Self seating, special milk pitchers, tiny pieces of steak, and so much more.

Hi Internet! It's been a week since I blogged, but it feels like forever. Anyway.  I'd just like to take this moment  to point out what a horrible asshole thing it is to seat yourself in a restaurant that has a hostess. It happens all the time at The Cafe and usually it's either:

1) People seat themselves on the patio and then look confused and panicky when somebody doesn't come out to wipe their ass within 30 seconds

or

2) People who come in the door, blow past the hostess, and choose their own table while the hostess runs to catch up. Even better than those who self seat are those who self seat and then move because omigod that table was horrible how do you expect me to sit there.

Quite honestly, I have been known to "punish" self seaters by pretending not to notice them and then acting completely surprised when they finally catch my eye by waving insanely. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Did you seat yourself? We normally seat our guests, so that must be why I didn't notice you!"

Basically, self seating at a restaurant with a host is like busting into somebody's house without knocking and ignoring them while you try out their furniture.  On a related note: STOP MOVING THE CHAIRS AROUND. All the chairs are the same. fuck off.


A few weird things happened this past week. My co-worker came back to the wait station last Sunday and told me that her table had requested the kitchen cut up her steak for her because it would be "too much work." I looked at the table in question, expecting to see some 1-top old woman with arthritis, and instead saw an able bodied group of 20 somethings drinking mimosas. Obviously.

Oh and then I also waited on a pair of women who ordered some coffee and tea, and THIS bullshit conversation happened:

Tea Drinker: I need milk
Coffee Drinker: Oh, you can have mine! I drink coffee black, so I won't use this at all.
Tea Drinker: No, I can't use that. I need my own.

I actually don't understand what you mean..

See this is the kind of shit that gets me in trouble because I actually get really confused by nonsensical requests and kind of stand there with this "wait....what did you just say?" look on my face. Because...I can't believe separate milk creamers actually matter. Seriously. Somebody please explain to me why that matters. I'll give you five dollars if you can give me a good reason.  Keep in mind that the milk pitcher that the first lady offered to the second lady was completely untouched and had just been placed on the table. I just....can't with that bullshit.

Of course, none of this previous nonsense mattered by Thursday when this showed up outside work:

 Yup kids. It's the weed mobile. Selling supposedly weed infused lollipops.

Delicious candies.

So of course our morning shift was derailed by sending the hostess out to acquire weed lollipops. Who the fuck knows if they're legit or not. One of my co-workers ate one and said they were fine, but not very strong.  I have a couple but haven't tried them yet.  That would be a fucking brilliant scam though. Buy a truck, pimp it out with artwork, and sell generic drug store suckers for five bucks a pop. I mean, hell that thing would pay for itself in a day.  I shall keep you posted on the effects or non-effects of said weed lollipops.  For science purposes obviously.

Freaky Friday.

    Can we just take a minute to talk about how weird yesterday was? Yesterday was fucking weird, man. And I totally got home and was all set to write about everything, and then I went to bed at 7 o clock. Because I'm cool like that.

Anyway, yesterday my day started out with a table that was having some sort of toilet brush based focus group/sales meeting/sales pitch thing going on.

Toilet brush. It's what's for breakfast.

Anyway, it was a group of four and I guess the head toilet brush guy was demonstrating this new moving squeeze handle thing on the handle part of the brush and showing it to his companions- not to worry, he brought along toilet brushes for them as well. So 8AM yesterday my day started with four weirdos waving toilet brushes in the air.  That was fun.

Shortly after that I progressed to waiting on yet another OldMan McRichpants, big fucking surprise. He was nice enough to me, in a condescending old white man sort of way, and even complimented me on my service.  However, on one of my trips to refill his coffee I heard him tell his breakfast companion that he "just isn't making enough to get by anymore."

Sir, your Fancy Pants Rich Guy Suit begs to differ. I seriously want to know what "not enough" is to this guy. Will he have to sell his vacation home? Shop at Trader Joes instead of Zabars? Move to a smaller apartment? Even....*GASP*....start taking the subway?!?!

Oh, sweet Suit Man. My heart aches for you. Truly.

