I have to consider this as failure

I know it's rude not to thank someone when they compliment you. I know it's out of order to begrudge someone's kind words. It's more than rude, it's so much more than out of order it's childish, spoilt, and down right arrogant.

But....

....but what if it was the Daily Mail?

"fun and games in a restaurant?"
not where I work matey

I was very rudely awoken from my slumber on Sunday morning by my mobile phone. "Someone better be dead" I thought as I reached for it. Who the hell would be phoning me at the ungodly hour of......11.15am?! It was my sister with the very exciting news that WellDoneFillet was blog of the week in The Mail on Sunday. Let me tell you that woke me right up.

"Say that again, The Mail on Sunday?"

"Yup"

"What the fuck?"

"Yeah you're popular with the Women's Institute and Volvo owners all over England." She could hardly contain her laughter.

"Piss off"

I got dressed and wondered how I could get a copy of "The Mail on Sunday" without actually having to buy it. Maybe I could hang around the shop and wait for some kids to go in.

"Here mate get us a copy of the TMoS would ya? Ah go on mister will ya?"

But there were no kids. Maybe I could buy some porn magazines and slip a copy of TMoS in between them. Buying porn has to be less embarrassing than buying TMoS doesn't it? But I couldn't do that either. So I just braved it. I could see the distain in the shopkeepers eyes. It was a dark day.

If you haven't guessed already I'm not a fan of The Daily Mail. It's right wing and I'm not. I'm hella not. I've slagged them off on more than a few occasions on here. Do I not swear enough? Is my distain for the middles classes not obvious? Is my liberal thinking not coming through loudly enough?

This is the equivalent, for me, of Medbh being person of the week in Playboy or Old Knudsen being blogger of the week in The Catholic Herald. Man this has me bummed! It feels like failure.

This cant be allowed to happen again. So with that in mind this blog now officially hates/supports all the the things The Daily Mail campaigns for/against. Things such as....

Immigration, the more illegal it is the better. I say open the borders and embrace "Johnny Foreigner." I want a Polish shop on the end of every street
Taxes, the higher and more the ridiculous the better especially on cars. And the sneakier and more stealth like the better too.
The Labour Party, even if they are the Tories in cheaper suits
Binge drinking, the younger and drunker they are the better
Hoodies, hug them? I say give them free money for binge drinking and drugs
Drugs, for everybody all the time
Political correctness, more of it and on the spot fines for not being politically correct
Marriage, anybody can marry anybody or anything they want. You wanna marry your car? I say go for it.
George Galloway. I cant be bothered with him but The Daily Mail really doesn't like him so I'm for him now.
Islam, I say teach it in schools to everybody until they are 18.
Nudity, more nudity on television before the watershed. Actually do away with the watershed.
The Monarchy, off with their heads!
Prisons, should be easier and each cell should have a double bed and a Playstation. Terms should be shorter, weeks not years. And they should be given a £1000 when they leave.

That'll be doing to go on with.......

Oh and thanks to whoever selected me for blog of the week, I am chuffed but conflicted all the same......

but not for the picture, pfft......

What a bloody night....

Full house tonight.

They were all out,
the good
the bad
the fat
the thin
the wiseguys
the not so wiseguys
the posh
the slobs
the slobby posh
the cool
the dull
the super hot
the super dull
the super soupers
the happy couples
the laughing couples
the resenting every minutes couples
the bloody steakers
the burn it's
the send it backers
the it's too hoters
the it's too colders
goldilocks (just right)
the back slappers
the arm holders
the bum watchers (I saw you)
the old
the young
the old enough to know better
the suits
the hipsters
the very bad shirts
the friends of Jesus
the friends of Arthur (Guinness)
the friends of Manuel
and the big ass tippers,
lots of them.

Tonight was a joy to work. I was in rare form and was knocking out one liners like Federer serves aces. BAM BAM BAM POW! I was on fire. There is nothing like being skint to make you work that little bit harder. I owned that fucking floor tonight. I preempted every request and was two steps ahead all night long. Until....

...I went for a smoke and as I meandered my way out the back I felt the first twinge of the waiters darkest fear. My ass went tight and a pain shot down my leg.......

FUCK

There was no doubting it......CHEFS ARSE!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Gone went the good mood, and the preempting of anything but pain. I couldn't walk. Well I could but I looked like a duck. There was only about an hour to go but still I was injured and there was no substitute to come on. So a night that ran like a dream ended in mincing pain.

Yin and Yang isn't it.........?

Music for a Saturday Night

Ah another Saturday night approaches. If I was off these are the tunes I would be singing into my hair brush (if I owned or even required one) as I changed into my dancing clobber. (Your what now? bwahahahaha -LMM)But I'm working so in order to help these fine tunes reach their destiny I'm sharing them with you so that you can play and sing-a-long and love. Don't worry bout me....at work.....fighting with wiseguys......and competitive moms......I'll be fine....

First impressions

One of the best things about being a waiter, and there are so many, is that we get to scrutinize, evaluate, and generally make judgements about, you, the guest.

And I like to think I am normally right, hell this is my blog, I am always right.

Except, of course, when I am not.....

My first table on Monday night was a gruff looking three top of middle aged men. I wasn't particularly impressed with their Easter ensemble of supermarket jeans, black shoes and washed out polo shirts. But when the lead oik ordered a rather nifty bottle of Chateau Baduc I perked right up. I'm so easily impressed. I un-slouched my shoulders and started using actual words instead of grunts and pointing. Maybe they were film extras still in costume or maybe they were doing some work around the house. Either way they had ordered a decent bottle of wine so they deserved some lovin'.

And lovin' they got, by the bucket load. They ordered like condemned men, five starters, steaks with an extra side order each, a round of beer whilst they waited for the wine. There was no end to their extravagance. Mr Tippy would be visiting me with many of his cousins too. This table was tremendous if rather rough and unshaven. The food was served with merriment and laughter. They ate and drank like men who truly felt like they deserved it. I'm pretty sure that if I had forgotten to set the table they would have just gone medieval and used their hands.

