Jus you know what it is?

Not so long ago jus was only to be found in French restaurants. Now, like Creme Anglais, it's bloody everywhere! Seriously jus is everywhere now. I half expect to see it on the menu in my local greasy spoon, "Toast a la beans dans l'jus de tomat" or something like that. And it's not just jus, why do we still use terms like "A la carte" and "Table d'Hote"? If it's in a French restaurant then go for it, anywhere else knock it off! Modern, or should I say moderne, menus are full of this gibberish. These are no more than ubiquitous terms used for effect or if I am really being cynical, and I almost always am, they are "sexing up" dull plates!

When I ask a customer if they would prefer the a la carte or the table d'hote menu I can see the panic in their little faces, beads of sweat dripping down through their furrowed brows, as they work out which sounds the cheapest. We should "Drop the French!" And I say this as a commited Francophile. There is no need for it in most restaurants.

So what does a customer do when handed a menu full of confits, carpaccios, and creme Anglais'? (I started writing this when I got to the letter "C" in the "BIG BOOK OF PRETENTIOUS COOKING TERMS).

There are four ways customers react when handed a menu full of exotic and strange terms:

REACTION 1: Peruse menu in a relaxed manner and order confidently as you are no stranger to the Lobster Cappuccino. You have my respect. You pray for these people.

REACTION 2: Scan menu several times in the vain hope you come across something you recognise. In the end you give up trying to work out what the tournedos of beef are and ask the waiter for help. The waiter will provide this help in one of two ways. If you arrived on time, were courteous, and generally appear to be a stand up chap the waiter will explain all to you with genuine care. He will translate form "chef'ese" to English, unlocking the menu's secrets along the way. Alternatively, if you arrived late without apology, asked to move table, complained about the lighting, the music, or in any way put the waiter out he will approach you with nothing but derision. Essentially you are fucked! He will recommend the Carpaccio of beef for your wife who wants her meat "cremated" and so on. But the people who ask also have my respect. Just dont piss on the waiters apron then ask him to help!

REACTION 3: Read menu, realise you are out of your depth but order any way as you don't want to lose face in front of the girl 20 years your junior who you are trying to bed. Inevitibly you complain, bitch, and whine when your food arrives as the "Gazpacho is cold and steak tartare isn't even cooked!" You sir, are an arse and I have nothing but contempt for you!

REACTION 4: Read menu, realise you are out of your depth, handback menus, pay for drinks, leave and go to Pizza Hut for the Mighty Meaty Meal Deal. Hey, you're ok with me!

Non French chefs need to drop the arsey phrases and open their menus to those who haven't spent 15 years working for Raymond Blanc "et al". I'm not advocating dumbing down just a bit more plain speaking. It makes my job harder and we can't have that! Oh and Creme Anglais? Are you fucking serious?

Bon Appetit, as they now say in Kilrea!

The W****r Magnet

I'm a bit paranoid at the best of times but sometimes I am convinced the world truly is out to get me. This weekend, and Sunday in particular, was no different. It reinforced my delusions!

If I wasn't replying to ridiculous questions, "What times does the restaurant open?" asked one mouthbreather whilst standing in a half full restaurant at half seven on a Saturday night (and he wasn't being ironic), I was fending of the unwanted attention of five very large very buxom ladies. Death by pillows believe me!!

At one point on Sunday afternoon I was convinced I was the only sane person left on earth such was the insanity that surrounded me. Kids were either throwing themselves off the stairs or wrecking the toilets, an old couple playing musical chairs, a lesbian couple making out at half three in the afternoon, people smoking and flicking their ash on the floor (in a non-smoking restaurant), and an old duffer complaining "Them peas aren't green enough!" WHAT? FOR F***S SAKE! Oh yes Sunday truly is the Lords day, and he is welcome to it. I didn't know if I should cry, laugh, or hit the Vodka.

Where do these people come from? All classes and creeds were represented. Do they meet up in advance and plan their attack or are they part of a modern art performance group? And then all became clear...