On the other end of the spectrum, about an hour after that some homeless guy came in and proceeded to bathe his entire body in the restroom and then it stank all day. Actually I still haven't gone into that restroom because I'm scared of cooties, although god knows that's far from the worst thing anybody has ever done in the bathroom. (See leg juice)

Later that afternoon a guy came in and dropped his car keys off with us and told us we had to hold them and his daughter would be by to pick them up later. Because we're a goddamn valet service

Oh and then a man I'd never seen before came in and wanted to know when we "stopped serving garlic bread" because he used to have it here "ALL THE TIME"

Today was pretty normal aside from some old man puking all over table 13. Ironically, this was the same table that had been hosting the toilet brush party yesterday. Too bad they weren't here today.  Fun thing about the puking guy.  He was in a wheelchair, so he may indeed have had trouble getting to the bathroom in a timely manner on his own, but he was accompanied by four other people, he told them he was  going to be sick, and rather than one of them helping him to the bathroom they just let him puke all over the table.  Because reasons.

So, to wrap up:

We are here to:

Host your toilet brush meetings

Provide public showers

Provide valet service

Do banking (ie make change even if you aren't a customer)

Let your goddamn puke fly all over the place.

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.

A few snippets.

It's been a good couple of days for crazies! Here's a few stories.

Thursday night I worked dinner and had a woman order a chicken caesar.  Our chicken caesar comes with a full paillard style chicken breast on top.  It also comes on a plate.  That's a huge problem.  Said salad was sent back because

1) It should have been in a bowl, not on a plate
2) The chicken should have been chopped up.

She went on to tell me, "It's not that it's BAD....I've just....I've never had anything like this before!"
I honestly thought she was going to cry, her level of distress and confusion was that bad.

So that was Thursday night. Today we had a couple winners on brunch as well.  First, I had an old man order a glass of wine, a gibson, a large soda, and eventually some food and dessert.   After I gave him the bill, he waved me back over to show me something. I'd double checked it before giving it to him, and knew everything on there was correct. Or so I thought....

He waved the check at me and said angrily:

"We go through this every time! If somebody is paying 12 dollars for a cocktail, the soda is free!"

Uh....What?  Since when? Who told you that? Does it say that on the menu? Are you just pulling rules out of your ass? I didn't put a gun to your head a force you to order a twelve dollar drink AND a soda AND a glass of wine and food and coffee and dessert.  Calm your shit. Of course I had the soda voided because I was scared he'd yelp me. But seriously. Who are these people? I'm going to start making up my own rules too. Like....if you do dumb shit in my restaurant I can charge you five dollars extra for being a moron.

Last but not least we have the lovely man who ate his entire Eggs Florentine without complaint, and then told me he had a message for the chef. Of course, it started with the phrase "I don't want to complain, BUT..."

Bitch, shut up. Yes you do. You totally want to complain. If you didn't want to complain you wouldn't complain.

Anyway, this man's gripe? 

"You need to tell the chef to cut the stems off of the spinach. I mean....if he did that on Top Chef he'd be kicked off right away!"

Yeah, and if I went on Top Model I'd be kicked off right away. What the fuck does Top Chef have to do with anything? First of all, you're too whiny about your spinach, and secondly if you're going around expecting everything in life to be like a reality TV competition, you're going to have problems.

I swear, I don' t know where they come from....

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:

Flashbacks: Special Requests.

Hey hey. I know I blogged on Tuesday, but it feels like it's been ages since that happened.  Normally I do a "Flashback Friday" edition of old school stories, but yesterday was July 4th, so I spent the day getting wasted, like any able bodied American woman.  Because everybody knows if you don't get drunk and/or blow shit up on July 4th, it means you hate America and then the terrorists will win


     So anyway. Today I have two stories to share with you, both written about upon request.  The first is dedicated to one of my dearest friends, Mich , who I met while working at the restaurant.  A few summers ago, we were both working a morning shift, and a somewhat insane looking woman came in and demanded a to-go coffee.  Our bartender was in the bathroom, so Mich attempted to help the woman.  Bartender returned, Mich directed the woman's attention to the bartender, and the woman asked him for a coffee.  As it happened, the bar coffee pot was empty, so our bartender asked Mich to go get him a new one, which she did.  In the meantime, he began to make drink tickets that servers were waiting on. Because...you know...why would he just stare into space and wait for a coffee pot? Gotta get shit done.  So apparently this woman thought we were all ignoring her desperate need for coffee, started screaming about splenda, and stormed out of the restaurant.  Of course in the process she shoves right by poor Mich, hits the tray that she's carrying, and ends up clocking Mich in the face with it.  Our manager at the time saw the whole thing and chased the woman down the street, which was pretty great.  So yeah.  That's the kind of customers we get in my workplace. And I love coffee. I understand the need for coffee. But I can't say that I've ever thrown a fit and clocked a waitress in the face with a tray.