Mains cleared, coffees and vodkas served. I was round these fellas with everything including my tongue. I could smell the cash, daddy wanted it, daddy has needs, daddy needs to stop calling himself daddy......

Arses licked, egos stroked, up's buttered, all that was needed now was my cash my mullah my return. The lead gentleman, as I was now referring to him, asked for the bill. I duly delivered it and enquired as to his satisfaction, my hands greasy with anticipation. He said his duck starter was a little lifeless, well actually he said it was "shite" but I'm sure that's what he meant. But he said it in a jovial way. I apologised and he said "don't worry young man". (Nah mate it's sweet)

I moved away from the table to let them settle the bill. The other two gentlemen left in what seemed rather a hurry, I assumed they were going for a smoke. Huh we all know how that feels I laughed. All was well in my world. I had the Oirish dancers and their mothers under control, the booking sheets were looking lively, and I had a table about to lay some fat cash down on my paw.

The lead chap approached with credit card in hand. I slid it into the machine and pushed the required buttons. I waited and waited and waited a little more. I apologised for the wait. Tum te tum tum tum. My this was taking a while then the machine burst into life. But not in a positive way........

DENIED

but not only denied

RETAIN

RETAIN

RETAIN

RETAIN

Okay I get the point. Bollocks. No tippy tip for me and I have the fun job of telling Mr No Cash that he wouldn't be getting his card back. One awkward conversation later he was assuring me that he had the cash and he would call in the next day and settle his bill.

Fuck that!

"Eh, nah mate. You need to settle this bill now." All civility had ended and hostilities resumed.

Goodbye sir, hello asshole.

Just at that a manager arrived. I passed the card and the bill to him and explained the situation. There was a tense stand off. There were many assurances given. Neither party seemed persuaded. They settled on the manager escorting the chap to the nearest cash machine and using another card getting the money to settle the bill.

Twenty minutes later and there was still no sign of the manager. The other manager got a bit worried something had gone wrong. Something had gone wrong I thought, I'd been stiffed! What could be worse! So he headed off to search for him.

Ten more minutes past before they returned minus the errant customer, the money to settle the bill and my tip. But they did have a fun story regarding a knife, threats, and running. All things I try to avoid. So after a two hour(!) visit by the police and after everything had settled down I asked about my tip.........

Well you cant blame a fella for trying! So what have I learnt from this whole experience? First impressions are normally right, if he looks like a shifty fucker then he probably is a double crossing shifty bastard fucker and asking a manager about your tips after they have had a knife put to them is not a wise move. As he put it, "It's better to be stiffed than stabbed." Fair enough...........

Waiter Waiter....

...there's an heir in my soup.

How lazy is that?

**********
or of course you can amuse yourselves with the latest
Roundtable

The O'Griswolds and the search for pasta

And so it begins....

"Hi we are 5..." said the part stressed part angry (American) mom.

"Hi I'm 35" said the part waiter part comedian Manuel

"Do you have a table for five then?" I assumed by her pointed tone that she got my joke but just didn't care for it. Pfft....

"Ok then, sorry, I have a table for four left but you could squeeze round it easily enough." The gaggle of small children at her feet obviously were having a negative effect on her so I thought I should drop the humour. Angry mothers care not for the civility of a nice restaurant and will quite happily start a fight at the drop of a menu or bad pun.

"Great....gimme a menu first though. We need pasta, you got pasta?"

"Pasta? No pasta on this menu, sorry"

denied

"Pizza?"

"Nope"

"So no pasta and no pizza, huh." She said getting very snippy as if all restaurants all over the world serve pasta and pizza.

"Correct no pasta and no pizza. Maybe you could try an Italian restaurant" I sarcastically helpfully suggested.

"Could the chef maybe make us up some pasta and sauce?"

We were pretty busy and whilst the shit hadn't quite hit the fan it was very definitely heading that way. I was pretty damn sure I wasn't going to be the one who pushed said shit into the chefs fan. So the best answer I reasoned was, "No."

"Well why don't you go and ask him?"

I could think of about 20 reasons why I didn't want to go and ask him if he would cook pasta and sauce, the main one being I'm pretty attached to my face and didn't fancy having it ripped off.

"Okay then, you wait here and I'll go do that." Did I fuck. I went out the back and checked the schedule, twice, and wandered slowly back to the door again wearing a sad and disconsolate face.

"Sorry madam it's just not possible tonight as we are far too busy."

"Wow, no pasta and no pizza. It's just that Mary Bridget needs her carbohydrates for her dancing tomorrow. She is in a big competition you know."

"Ah yes I understand. Maybe I could get you a taxi somewhere else?"

"No it's fine they need to walk it's good exercise."

And off they marched in their matching tracksuits with, and I'm not making this up, "TEAM O'FLANNERY" emblazoned on the back. My those kids are gonna grow up damaged and full of hate, not just for mom but for all things Irish too. I should add little Mary Bridget was about 8 years old at the most.

Carbohydrates?

The kid needs a bag of sweets and a movie to watch not a good bloody walk!

Competitive moms

As I stood at my front door, smoking my breakfast, on Sunday morning a chill went down my back. I was gripped with fear. I began to shake and my mind was awash with a nightmare from not so long ago. And I don't mean Saturday night. Vivid flashbacks engulfed me, greens and swirly things and golds and tears. Soon my lovely, quaint wee restaurant would be filled with the children of the corn with their scary hair and scary complexions. Oh the hair it scares me so.

Is it real?

Does it move on it's own?

Why the hair?

Is there power within the hair?

But it's more than the hair. It's so much more than the hair and the vivid complexions. It was too late to phone in sick. Maybe I could cause an accident on the way in. Maybe I could throw myself down the stairs. I'm far to much of a chicken for that.

Shit.

I would just have to take my chances. I would have to be a brave little soldier.

Be tough, yeah!

Go Team Me!

For Sunday, dear friends, saw the return of......

THE IRISH DANCING WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS!

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGHHH!

TEN THOUSAND OF THEM N ALL!!

they're not right......
look at the hair!!!
the hair!!!!