A wise and sage old barman replied with two simple words "WANKER MAGNET". Someone, he explained, had tripped the wanker magnet and there was nothing we could do until all the wankers had arrived! And they would be arriving as sure as shit on your shoes.

I'm gonna find it and smash it to bits. Damn that wanker magnet!

50 Signs - from waiterrant.net

From the ranting genius that is waiterrant.net. It's no wonder this guy has won awards! These made me cry with laughter.

50 Signs you're working in a bad restaurant

50 Signs you might be an asshole customer

Not sure about this one but in the interest of fairness..

50 signs your waiter might be an asshole

Great stuff and definitely worth subscribing to.

"Eddie" The Gentleman Whore (Names have been changed to protect the guilty)

Every restaurant/bar is staffed by enough freaks to stock a carnival. The bigger the freak you are the longer you can last in this industry. That's why normal people don't last very long and eventually leave and get a "real job". In reality they are just moving to a job that is staffed by people that have the same carnival genes as them! Clearly I am speaking metaphorically here, well to a point, I have worked with a few bearded ladies and John Merrick types over the years. No, the freak gene I refer to manafests itself by interfering with the logic receptors on your brain. It scrambles that part of your brain that puts up with shit, that puts up with abuse from customers, that keeps you from leaving. It's caused by "barteria" (see what I did there?). This barteria seeps into your blood and goes directly to your brain. Once there it grows over your logic receptors like mould on bread. The longer you work in bars/restaurants the harder it is to leave. It's not your fault, it's the barteria.

The characters are the same from outlet to outlet. There will be a mixture of psychotics, whore's (both male and female), the trendy kids, loners (who aren't psychotics), spides, and management suck ups. These can be divided further. Spides for example can be both malignant (they will rob your bag, your tips, your house when your at work) and benign (they can get you pirate dvd's, they can get anything chipped, they "know" people who can get drugs). But today I want to concentrate on the whores, specifically a man whore. Lets call him "Eddie".

Eddie likes the ladies and the ladies like Eddie. I am secure enough in my sexuality to say that Eddie is a good looking guy, no Manuel but hey! Eddie has nailed them all, customers and staff. It's getting to the point were it would be easier just to schedule it as part of a new employee's first week. Day one orientation, Day two beverage training, Day three introduction to Eddie, Day four food service, Day five sleep with Eddie! Eddie is a legend there is no doubt about it. But what makes Eddie a bigger legend is that he doesn't boast about his liasons. He fills his boots and moves on. I respect that. Most if not all male whores shout about their conquests, as they see it. Eddie remains the gentleman. But in this insestuous world of hospitality it always leaks out. And when you ask him about it he will confirm or deny as is appropriate. The other bit that makes him a legend is his ability to work with or serve these people after the event. There is never an atmosphere or even a hint of bitterness. He is also very selective, choosing only those ladies that are actually nice people. It's remarkable if you ask me. Hey, maybe he doesn't actually sleep with them, maybe he just hugs and listens to their problems.
Clutching at straws?
Bitter?
Me?

I know you don't have time to read a whole book...

...what with the working and drinking and general fumbling about. But you should make time for Matt Lehman's CLAM CHOWDER: THE SERVER'S FIELD MANUAL. It rocks! It's written by an "insider" for "insiders" and for those contemplating life in the world of hospitality. All other books are nonsense by comparison. They are for the benefit of the customer, no bad thing in itself, but what about us?! It is full of advice on all those important issues such as how to spot ketchup that's turned, how to survive a breakup with a co-worker, and how not to get caught slacking, and so on. Although it's written for the American server it is very transferable no matter where you work, maybe not France (obviously). Maybe the best thing about it is that it fits into most aprons with ease so you can read whilst "working".

Get it bought.