    Our second story today is one that lives on in infamy for those who were there.  I almost didn't write about it because it deals with public breastfeeding, which I know is a touchy subject for many people. I'm not a parent, nor do I ever plan on being a parent, and it's not up to me to tell people how to feed their kids. Honestly 99 percent of the time, I could give a shit about women who breast feed in public, because really what are you supposed to do? Not leave your house for a year? That being said, I do think it's a little bit weird for people to be breastfeeding toddlers in public(or at all), especially when those toddlers are also eating eggs and pancakes and various other items ordered from the menu.  A couple summers ago, a rather odd looking family came in. A mom, a dad, and two boys. The older one was six or seven, and the younger one was three or four.  The younger child had a full vocabulary, was wearing sneakers, and rode into the restaurant on a tricycle.  But hey, whatever. So they sit, they order food, and then the mom takes her entire tit out of her dress and starts feeding the toddler. So he's kind of sitting there awkwardly on her lap, sneakers up on the table, sucking away.  Weird enough. Once he's finished he proceeds to leap up and run around the restaurant yelling "I eat the boob! I eat the boob!"  Oh, and then his mom looked at him and said "you love boobies don't you? yummy yummy boobies!"  So yeah, the whole thing was just really fucking creepy. And again, I know I'm in no place to comment since I'm not a parent, but I like to think if I was in charge of a kid, I'd teach them not to scream phrases like "I eat the boob!" all over the place. It's just not classy. I think at one point my co-workers and I decided that we were going to use "eating the boob" as code for being so drunk that you can't function the next morning. As in "Man, I really ate the boob last night. I'm totally hungover."  That never really caught on though, mainly because aside from myself, all the people who worked there during the great "I eat the boob" debacle of 2012 are no longer there. Ah, the memories.

So. What have we learned today?

1) Don't hit your waitress in the face with a tray.
2) Don't let your kids run around screaming about eating boobs.

Stay tuned for more lessons. Because learning is fun.

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.

Flashback Friday: Leg Juice Edition

   This is one of those stories that I always get incredulous looks when I tell.  I almost wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't witnessed it all with my own horror stricken eyes.  Today, children, gather round and I shall tell you the story of Crazy Debbie with the Leg Juice.  Everybody who has appeared on this blog thus far has been given an alias (an easily discernible alias to those who know them, but an alias nonetheless) but I can't think of a proper one for Crazy Debbie, so Crazy Debbie she will remain.

    I first encountered Crazy Debbie on a dinner shift almost four years ago.  I had no idea what I was in for. Crazy Debbie looks a bit like a cross between a troll and one of the seven dwarfs.  She had dark glasses, a dark colored head wrap, and walked bent over with a cane.  Of course, her most striking feature was her legs.  Short, fat, stumpy little legs, wrapped in layers and layers of medical bandages.  I'm not really sure what the bandages were for, but they were always oozing some kind of pus like substance that we all came to refer to as "leg juice."

     She had a penchant for stealing napkins and sugar packets, and one of the first times I waited on her, I got the shock of my life.  Like many NYC restaurants, we use paper napkins for our lunch shift, and cloth for dinner.  She sat in my section on a dinner shift, and requested an extra napkin.  Not knowing how batshit she was, I brought over an extra cloth napkin...the napkins we had out on that particular shift.  She went berserk. "What the hell is this?" etc, screaming obscenities.  Eventually one of my co-workers took her a large pile of paper napkins, which she then began to cram into her purse.

     Crazy Debbie also had a tendency to use her cane as a weapon. She'd stick it out into the aisle, and poke you with it to get your attention. I can recall at least one instance of her whacking the hostess with it, while the hostess was attempting to seat somebody.  If she was feeling "nice" she wouldn't hit you, and only loudly beat the cane on the floor.  However, all these quirks are merely "cute little antics" compared to the legendary escapades of Debbie's time in the bathroom.