But it's not the kids I'm scared off. It's the mothers, or should I say moms. It's the Americans, oh sweet jumping Jesus they scare the creak right out of my back. You see I assumed Irish Dancing was an enjoyable way for people to take part in Irish culture. But not so for the Americans. Hell no. They are here to win. And they approach jumping about with a straight back as serious as they do the 100 metres. I assume without the performance enhancing drugs, but it wouldn't surprise me. Who do they think they are coming over here with their positive mental attitudes and "winners don't eat chips" diets. This weeks gonna be "fun" eh......

I might have to go back on the oysters........

It's my birthday and I'll be a bitch if I want to...

It was Saturday night about 7.45pm and I had just got my section reset for the second sitting at 8pm when the waiter known as L-Chops approached me looking anxious.

"Table four are insisting on ordering sweets."

Table four had arrived 20 minutes late and somehow had taken 50 minutes to eat their main courses. All first sitting tables are told that we need their table back for about 7.50pm. This gives us time to reset for the next sitting at 8pm. But the three women insisted they were having sweets and to hell with the next guests booked on the table. So off I popped to have a lovely discussion about why they wouldn't be getting sweets.

"Hi there ladies. Unfortunately we wont be able to offer you sweets this evening as this table is re-booked in about 15 minutes." I was giving it the full sympathetic head nod and sad smile effect.

"Yeah not bloody good enough. We want sweets, it's my birthday. And if you don't give us sweets we want a discount."

"Discount?" Gone was the lovely head nod and sad smile.

"We came here for a meal including sweets. You wont give us sweets so we want a discount." It has to be said the other two women seemed to be paying more attention to the contents of their handbags than the conversation.

"Madam you wont be getting a discount. Why would we give you a discount? You were late for your booking and now there is no time to serve you sweets. So if you could just settle your bill."

"NO"

"No? Madam we never keep a table waiting. If they are booked for a particular time we will have their table ready for them for that time."

"Oh aren't you just great. You are so bloody brilliant. Mt Bloody Brilliant Waiter man." Where the fuck did that come from? What? She had changed from being a bit agitated to being a bit fucking loopy.

"Excuse me madam there is no need for that...."

"Oh there's no need for that is there?"

"Stop it."

"Stop it" she replied and then one of her friends went to the bathroom. Well you wouldn't you?

"You are not getting sweets and you are not getting a discount." I was beginning to boil, I could feel myself cracking.

"Not good enough." She snapped.

"Not good enough? Madam you arrived late, why should I keep another table waiting just because you cant be on time?"

"We weren't late"

"WHAT? YES YOU WERE. I seated you myself!"

"No we weren't."

"Yes YOU were." At this point I had to get away from the table. Strangling a guest is quite frowned upon. I found a manager and sent him down. He was super confident he could charm them out. Pfft......

Two minutes later he returned swearing and shouting. "She's got five minutes then I'm throwing her out myself. The cunt. Look down her nose at me?" And off he went on a rant about her being condescending and rude. The final straw came when she "shooooed" him away. Not nice.

We watched from a far as she ranted and raved at her friends. Then they got up to leave. Result, well maybe not.....

Super Spitter Susan

"So, thanks a lot for a really crappy night" said the wonderfully drunk woman. The wonder mainly stemming from the fact that she didn't appear to have drunk a very large amount of wine but there she was as pished as a newt.

"Okay then madam, that's great" I replied as I tried to back away from her and spitty mouth, say it don't spray it honey. (as all the cool kids used to say) (I was never a cool kid)

"And let me tell you this Mr Waiter......." as if I had a choice ".....you'll be hearing from my frucking lawyer, and I wanna copy of that CCCTVV footage tape thingy. Oh you haven't heard the last from me." Quoted verbatim by the way.

I wiped the spit and Pinot Grigio from my face and simply replied with, "Yes madam, that's just great."

"Yeah it is great"

"I know that's why I said it was great." She had me backed against the wall and I had no way of getting past her, that being the only way to put an end to this playground argument.

Then she produced her well manicured finger. Well produced is probably the wrong word, it's not like she had been keeping it in her bag for just the right moment. Okay so all of a sudden she started pointing her long pointy finger at me. This really pissed me off. Spit I can handle, pointy, well manicured fingers with red nail varnish is like a red rag to a bull to me.

"Don't point your finger at me." I said in a calm but firm voice.

"Oh you don't like that. I don't like you, and I'm gonna have your frucking job Mr Waiter man."

"Yeah I hope that works out for ya. Now please stop pointing your finger at me and let me past."

"No you are gonna stand there and let me tell you what I think of you. It's my birthday!" Good grief this was intolerable. I was getting showered in spit and cheap wine and I was being verbally abused. Up with this I will not put. Then behind Super Susan Spitter there appeared two managers and a gaggle of waiters. Watching, not helping, but watching. Cheers lads, I got your back too.

"Okay Madam, quit with the finger, stop talking to me like that, and get out of my way."

"No, it's my birthday."

"What? Madam, please move."

"No"

Fuck this, this could go on all night. My backup wasn't doing anything, her friends were talking into mobile phones (I assume her therapist was getting a night call) so I was left to take matters into my own hands.

"Madam are you gonna move?"

"NO it's my....."

"Yes it's your birthday, I get it."

"Move."

"NO."

So I just barged past her. The fuck else was I gonna do?

"OH OHH YOU PUSHED ME, YOU TRIED TO KNOCK ME DOWN!"

"Oh would you just give it a bloody rest. You are melting my head! Just get out." Her friends were well gone by now. Which I think says a lot. At this point one of the managers seemed to click into life and decided to escort her out. About time too! She continued shouting. I couldn't help myself,

"And by the way, those shoes don't match your coat!" Ha!

I had a face like thunder, well cleaned thunder at that, as I approached Paddy the Wiseguy's table.

"Hi......tonights soup is potato and leek, would anyone like a drink?" I asked in a flat monotone voice.

"No mate we're all sweet for a drink. But I bet you could use one?" Was he taking the piss? I wasn't in the mood for more grief. There was a very brief moment of silence then I burst out laughing and the table joined in too. I set down my order pad, squatted down and told them the story of Super Spitter Susan. Paddy Wiseguy and his family were just lovely, good craic, good guests, great tippers.