"Were you wearing your Incredible Hulk pants?" and other weekend stories

Friday:
And thank God I wasn't! I had ripped my trousers from crotch to belt whilst humping about an over full buss tray. Thats the last time I help a kp. Nobody needs my ass poking out and winking at them during their lunch. But, thankfully, I had a charming pair of black pants on. Losing the ass of your trousers 4 hours into a 13 hour shift aint good. Not good for me and not good for the dining public. I took it as an omen for the weekend ahead. A quick trip to Dunnes and my ass was covered again, much to the satisfaction of all. But thats enough about my rear end.

The weekend was a success. In this case I measure success with the following formula:

number of wobblys thrown [me] + number of wobblys thrown [customers] / cash made = was it worth it

There are other factors to be taken into account, management wobblys, hours of sleep, etc, but for this weekend we are keeping it simple. I kept the wobblys down to an acceptable 3 (thats on my count, other estimates vary). Customers wobblys, that involved me, were a fantastic one! And the cash was great.
Saturday:
St Patricks day was good despite a less than smooth start. We got nailed from the off and it took an hour or so to get on top off things. And it was at this point that I had my run in with "Mr pokey finger". We were in the shit if we are going to be honest. The doors kept opening and tables were getting filled quicker than we could cope. Times like this you get your head down, avoid eye contact with everyone except the table you are serving, and get stuck in. You instinctively know the order in which tables were sat and you proceed in that order.

Mr Pokey Finger was the lead grunter in a table of 8 that I had seated. I told them that we were busy but that I would be back in a couple of minutes to get their order. I fake smiled and moved on. They seemed fine. But minutes later, as I was at another table, I was aware of a large bulk coming towards me (when I say large I mean fucking huge, believe me, he blocked out the light!). I carried on with the table I was serving only to be distracted by a sharp poking pain in my shoulder, Mr Pokey Finger! He poked me in the shoulder in time with every word that came out of his mouth.
"We" poke
"are" poke
"leaving." poke
"You" poke
"never" poke
"took" poke
"our" poke
"order" poke.

At this point I swivelled round to get out of range of his poking finger. At first I was shocked and was about to tell him to get fucked when I became very aware of the Swedish family looking up at me and then him.

"Sir, settle yourself. I'm very sorry sir but as you can see we are very busy" I offered by way of an apology. But he was on his way, I was so tempted to go after him but I still had the mater of what little Kjell was having for lunch. They smiled at me rather nervously but we were on laughing terms by the end of their lunch. It took about ten minutes for the rage to subside in me. The GM got a barrel full when I saw him next. He was up to his neck in pints of Guinness and I could see the look in his face as I roared on about my troubles. His expression said "oh would you just shut the fuck up". I don't think he got the full gist of my grievance but seemed more sympathetic when I explained it again later during a quieter period.

Twenty minutes later we were fully staffed and the rest of the day went like a dream. The customers were great, as was the kitchen, and I remained "wobbly free" for the rest of the day.

Sunday:
Mothers day was a success too. It was just an hour too long though and I had really had enough by about 7 o'clock. In retrospect I shouldn't have worked it. It's not my favourite day and I was just too emotional to work it. By the end of the shift I was so grumpy I could hardly speak. But I started well though. I was using all my best lines to inpress the mothers.

Table of four ladies, 3 daughters and their mother "Good afternoon ladies, how are you all today? Did you not bring your mother out?" All 4 laugh and the mother goes a little red.

Another table of four, same setup but "Ladies if you are going to order wine I will need to see some id". They were slightly shocked at first as they thought I was being serious and then burst out laughing.

These lines are very cheesy but they work. They relax the table straight away and you have a good raport with them from the off. And it never hurts to tell and older lady she looks young! The ladies got drunk and had a great night and despite my prevoius protestations they do deserve it.

Here's to you mum.

All in all it was a good weekend and I made good money, which is all that really counts, and the customers (Mr Pokey Finger aside) all seemed to have a good time which is important too.
Roll on next year eh!