     Crazy Debbie would use our bathroom to do whatever the fuck she needed to do with her bandage wrapped pus ridden legs, as well as, you know...normal bathroom functions.  We all became way too familiar with these rituals, because she never ever locked the door. We would speak to her about it. We would show her how the door locked. And yet, she always refused to lock the door because "what if I fall and I can't get out of the bathroom?"  So of course, inevitably a staff member or a guest would open the bathroom door, be visually assaulted with a crazy woman on a toilet, and then be subjected to her waving the cane and them and screaming to get out of "her" bathroom.  I remember once a little kid walked in on her, and came out looking like he'd been traumatized for life. At one point one of my managers made an "out of order" sign that she'd stick on the bathroom whenever she saw Crazy Debbie enter it. Eventually, it just got to be too much. About two and a half years ago one of my managers finally told Crazy Debbie that if he caught her leaving the bathroom unlocked one more time, she'd be banned.  Which, of course she did. So in that way we were finally able to get rid of her.

    I'm not sure where Crazy Debbie is these days. Most likely waddling along, terrorizing another restaurant staff into submission with screams and cane beatings. Wherever she is, it's not where I am, and for that I'm truly thankful.

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.

DBG, WTF

     I have to say, I'm pretty sure the most universally hated patron at work is Douchey Bar Guy. I mean yeah, Pervy Ginger will come in and tell me extensive stories about his sexual escapades, and The Butler would come in and tell tired old stories of "butler school,"  but Douchey Bar Guy (hereafter referred to as DBG) is truly in a class of his own.

     DBG is the quintessential overgrown dudebro frat rat.  He's somehow a dad to two kids by different women, meaning he's convinced at least two women to sleep with him on different occasions.  That alone is enough to baffle me.  Then again, the woman who is the mother of his toddler is completely batshit insane, so that may have something to do with it.

If you want to get an idea of what he looks like, think this kind of thing:

(except pushing 40 and even less attractive)

   

  DBG likes to come in and tell me "you're always here!"  REALLY?  Bitch, I work here.  Five days a week. You're the one who's always here. How'd you like me to show up at whatever the fuck it is you do for a living and tell you that you're always there? I mean really, what is that?

     A few years ago, when DBG's ex was pregnant with their now-toddler, the two of them used to come in and scream at each other all the time.  It was a horror to watch. Then the woman birthed this horrible spawn of Satan child, who's now so neglected that I truly feel sorry for her.

     About a year and a half ago, DBG came in with his two daughters.  The Satan Child, and an older, well behaved Quiet Child, who looked to be about 7 or 8.  Satan Child started acting even worse than usual, and DBG decided he needed to take her home. So what did he do?  He flagged me down, and told me he'd be leaving to take Satan Child home, and he'd be back in 20 minutes or so, and could I watch Quiet Child and "make sure nobody kidnaps her"?  He was gone for almost 30 minutes. 

I mean yeah, it was broad daylight, early afternoon, and in a cafe full of people.....but what if this dickweed had gone and gotten himself hit by a bus?  What if he'd just never come back? And this sweet little girl, is just eating her pancakes, neglected as fuck.  I'm not a damn babysitter. I've got shit to do. I'm happy to watch a kid for a few minutes while you go to the bathroom or whatever, but who the hell just leaves their seven year old at a cafe, in the charge of a waitress whose name they don't even know?

     These days, DBG focuses most of his attentions on my bartender Kay.  She's told him no outright, said she's not interested, and he still refuses to take no for an answer.  It's gotten so bad that we've invented a "fake boyfriend" for her. Which, you know....fuck the patriarchy and all that shit. But really, it's just so obnoxious.  DBG will come in, sit at the bar, and tell Kay that he wants to take her on a date and discuss opera with her for four hours. Sexy, right?  And though she's his "dream girl" of the moment, I don't want you all to think that he tends to neglect me.  The other day he told me, "You know, I've seen you every day for the past ten years, it almost feels like we're family.  You should be on my Christmas card."  (This is especially odd considering I've only lived in NYC for 5.5 years, and I've worked at the restaurant for not quite 4 years.)

       Yesterday he told me he wants me to know he appreciates all my hard work, and if he has "extra money" any time soon, he's going to send me on a vacation. Sure. Bring it on, motherfucker. As long as it's by myself, and far away from you.

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. 

And this is the kind of shit that actually keeps me sane at work.

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