The story of Super Spitter Susan may rumble on.........to be continued?

Breathing deep and counting to ten......million.

Having consulted with my huge legal department (LMM) I have decided to hold off for 24 hours before retelling the events of Saturday night.

this picture accurately depicts my mood...
accurately

Apparently I have to let my "hot head" subside a bit as I cant afford to get sued or lose my job. What ever. You shall have to wait until tomorrow to her about the rudest, nastiest, most condescending table ever. You will be agog at the balls of some people, you will swear out loud, you will laugh, you will cry, you will learn to love Manuel a little more....

But to make it up to you let me share a little slice of what life is like here in the North of Ireland. Read this, paragraph four. Tremendous......

Can you survive five hours?

Good Friday always brings the best out of people what with the reduced drinking hours.

And despite signs on the doors and at the bar, despite being told by the bar staff and waiting staff things like this keep happening....

between the hours of 12 and 5 this is a water glass
k?

"Can I get a pint?"

"No, it's Good Friday, no alcohol of any sort until 5pm sir. Sorry bout that."

It went quiet for a moment whilst he considered his next move. I stood there with a forced smile. It was dragging on a bit so I thought I should help him out and I offered him a few options.

"Coke, water, orange, coffee?"

He raised a finger to stop me and said, "I'll have the fish special and a glass of Chardonnay."

"Eh no sir, wine is off the menu until 5pm. That's what I meant by no alcohol."

He tutted and opined, "It's not really alcohol....'

Que?

Now I'm no expert, saying that I have done a wine course, but I'm pretty damn sure that wine is an alcohol based beverage.

He looked me straight in the eyes and said/begged, "If you put 2 in a pint glass no one will know, eh eh." He thought this was genius of course.

"Not gonna happen sir. You wanna coke or summat?"

He didn't like it, didn't like it at all and shooed me away with an order for the fish special and a jug of water.

When I cleared his mains away I offered him the whiskey trifle, he didn't like that idea either.

Pfft......

Five hours, that's all it is, five whole hours without booze. Five tiny hours a year, and people go mental. They lose all sense of proportion and start screaming about their human rights. I'm not sure I ever read the UN declaration on the right to get blitzed everyday of the year. Still it makes me giggle every year without fail.

More Wiseguy trouble......

Sometimes they get to me before they even arrive.

Sometimes they send me on a downwards spiral before the doors are even open.
A downwards spiral of swearing, shouting, and chain smoking.

It's not easy done, but not impossible.

Sometimes I think I'm too tightly wound, but mostly I know it's everybody else's fault.
table for.....?

I had just started at work and was gleefully setting up the coffee machine, some things take priority, when the phone rang...

"Good morning this is The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Manuel speaking. How can I help you?" I had my cheery morning voice on. My cheery morning voice can melt the hearts of even the darkest souls. Honest, I'm quite pleasant on the phone.

"What?" Said the gruff sounding caller. I wasn't sure which part of my "hello" he didn't understand so I just repeated it.

"Aye can I book a table for Saturday?"

"Certainly sir. How many for and what time suits you best?"

"Wha?"

"How many for and what time?" I asked, again, still cheery, a little confused but still cheery.

"Seven." Said Mr Chatty

"Seven o'clock or seven people sir?"

"What?" It was as if I had asked him the size of his pee pee such was his annoyance. Jesus H this guy was starting to rattle me a bit.

"Seven people." he snapped.

"What time, sir?" I snapped back. Fuck this, two can play at Mr Pricky phone call. I'm actually very good at being a prick on the phone.

"Eight or nine."

"Which sir, eight or nine?"

"For fuck sake I just wanna book a table for dinner." Oh, did he just swear at me? I think he did! Game over! Goodbye Mr Cheery, hello Mr Snappy Waiterman.

"Okay, and I just wanna take your booking. So if you can pick a time I can book it for you."

"What?"

"What.....time.......sir?"

"Eight o'clock."

"A table for 7 at eight o'clock then sir, brilliant. Now I just need your name and phone number." I said as the sarcasm dripped down the phone.

" Paddy."

"Paddy, sir?"

"Paddy"

"And your phone number Mr Paddy?" I added the mister just for the fun of it as I knew it would annoy him. Little victories people, little victories.

"Why do you need my phone number?"

AAAAARRRRRRRRGHHHH! You have to be fucking kidding me? I hadn't considered the guy to be dodgy until now. But I am assuming he is one of Belfast's many many "Wiseguys." Dripping in gold, sporting Timberland boots, stripy jumper, 3 year old BMW and ugly child eating dog. And this clearly goes some way to explain his reluctance to give me any information. Clearly he was skilled in counter intelligence and and anti-interrogation techniques.

"Sir I need your phone number to secure the booking. No phone number, no booking." I was pacing now.

I could hear him shuffling about, no doubt deciding which of his many phone numbers he could safely give out. I got his number and said, "Okay that's just great Mr Paddy, we look forward to seeing you and your guests on Saturday night." That was sarcasm at it's best.

He replied with, "What?"

I just hung up, obviously......

*********

Roundtable Week 14

When the cast of Crimewatch came for dinner

...and now for something completely different

"YO! Yous do meals?"
asked the jittery young man with the figure of a ballerina and haircut like a squaddie.

"Excuse me?"
replied the sweaty busy "young" waiter with the figure of a sumo wrestler and haircut like a egg.

Ignoring my attempt at clarification he persisted, "What food do yis do? Yous gat steaks? Wah?"

Christ, thought I,
this is gonna be fun.

"Yes sir, we serve food in this restaurant(!) and we serve 3 types of steak. Do you have a table reserved this evening?" I would have eaten my own fist if he had.

"No...." he said getting a bit exasperated/confused. "What? Booked? Nah wah? Book us a table then."

"Yes sir, I think we have an opening at 5pm, is that ok?"

"Aye aye shweeeeeet."

"How many for sir?"

He counted out his chums, Anto, Banto, Sminty, Dozo, Bozo, and Brian. His eyes went a bit funny and the veins in his neck started pulsating then he shouted out "SEVEN" like he was answering a question on a quiz show.

