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.