The Weekend of Very Certain Doom

It's true to say that in this business we work hardest when the rest of the world is doing the opposite. It's what we do. I have no complaints about this situation. You don't survive for over 18 years in catering if you want bank holidays off. If you want those off you should have got a job in a bank! You don't get St Valentines day off, instead you get to take your disgruntled partner out on the 15th! New Years Eve is celebrated over the breakfast table 10 hours after the fact, And on it goes. The general rule of thunb being that you get to celebrate the day after. As a miserable so and so I can live without the celebrating, but the "special one" gets upset.

There are days in the restaurant booking sheet that you know are going to be big; New Years Eve, the whole of December infact, St Valentines day, Mothers day, St Patricks day, and to a lesser extent Fathers day, (I am not going to do the obvious joke about confusion reigning over Belfast on that particular Sunday.) But these are always well spaced apart thus lessening the effect on my stress levels. But not this weekend. The shitty little fuckers that plan these things have conspired to put 2 of the biggest days of the year into one weekend, St Patricks day on Saturday and Mothering Sunday the day after. There is normally a week between the 2 events. This, readers, is the "perfect storm" for restaurants and bars. If you have no interest in either event I suggest stay at home, lock the door and get smashed out of your tiny mind. Or do some housework, whatever floats your boat. I don't care I have enough issues of my own to be dealing with.

St Patricks day is the lesser of these two evils. With St Patricks day you know what to expect. Everybody will be "Oirished" up for the day, drinking Guinness, eating Irish stew, and enjoying the craic. For the most part it's a full on, but enjoyable day. (Scudded myself now)

Mothers Day is very different gravy though. Gone are the "Hallmark card" type scenes of yesteryear. Families out together with Gran and Mum taking centre stage with jokes about Dad having to do everything. Not any more. That idyllic scenario has been replaced by gangs of women sucking brightly coloured alcopops through straws, dressed like they are going out clubbing (which they will be) from opening time. Bouquets of flowers, I suspect, have been replaced by cases of WKD. It's as raucous as it gets. If this blog was a video I would be playing Prodigy's Firestarter over pictures of drunk women flashing and being sick at this point. Then again when mothers 17 and gran is not even 40 what else you gonna do?!
Listen, don't get me wrong I am all for equal right between the sexes but why choose the worst aspects of being a man to copy.

I'm not looking forward to this weekend. And my next day off? Wednesday! Sorry mum.

At times like this there is one phrase that comes to mind:

"Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial."
W. Shakespeare (who to my knowledge never worked as a waiter, but with a line like that maybe he did)

The chef's Revenge

"Portstewart 1998, waiter keeps nicking chips off customer's plates. Chef, p*ssed off about this, chips up a Godzillian chip, fries it, slices it open, scoops out the inner potato and fills the shell with salt before resealing with oil and setting on plate. Waiter eyes finest chip of it's generation and scoffs it. Mouthful of salt produces ususal effects (watering eyes, gasping for breath and so on). Chef's wife holds out glass of water. Waiter gulps relief sized slurp. Not water, vinegar. So cruel, how we laughed."

Submitted by the hellfireclub

The Greatest Love of All

"I believe that children are our future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be"
Whitney Houston - The Greatest Love of All

Cheers Whitney, I couldn't agree more! But for f***s sake keep them out of restaurants until such times that they have become the future. Or at least until the little darlings no longer require special seats and jars of mush heated. Leave them with granny if they are likely to throw a tantrum and make a scene. In this restaurant that is my job and I do it well. Having two of us at it is really just gonna piss people off. So for the love of sweet baby Jesus in the manger leave them with a sitter and go out and enjoy yourself.

IF, and as you can see its a big IF, you have to bring your progeny out, take control of them! When I was a lad, not that I'm a lass now, I never shifted off my seat. I just sat there eating what was ordered for me and syaing "please" and "thank-you" when prompted. Not these days though. Now its like every restaurant is an adventure playground. I wont be held responsible when little Dick or Dora runs into me and gets a face full of rare sirloin with pepper sauce. You have been warned.