I added his name to the already bulging booking sheet and then asked him for his phone number. He took the three phones from his pocket and took a moment to decide which number to give me. I assume some lines cant be taken up with grumpy waiters. I got a number and off he toddled. I hoped he wouldn't return with his 6 chums.

But an hour later there they were at the door, all jittery, all wearing nasty jumpers, all carrying a collection of mobile phones, and all sporting the look of a bulldog chewing a wasp.

Why me?

"Where we sitting mate?" asked the leader of the gang. And I mean gang like the bloods or the crips not like west side story. But come to think of it.....

"This way mate." Mate? The cheeky bastard, I'm not his mate.

I presented the menus which was amusing. They looked at each other, looked at me, and then the lead one said, "What have yis got mate? Just tell us."

"It's all on the menu, mate." I had to walk away. They destroyed the perfectly set table within seconds. Glasses were knocked over, cutlery was shoved out of the way, and one had taken to spinning the salt cellar. I was getting very twitchy and upset. I wouldn't normally stand for this type of behavior but I'm not stupid. These lads weren't the sort to complain to a manager when there was the option of kicking me in the balls and stabbing me in the face. It was truly like serving the school bullies.

A moment or two later I returned to the table to take their order. Well done steaks all round, no sauces, and one even added a very specific caveat/warning, "I'll nat be eating a fucking bit of it if ders any fucking blood. Right?"

The rest laughed like chimps. I thought it ironic that he should be so squeamish about a bit of blood on his plate when I'm sure he is no stranger to blood on his fist. Cunt.

"Yes sir."

After a suitable wait for prime Irish Sirloin steak to be burnt to a block of cinders I served their food. I brought their ketchup, brown sauce, and mayo. I brought them their bottles of bud. I nearly brought up my Snickers bar as I stood back and watched them eat, mouths open. Food, drink, spit and other fluids spilling out and onto the table. It was shocking and disgusting. But hard not to watch.

But the moment of the day was still to come.

The burp chorus!

Each one took it in turn to burp as loud as they could, each burp greeted with a rowdy chorus of laughing and banging of fists on the table. I was beside myself. I had another table of 14 in the same section, a genteel and reserved table. I need to save their middle class ears from the horror behind them. I started jabbering about the weather and Easter holidays and anything that would focus their attention on me and not at the cavemen on the the next table. All completely pointless too.

Moments later they got the bill and left. The good thing about drug dealer types is that they are loaded in cash and they tend to throw it about like confetti. They tipped about 25%, which was nice.

But still, I could have lived without them and their burping and "yo-ing" and hands down their trousers etc.........

The reviewer defends himself

not so smug now eh?

From today's Stephen Nolan Show

Here

BRAVO JUDE COLLINS!

(not sure if you can access this outside of the UK & Ireland)

I'd have guessed you were a cunt

smug

I had a whole other post planned for today but it'll wait until tomorrow. Instead I bring you the most savage restaurant review I have ever read. It made my blood boil in places. It all stems from Caroline Workman's initial review of the West Belfast Pizzeria Goodfellas for the Irish News newspaper. The owner of Goodfellas took major umbrage with the review and sued. Surprisingly he won his case. This of course had major implications for reviewers and critics everywhere. They need to be able to write freely without fear of being sued. But they must also be able to justify what they say and their reviews should be honest and fair. The Irish news took their case to appeal and the verdict was overturned. I believe this to be a just and correct decision.

I cant comment on what Caroline Workman wrote in her review as I have never seen it. But I have seen Giles-smug-Coren's review. He's a smug little man, and I don't like smug little men. Here is the review from last weekend's Times newspaper......

"Giles Coren

I’d have guessed it was strips of mole poached in Ovaltine

Can there be anything more counter-intuitive than choosing to pay a visit to a restaurant the day after it has lost a court case?

I don’t consider myself a fussy eater. But expecting a joint to keep itself off the wrong end of an historic verdict in Her Majesty’s Court of Appeal is surely not too much to ask – especially a verdict upholding a critic’s right to describe the atmosphere as “joyless”, the ingredients as “the cheapest . . . on the market” and the food as “inedible”.

When I read in Tuesday’s paper about the victory of The Irish News over a Belfast restaurant called Goodfellas, where “the chips were pale, greasy and undercooked” and “the cola was flat, warm and watery”, I tittered quietly to myself, thanked God for Jamie, Gordon and Hugh and peeled myself another organic carrot.

And then The Times rang and said there was an easyJet flight leaving Gatwick for Belfast at 7.45 that evening. Obviously, in the light of this historic judgment for freedom of speech, I would be wanting to review the place myself. Yeah, obviously.

On the plane I read through the court papers, the complex arguments of the plaintiff (The Irish News was seeking to overturn a previous libel decision against it in the High Court) and the summing up by three judges. The paperwork was, bizarrely, fascinating. And, for reviewers and critics, truly world-changing.

Lord Lester of Herne Hill, QC – may his name be whispered as a blessing – won the appeal for The Irish News on the following basis (I’ll have got this only more or less right, so don’t quote me. Or sue me): 1) That anything written in an article flagged as a review is to be accepted as “comment” (regardless of whether it is presented as opinion or fact); 2) That the bare substratum of fact required to sustain that comment is that the reviewer has had the experience he or she claims, in this case that he has ordered and been served the meal described; 3) That “fair comment” is defined as any comment an honest person could have drawn from the “facts” available; 4) That a comment may be called “fair”, “however exaggerated, or even prejudiced, the language may be”; 5) That malice has no power to mitigate a defence of fair comment, as long as the reviewer genuinely holds the views he expressed.

In short, loyal readers, as long as I ate the meal I tell you I ate, and as long as I truly believe what I write, I can say anything. If you thought the critics were scary before, you wait ’till you get a load of us now.

