You cannot just have something "made bigger."  RESTAURANTS DO NOT WORK THAT WAY GOODNIGHT.

Sometimes people just make my head hurt. Anyway, I think I have time for one more story. Actually, I have time for lots of things right now because we are all going do die from snow and never leave our apartments ever again. But I want to start blogging again at least weekly, if not twice a week (I always say that) and I don't want to use up all my stories. So.  One more story to end the evening on.  Actually, no. Two stories because they're both short.

"January 30, 2012
A lady with a giant cart came in and asked me for a PB&J.  How do I say yes! to that?  I didn't. I totally said no."

Side effect of writing this blog: I am now obsessed with this octopus.

One more quick little "story" from

"January 30, 2012

A woman at table 10 found a potato on the radiator"

Honestly, I don't really have anything to say about this, other than "not surprised at all." Also, I google image searched "weird potato" and came up with this:

So, that's a thing. Dick potatoes for everybody! 

Or not. The octopus disapproves.

The Madcap Adventures of Turtle Man and Raccoon Lady

The other day two of our most notorious "animal" guests where in at the same time, and I almost felt like I was in some sort of low rent zoo. To be fair, most days at work I feel like I'm in a low rent zoo, but that's kind of to be expected.

There's a man who comes in that everybody calls "Turtle Man," because he looks like a fucking creepy ass turtle.  He's probably in his 60s, he walks hunched over with a cane, and he has giant glasses. He also usually wears a bucket hat.  And I should mention the reason that he walks hunched over is that he has some kind of back brace equipment strapped to him, and normally I'd never make fun of somebody with a genuine medical condition, but he's so damn weird and annoying that he's exempt from any exemptions of mockery.

He actually looks a little like this:

except older and more hunched over and not wearing a big green suit...and okay maybe only vaguely like this

Turtle Man requires a full glass of ice on the side for his glass of tap water, extra napkins, and no matter what he orders he asks for a soup spoon. He has never actually ordered soup.   He usually orders a steak and eggs or a roast chicken, and woe to those who don't bring him a soup spoon ahead of time. He will get up and start waving.  It happens.  I'm not sure what he does with the soup spoon, since I've never actually watched him eat. I just know what when he's finished his plate is a mess and he only ever tips two dollars no matter how much his bill is.

The Raccoon is a whole different breed of crazy.  She has crazy dark brown hair that seems to be a cross between an 80s perm and a mullet,  but more importantly she has her entire eye area covered in black makeup.  All around the eye. Big black circles. We've actually debated whether or not this make up is tattooed on or if she actually just smears big sticks of charcoal around her eyes every morning. The Raccoon comes in with her comparatively normal looking husband/boyfriend/whatever and they always get one cup of coffee and one order of scrambled eggs.  If the eggs are too well scrambled they will send them back. They also request a bread basket, but only the brown bread, not the white bread, and for the love of god don't forget to give them jelly.

I long for the day when I can tell Turtle Man we are out of soup spoons, and Raccoon Lady that there's a shortage of brown bread. I doubt it'll ever happen, but it's good to have dreams.

In other news, all that ever plays on our radio any more is six different versions of  "Girl From Ipanema" and now the slightest mention of that song makes me want to punch somebody.

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.

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!

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.

My Heart Belongs to Jammy

    One of our food runners is a rather portly Bengali fellow called Jammy Jam Jam.  I mean, not really, but that's close enough to his real name, and that's often how I refer to him in person.  I've worked with Jammy for almost 4 years now, and when he's not busy panicking over the amount of mustard in the wait station, he's kind of my favorite person.

Number one rule for getting along with Jammy: have lots of mustard. Mustard is important.

I can't really think of one specific incident that describes his character, so I suppose I'll just recall a series of anecdotes that seem to define him.

Jammy is a rather gregarious, outgoing fellow, and he loves to laugh...even if he doesn't understand the joke.  One of my own standard responses for all situations is the phrase "your mom," and for some reason he ended up latching on to this. It took a while, of course.  After he heard me use the phrase several times, he initially tried to use it in his own way. It began with

"C! How's your mum?"

which in turn led to,

"Why you hate mom so much?"

which finally led to this exchange,

Me: "Hey, is table 13 going to be ready any time soon?"

Jammy: "Your mom at table 13!"

Bravo, son. Bravo

Truly, I couldn't be prouder.

There was also that time when a trainee was complaining that a table had been somewhat snotty with her, and Jammy overheard her complaining.  His response?  "They make trouble? Send C over, she tell them 'YOU MOM'!"  Pretty much.

Jammy likes to come in and greet you by asking "How are you? Medium rare?"  (I still have yet to determine whether being "medium rare" is a good thing or a bad thing.)  Or often he'll refer to the temperament of an unknown entity by saying "She is very rare now." I still have no idea what any of this means.

Of course one of the most interesting things about Jammy is his fascination with all things homosexual.  Jammy is married (to a woman) but he's constantly talking about being gay, and grabbing any male employee he can get his hands on. One time my buddy GB actually spent brunch keeping a tally chart of the number of times Jammy grabbed his ass during the shift.  

Or there was that time a few years back, right after gay marriage was legalized when Jammy spent the dinner shift carrying around a picture of a couple otherwise naked dudes wearing ass-less chaps and telling us all they were his friends who had just gotten married.  Um....no. Those are not your friends. Those are some dudes you found while trolling the internet.  And quite honestly, they'd probably be terrified of you if they ever met you.

Jammy has a love of all things phallic. More than once I've caught him standing in the kitchen, fondling a salami. This is neither a lie, nor a euphemism.  Or there was the time when I had an interaction with a table who said they wanted brussel sprouts without chorizo, then with chorizo, then back and forth etc etc.  I was in the back recounting this story, and Jammy over heard, then responded with:

"No more chorizo! Tell them runner has got salami for them!"  And then he grabbed his dick.

Jammy makes me laugh, but he's not always fun and games.  He often stresses during brunch, and will run over anyone and anything in his way. If you're remotely near him when he wants to run food, he'll start to scream. Either that, or he'll start yelling "Beep beep!" Because, you know...that stuff helps.

Mostly though, he makes me giggle, especially when he starts yelling nonsensical phrases like "Next time, DOWNSTAIRS!" for no apparent reason.

He's weird as fuck, and somewhat insane, but I do love him. Just make sure that man has enough mustard to get him through the day.