Oh and this rant wasn't directed at Mrs Houston-Brown in particular but to all parents. Keep 'em on a lead or i'll sort em!

Favourite Customer Complaints (No 1 in a never ending series)

The customer ordered the Liver and Bacon which I duly served to his table after about 20 minutes. I wasn't hanging about with it to drag out time, it takes about 20 minutes to cook.

Manuel "Now sir can I get you anything else before you start?"

Customer "Yes can I get some vinegar? I love vinegar with liver"

Manuel "Very good sir"

The vinegar was delivered forth with and applied with great gusto! Infact very great gusto. But 2 minutes later...

Customer "Take this away, its awful". He was clearly very upset, waving his hands about like one of those inflatable men.

Manuel "Sir, I apologise. What is the problem with your meal?" I enquired with genuine sincerity. He seemed so unhappy I was almost taken aback.

"IT'S RUINED. IT TASTES OF NOTHING BUT VINEGAR" he boomed

The answer shocked me. I couldn't believe my ears.

"Vinegar sir? The vinegar you added sir?"

"YES THE VINEGAR! TELL THE CHEF I WANT IT REPLACED"

"Yes sir, very good." I was struggling hold back the laughter.

I returned to the table a couple of minutes later with the vinegar soaked liver still with me.
"Now sir, after explaining the situation to the chef he feels that on this occasion that as you applied the vinegar the responsibility for the meal lies with you alone. But he is more than willing to prepare you another liver and bacon or any other meal from the menu as long as you understand that you will be paying for both."

[Clearly the chef never said anything of the sort! If I had repeated even a single word of what he had said one, if not both, of us would have ended that night unemployed. After explaining the customers complaint the chef replied:" Tell the BLEEPING BLEEP TO GO AND BLEEP HIMSELF AND IF HE THINKS I'M GONNA BLEEPING MAKE IT AGAIN HE CAN GO A BLEEP HIMSELF WITH A VINEGAR BOTTLE. BLEEP." He stopped. I thought he was finished but he was just taking in air. And he was off again. "TELL HIM HE CAN LICK THE BACK OF MY BLEEPS THE BLEEPING BLEEP. IF HE WANTS ANOTHER BLEEPING LIVER HE WILL BLEEPING PAY FOR IT." I left the liver and headed to the restaurant laughing hard. But was chased down before I got onto the floor by the chef. "HE'S BLEEPING PAYING FOR IT SO HE CAN BLEEPING HAVE IT."]

I took a half step back and awaited one of those violent customer reactions that leaves you covered in their spit. But no.

"Leave it down then, I'll try and eat something". He was adopting the attitude of a well spoilt child. But as I walked away from the table I could hear him muttering about London and Dublin and about Belfast being ten years behind.

No I don't think so. If you act like a spoilt child expect to get treated as such.
Life is about little victories. And I raised the flag on this one.

Saturday Nights

Saturday nights are my favourite night of the week. I've worked more Saturday nights in the last 18 years than i've had off. And those Saturday nights that I take off are for special reasons, holidays, birthdays and so on. You get to my age and you really don't want to be bothering with all that going out malarky on a Saturday night. You can't get served, you can't get a taxi home, you can't get a seat (very important for the over 30's) and everybody wants to fight you. Not for me. Give me a 4 to finish shift and i'm happy as a Goth in the dark.

In many respects Saturdays are the same from one week to the next. You get large tables out celebrating birthdays and engagements, couples on dates, married men keeping up their end of the deal and taking "the wife" out for dinner, the whole gamut of human life if you will. And thats what makes Saturdays different every week. You never really know who or what you'll get in your section.

The sections are set and stock levels are replinished. Booking sheets are examined and you try to guess what type of punters you are going to get. You scan the lines for names that you remember and their habbits and pains. Like the table of four who order a round of drinks every 15 minutes (best avoided as you can't get any other table served!) Or the couple that, no matter where you put them, will ask to move to another table. You grab a couple of crafty smokes, maybe persuade a soft chef to sneak you a bowl of soup. The specials are memorised and you practice them out loud 'til it flows with ease. Then you wait...