Goodfellas is in Kennedy Way, just off the Falls Road, a Catholic-owned joint on the edge of a loyalist enclave strong on militant murals, marching and, not so long ago, rifle-volley shows of strength. The windows are smoked dark and impenetrable. The patch of grass outside is littered with empty bottles of WKD Blue. Two sets of entry doors, of which the outer one was formerly remote-controlled, testifying to times when the threat of a loyalist “spraying” was very real. Times when the least of your worries was a dodgy restaurant review. Gordon Ramsay at Claridge’s this most certainly ain’t.

It is about three-quarters full inside, which is impressive on a wet week-night in March, and almost everyone is fat. Obesity in West Belfast seems to be even worse than in the poorest areas of mainland Britain. There is what appears to be a hen party in the next room comprising 12 women seated around a large square table, each of whom, on her own, weighs as much as a whole hen night of women from Fulham. (I guess these are battery hens).

The men have big square heads and little pink faces, short spiky hair, stud earrings and big appetites. It’s like Westlife got old and fat overnight, which they sort of have if you saw them on Al Murray the other night.

To be fair, the welcome is not, as The Irish News had it, “daunting” or negligent. A very pretty and charming waitress seats me at a very small table next to some very large people. She brings me a glass of cola (Goodfellas has no licence) which is, indeed, pretty flat and not especially cold and (as The Irish News critic claimed) clearly not poured from a bottle but shot from a gun. So much for decommissioning.

The menu is terrifying. Hundreds of choices – 14 starters, 14 chicken dishes, 15 pizzas (including “The Whop”), 13 pasta dishes as well as a do-it-yourself option, where six styles of pasta can be paired with a cream or tomato sauce and any permutation of 25 further ingredients to create millions of possibilities (if you’ve ever fancied rigatoni with smoked salmon, sweet-corn and barbecue sauce, Goodfellas is the place to get it).

Then there are ten beef dishes with ten sauce options (100 more possible combos there) including the alluring-sounding “gravy”. Half a dozen pig dishes, some specials and 24 contorni (this is an Italian restaurant, don’t forget) of which eight are potato.

Portions are massive. Waitresses struggle by with Brobdingnagian tureens of pasta and pizzas like dustbin lids (but smellier). I order a small far-falle all’ arrabiata, and then the chicken marsala – the very dish that Caroline Workman, the Irish News critic, had described as being served in a sauce so revoltingly sweet as to render the dish inedible. I nip to the loo. Two of the cubicle doors are locked but the third opens, straight into the kitchen. Most unusual. This does not happen at Le Gavroche. Perhaps I am spoilt.

My little pasta dish arrives. A huge disappointment: it is fine. Not fine in the sense of tasting like something an Italian would dream of eating. But fine in the sense of being the sort of thing I used to cook as a student when I was too stoned to dial a pizza. The chips I ordered are fine, too. Precut and frozen, yes, but that’s normal even in a good gastropub, and these are nice and crispy. I am gutted. It looks like there will be no opportunity to test my rejuvenated confidence in a restaurant critic’s right to freedom of expression.

Then my pollo marsala arrives: an oval dish containing a chocolate coloured liquid and pale lumps of something. I eat a mouthful. The sweetness is, indeed, alarming. As is the consistency of the meat. Without the court papers to confirm what I had ordered, I’d have guessed I was eating thin strips of mole poached in Ovaltine.

It is revolting. It is ill-conceived, incompetent, indescribably awful. A dish so cruel I weep not only for the animal that died to make it, but also for the mushrooms. Ms Workman said it was inedible but, to be honest, as it sits before me, congealing quietly, I cannot leave it alone but return to it every few minutes with the grim fascination of a toddler mesmerised by a pile of its own faeces, nibbling at it, gurning with revulsion, then nibbling some more. If you’ve ever sniffed your finger after scratching your arse, and then done it again, then this dish may not be entirely wasted on you.

A note on the menu says: “All of our meals are freshly prepared.” When I ask for parmesan cheese, they bring a pot of that powdery pregrated grit that smells like dessicated dog vomit. I thought I’d better have a pudding, so I ordered the apple crumble. Alas, what they brought me resembled a mixture of budget muesli and aquarium gravel served in an old man’s slipper. The accompanying custard was pleasant only in that it reminded me of a scented pencil eraser I used to enjoy sucking in the hot summer of 1976.

But that’s enough. There is no point wasting my new superpowers on this poor, benighted Irish craphole. You may notice that I have no review in today’s Magazine. This is because I have taken a couple of weeks off to steel myself for the most savage onslaught yet known on some far harder targets much closer to home. And the harder they come, the harder they will fall.

You just watch.

Meat/fish: 0
Cooking: 1
Service: 5
Score: 2/10

I have no problem with a restaurant being savaged in a review as long as the review pertains to the areas of food, drink, service, and amenities etc. But this review strayed far from those areas. It's a crass, smug, offensive and factually inaccurate piece. I bet you he even tells people he "survived" a trip to Belfast the way people did in the 70's and 80's. Stick to reviewing the food a-hole and not the social commentary about which you know fuck all.

Where is my lobster eh?

You should get a medal for surviving days like St Patrick's. If not a medal then at least you be given your own body weight in booze to take home. In fact your own body weight in booze is a much better idea, it's not really fun being the only sober person in the whole city. That said, I don't even have the energy to lift so much as a sherry right now.I need to wash the green from my mind.....
fuck it
I just need to wash

There should be someone to carry my bag and help me into an air conditioned limo. A spa full of experts should be on hand to undress me, shower me, and dress me again in fluffy pj's. I should also get foot rubs, back rubs, and any other sort of rub-a-dub-dubs legally available. I should be drinking myself in to a gentle sleepy coma like state with the exclusive help of fine French wine. I should be eating steak stuffed with fois gras wrapped in lobster dusted with white truffles. A team of accountants should be calculating my tips and investing them wisely in Emu farms and off shore trusts.

But....

...but instead I am sat here stinking up the house stripped to the waist with more odors emanating from my own body than from your average landfill site. There is no gaggle of highly qualified body rubbers to smooth out my many kinks and owies. There was no air conditioned carriage, unless you count a three year old Ford Mondeo as luxury, I do not. No steak stuffed with fois gras wrapped in lobster sprinkled liberally with white truffle. No, instead there is second rate Chinese food and instead of luxurious French wine to imbibe myself with I have a can of Fanta.

