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.

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.