Only the cut and thrust of a full sitting is better than the anticipation of a full sitting. The waiters pace about like thoroughbred horses at the start line. Checking and re-checking the booking sheets to see what time your first table is at. As if it could have changed! The adrenaline is flowing and everyone is eager to get started. Pens are swapped about 'til we all have spares. Cutlery is aligned to the correct angle and candles are lit. And we wait. Unbooked customers walk away with puzzled looks "but its empty!" We offer pointless advice about other restaurants they could try knowing that they shall be full too. And then BANG! And we are off!

Customers are welcomed and menus distributed. Specials explained and drinks delivered. Customers are examined up and down almost subconsciencly.
" What you got?" "Dullards!"
"Hows yours?" "Fine, but did you see yer mans shirt?"

And on it goes. Yeah I love Saturday nights. But see when the first table you get orders two very well done fillet steaks you just wanna f******g scream "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO, YOUR RUINING MY MAGIC MOMENT"

Ho hum what can you do? Just another day in paradise eh?

Four words that saved my day

Today could have been one of those days that leaves me with a pounding head and a large cloud of gloom above that. It could have been one of those days were I come home and fall out with my girlfriend for no reason at all. One of those "oh my God when will it end" sort of days. All the ingredients where there for it to turn out just like that. It could have been and maybe should have been. But it didn't.

Despite lunch being dull, despite dinner being very very dull, and despite seeing my schedule for next week (which is evil on paper but more of that to follow!) I remained in a very good mood all day. I didn't fight with anyone all day. When the miserable businessmen at lunch didn't tip, I cared not a jot! When the cooker jockeys passed me bad information on the quantity on mussels left I didn't whinge! I just shrugged and carried on.

All because in the middle of a large white board there was a little note meant, I assume, for no one in particular that read "fountains make me pee". And it made me laugh all day long.
Its the simple things eh.

Tomorrow is another day though.

I blame Gordon Ramsay for everthing that is wrong in the world ever.

Ok maybe not everything.

But definitely for the attitude of chefs. With carry on like this, is it any wonder? Don't get me wrong, chefs have always been a mouthy bunch of gets. But Mr Ramsay, with his mulitude of TV shows, has given them licence to rant and rave and act like well slapped arses. And when you are one of the finest chefs in the world who could argue with you? There is no doubting Ramsay's considerable talent. But I am talking about wee lads who only got into catering on the advice of their schools career counselor. The brick laying classes already being full. And who takes the brunt of this abuse? Not the managers, certinaly not the customers (well not directly), not the other cooker jockeys (you can't sh*t on your own doorstep), but yours truly.

Waiters have to put up with their little temper tantrums. God forbid you have to take something back to the kitchen or even worse you make a mistake. Pans get slammed, eyes are rolled, and microwave doors are slammed ALONG WITH THE SWEARING AND SHOUTING!! Often they gather round the offending plate and take turns in poking it and offering their "educated" opinion; "Its fine" "No problem with it" "the f**ks wrong with that?" and so on.

I am left standing there waiting for one of them to make the obvious decision, to remake it. They get there in the end. If they weren't stoned half the time they could get to the decision quicker. By this point I am usually getting stressed out listening to their ramblings. But I have to compose myself and return to the table with a bogus apology from the chef. Chefs never apologise. NEVER.

I hold Ramsay responsible for turning these chefs into prima dona's. His televised antics have created a new breed of bed wetting chefs who think its ok to fly of the handle at the seemingly smallest thing. It makes my life harder. And I can't be having that! Still he's still less annoying than that puka f**a Jamie Oliver. Chefs are on the list, there is no doubting it.