But....

....the money was good. The customers were surprisingly sober, until the sun went down that is. The kitchen monkeys were more manlike and less apelike than normal. All in all it was a very sweet day. But now I get to don my surgical gloves and strip the green socks from my feet and stash them for another year. Tomorrow I'll bring you the story of the only table that made me want stab something. And by something I mean them. I don't respond well to "Yo". Yo? Yo fucking ho asshole.....

Until then I'm going to sleep.

It's the anticipation that gets you in the end....

"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)
repeated from last years post

The stores are fit to burst, there is drink stashed in every possible cupboard, cubby hole, and crack in the floor.

We have enough Guinness to blacken the poo of all of Belfast's citizens.

We have four fields worth of potatoes, vegetables, and enough salad leaves to feed a thousand rabbits for a hundred years.

Many many pigs, ducks, cows, fish, and baby sheep have been put to the sword for the gluttony ahead.

The music system has been set to the dubious classics of Paddy Reilly, Tommy Makem, The Furey's, The Chieftains, The Pogues and a whole host of other Aran jumper clad men.

The chefs have showered.

The bar staff are sober(ish).

The managers have set down their clipboards.

and I, and my waiters at arms, are ready.....

....now lets have you!

(and the first person to order an Irish coffee is getting a spitter)

With apologies to Anonymous Boxer

If you came here looking for an amusing but sweary post pertaining to Manuel's daily adventures in waiting then sorry, no dice.

Manuel is knackered.


But if you came here looking for little dog in St Patrick's day hat and collar
then huzzah for you!

proper post tomorrow

sorry Boxer...

Another fishy tail......

I have a terrible feeling of foreboding with regard to the next few days.
St Patrick's Day weekend is always a "lively" one.

With that in mind I hoped that Thursday night would be the calm before the green tinged storm. I didn't mind that it was busy I just wanted an idiot free night.

Oh well we can dream.....

"Yeah you know what I'd love?" said the very tactile, but not in an annoying way, woman. She gripped my arm as she spoke. If she had twisted it in even the slightest way it would have been a very sore Chinese burn. And probably have given me a flashback to my childhood. There could have been tears.

"No madam I have no idea what you'd love." I replied as I tried to free my arm from her death grip. Her other arm was waving about. I think she was actually trying to conjure up her most favourite meal, like a magician would.

"OOOOOOOOOHHHHHH" She said

"Yes?" I said

"I'd really really love some, oh what-dya-call-it......." The suspense, and her hand, was gripping.

".....I'd love some snapper!" and at that she released my arm and the blood began to flow again.

"Snapper?"

"Oh yeah some lovely fresh snapper with wok fried veggies."

"Oh that does sound lovely......" I agreed

"Doesn't it?" she chimed

"Yeah it really does, but we don't do it." I said in a very stern voice trying to put an end to this fucking charade.

"You don't do it?"

"NO we don't do it"

We haven't served snapper in over five years. I wouldn't mind but she had clearly looked at the menu for a good ten minutes before I approached her to see if she wanted to order. She was crest fallen. I rhymed off our fish options, all now served with a side dish of your choice. So she ordered a sirloin. For fuck sake!!

I get this all the time. People ask for things that aren't on the menu. If someone wants chicken, for example, done in a particular way we try to accommodate them if we have the time and more importantly the will. We always have chicken on the menu, ergo we always have chicken in the fridge. You cant go about asking for snapper or lobster or deep fried fairies. We don't keep random stock lying about just in case someone fancies something different. Anyway fairies aren't in season until the Autumn.

But it didn't end there.

This guy was in tonight, an hour late and with more Eastern European men all wanting Bish Visky every two minutes. They were actually good craic and ate like champions. But as with their last visit only the Scruffy Frenchman could speak English so all orders went through him. As I returned to the table to get their sweet order I found Scruffy telling them that strawberries and ice cream is "magnifique". And I agree. Just a fucking pity we don't serve it! They got rhubarb crumble and custard instead. I walked of as he tried to explain custard to his 9 non-English speaking chums. There's a challenge.

Good grief people just read the menu and pick something! If you want to write your own menu, open your own restaurant.

Who?

Little Miss Manuel and I were enjoying last evenings jigsaw puzzle CD cataloguing having sexy fun time sat on our arses watching television eating ice cream when the subject of waiters and waiting came up. Now I should say, this doesn't happen very often at chez Manuel. Whilst I always love to hear her stories of snot nosed kids on ritalin stabbing each other with crayons and what have you she is a lot less amenable to hearing my many many thoughts on the state of the catering industry. She reads the blog and, "....that's more than enough!"

Anyway after a good ten minute diatribe from me about service and the quality of wait staff LMM had heard enough and in an attempt to put an end to my whinging snapped,

"Well just who is good enough to serve you?!"

I know she was trying to draw a line under the evenings "debate" but....

The top 4 people I'd like as my waiter
(there were meant to be 5 but I'm very fussy)

4. The entertainment option, Rodney Dangerfield. He's like a machine gun with the one liners. "I asked the bartender to make me a zombie. He says God already beat me to it!" Quality.

3. The value option, Jesus. Does some great tricks with water and can feed a whole table with a loaf of Nutty Crust and a couple of fish fingers. Comes with 12 bus boys too. Nice.

2. The revenge option, Harry Gordon Selfridge. Ol Harry G was the mofo that first coined the term, "The customer is always right." The hideous, and factually inaccurate, phrase that haunts waiters, bartenders, shop workers, and anyone who has to serve the public. I'd work him like a mule in the field. I'd own his ass by the end of my 3 hour meal. I would complain and moan and belittle. So who's right now Harry boy?

1. The vanity/pure class option, me......what you expect?

So who would you like to be served by......?