The customer that broke this camel's back

The story of Fat man and Thumb stubber.
Another quiet Monday night. Not much happening, a table of three, a couple of two's and a few phone bookings for the weekend. After a long ball busting weekend this was a good result. Enough to keep me awake, not so many that I break sweat. I wasn't going to earn much, tips wise, but the joy of getting home at a respectable hour would make up for that. I was hungry too. The second chef was on and I never ask him for a staff meal. He puts little effort into staff meals. And by little I mean none. I extinguished the candles, emptied the bins, broke down the coffee machine and polished the last of the cutlery. Ten minutes to go...

... and an unbooked table of two walked in! It's the law of sod. What can you do? I didn't greet them with open arms but wasn't as abrasive as I could have been. I resisted the urge to swear out loud. The order process was as painless as you could hope. Two fillet steaks, his medium rare, her's well done. Breaks your heart! I served their food and after a while checked on them, all was good. I had chilled by this point and had resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't getting home early after all. As soon as he stuffed the last scrap of steak into his chubby little mouth I was at the table with sweet menus. And this readers is where the fun began!

Our gracious host's companion had just sucked her first draw from her Superking cigarette when I informed her that the restaurant was non-smoking. She apologised and put it out with her thumb, classy. It happens and most people just suck it up (no pun intended) and go to the bar for a smoke instead. Our host wasn't so understanding though.

Manuel: "So folks did you enjoy your food?"
Thumb Stubber: "Oh yes it was lovely. Compliments to the chef"
Fat Man: "No I bloody didn't! We want to have a smoke after our meal. We ARE the only people here."
Manuel: "Like i said sir we are a non-smoking restaurant. But you are free to smoke in the bar"
Fat Man getting very loud and irate: "I DON'T WANT TO SMOKE IN THE F@@@@G BAR. I WANT TO SMOKE HERE"
Manuel, also getting rather irritated and still holding sweet menus, plates and side dishes: "Sir, like i said, we are a non-smoking restaurant. You are more than welcome to smoke in the bar."

At this point fat man gets up and attempts to punch his fat little arms into his fat man jacket. He fails in the first attempt. Thumb stubber is already up and ready to go. When you got to smoke, you got to smoke! I headed to drop the plates off, fat man and thumb stubber right behind me. Fat man muttering to no one in particular.

At this point I decided they wouldn't be getting sweets. Fat man was heading out of the restaurant at a rate of knots. When I cut him off with the bill in my hand he really lost it.

Fat Man: "Bill? Bill?"
It was as if I had approached him with a spanner such was his surprise.
Manuel: "Yes sir, i'll need you to settle your bill before you leave the restaurant. Unless you are coming back for sweets?" I replied with a large hint of sarcasm.
He lost it. Really really lost it. With his chubby, and by now sweaty, little hands clasping the bill he pulled his fat man jacket off and threw the bill, including comment card and pen, at me with full force. And off he stomped, in that fat man way all wobbly and indignant, cursing and shouting. I stood there for a moment. SHOCKED. Lost for words. But i found them. They were nestling behind a ball of frustration and fury.

Manuel "Is that right sir? (You have to maintain some decorum) Let me tell you chum, your paying the bill and then your out."
Fat Man: "I'm going to the bar for a drink and a f@@@@@g smoke!!"

I yelled to the barman not serve him and to get the manager.
He duly arrived and I retreated to a safe distance, out of punching reach but close enough to hear. Fat Man yapped on about his right to smoke. The manager countered with the staff not having to take such abuse. All seemed to be calming down until Fat Man cursed again. The general rule being that when the customer curses at you their argument is lost. Period. Thumb Stubber was trying to calm him down between pulling draws on her extra long cigarette. The manager had had enough at this point and demanded the bill be settled and in a moment Fat Man and Thumb Stubber were gone.

Enough is enough. I can stay at home and be abused, I don't go to work to get it too. I have had worse abuse from customers over my eighteen years in this business. But this guy really pissed on my apron. Zero tolernace from now on.
Oh and he did't leave a dime. The tight ....
Manuel