******

Week 13 of The Roundtable

Food & Drink in Victoria Square

Food and drink outlets opened already or planned for the new Victoria Square Shopping Centre Belfast.....mmmmmmm(aybe not)

Cafe BB's
Chilli's
Costa Coffee
Gourmet Burger Kitchen
The Kitchen Bar
Maggianos
McDonalds
Nandos
O'Briens
Pizza Hut
Spur Steak and Grill
Starbucks

The only local company, excluding locally operated franchises, is the Kitchen Bar. Make of that what you will. But if the queue is too long or the middle classes have wore you down there are other options available........
here

Ye olden days of waiting

Restaurants have changed over the years and mostly for the better. The quality of food and wine available is almost beyond comparison to what was available when I was a lad. The range of choice has grown with every taste and style being catered for.

It's hard for most to remember the things we have left behind,
but not for me.

I remember them and I miss them too....

classy

Waiters wearing white shirts and bow ties. You just don't see that anymore unless you are in a provincial backwater such as Letterkenny or Lisburn maybe Portadown but I don't care what happens in Portadown. Uniforms are sponsored by the suppliers now meaning that the restaurants get their uniforms for free or at a hugely subsidised rate. So gone are white shirts and bow ties in come aprons with Stella on them and shirts like Grand Prix drivers. Where's the class gone people, where?

Chefs with tall hats. Not even head chefs wear tall hats anymore. No, now it's baseball caps with a thousand logos. And what ever happened to chefs whites and blue checked trousers? All gone whacky that's what happened! Chefs look like 1970's jazz musicians now. Even George Melly would balk at the outfits they wear to work now. Flashy cunts.

a chef

Tables set with hundreds of pieces of cutlery, glasses, and plates. Ah the magic of cutlery and how it confused people! You rarely get that anymore either unless you are dining with royalty. Fish knives, salad forks, soup spoons, multiple wine glasses were all set out to impress but mainly to bewilder and bedazzle. I still chortle to myself when I think back to those wonderful days and how people stuttered for an age when presented with their first course. They would lift a fork and then check the person to the left to see what they were using and then realise they were having soup and change again. Tremendous fun. But they took that joy away from us and now we bring cutlery as it is required. Spoil sports.

"Exotic" specials. And by exotic I mean pineapple rings. Those were halcyon days my friends. No menu was complete without something being topped with a ring of tinned pineapple, mainly gammon it has to be said but there were other things too. A perfectly formed ring of sugary pineapple also found it's way onto summer salads too and alongside spicy chicken. Tinned pineapple was a luxury in pre-tiger Ireland/during the troubles with only the richest drug dealers and celebrity terrorists being able to afford the real deal. But it wasn't just pineapple rings, hell no, there were other exotic items to be found on menus in the 70's and 80's. Pure orange being just about the strangest. And by pure I mean from a can. How the fuckity fuck they got away with offering a small glass of canned OJ as a first course I will never know.

mmmmmmmm
not

The Sweet Trolley. Long before the Health and Safety people were good at their jobs the un-chilled sweet trolley was the main attraction at any restaurant. There it sat tempting you for hours whilst you chomped your way through your pineapple ring topped gammon and "pure" orange. Restaurants that couldn't afford a sweet trolley or didn't have the space for one just put pictures of the sweets on the menu. For what it's worth you should never eat at a restaurant with pictures of the food on the menu, never. The waitress, and it was always waitresses back then, dragged the rickety and heavily laden trolley over the carpet to your table. And having finished everything you got to pick what you wanted. Would it be the trifle with the cream going off in the heat? Would it be the melting strawberry mousses? Or would it be everyones favourite, the homemade Sara Lee Black Forest Gâteaux? It didn't really matter which it was, they were all good if a bit warm and probably full of nasty bacteria.

But just as the bow tie was replaced with the open collar shirt sponsored by Guinness the sweet trolley was replaced with a two tonne refrigerated behemoth that just didn't have the same magic and sparkle.

Food served in baskets, prawn cocktails served in wine glasses, gravy, spag bol, fondue, aspic jelly, meat n three veg all replaced with rocket salads, tagliatelle, and my least favourite thing stuff that ain't soup served in a bowl. I hanker after a simpler time when we, the waiters, had the control and you, the customer, didn't know the difference between a fish fork and a soup spoon...........

Not so repressed memories

It was Christmas 1981, or thereabouts, and the family sitting room was crammed with grandparents, aunts, uncles and all those I held close to my heart. Being an annoying child I was rather put out that I wasn't getting the required attention that I felt that I deserved. I sang a little, I danced a little, I made a whole lot of noise but all to no avail.

But I didn't give up.
Hell no

Grandparents are always pleased to hear about your academic success, even if it is your sandpit skills, and I knew this was a good way of getting some attention. So I waited for an appropriate lull in the conversation and announced in the largest voice I could muster,

"ME'S THE BEST IN ENGLISH!"

There was a moments silence then the room was engulfed in laughter. Everyone was chortling and slapping their knees and having a merry old time at my expense. Except grandad, who being as deaf as a post, didn't hear my grammatical faux pas. "What did he say granny? He's the what? He's going to Eglish?" There were shouts of "Awh bless him, wee love." And other such remarks. Instead of a warm round of applause and 5 pound notes being squeezed into my hand I was being mocked and justifiably so.

Where is this going I hear you ask?

Well in the spirit of that fine moment I would like to proclaim,

"ME GOT SOMETHING PUBLISHED.
IN A PROPER MAGAZINE N ALL"

Griffiti Magazine Griffith College Dublin

And yet still no 5 pound notes have been squeezed into my hand!

Expect a full review of our new food and wine menu tomorrow. I've got 5 days of food in my fridge that I must reacquaint myself with now that my body has returned to "normal".

************

songs described as charts
more at "made in england by gentlemen"

I have seen my future, it ain't pretty

The last 72 hours have given me a glimpse into my future. I have seen what awaits me. I know what I am in for. And you know what? It's not good. It's very very not good.
Let me introduce you to the 4 P's of Manuel's future,

Plot loss, Puke, Pain ,and Poo.
(and soup) Artists impression of Manuel
aged 36

As Ralph Wiggum so accurately put it, "I have two owies".

I awoke the other morning with a niggling pain in my back. I assumed it was as a result of over sleeping rather than anything more malignant. I was sure my morning routine of lounging, sitting, smoking and eating would loosen the knot from my back. So you can imagine my puzzlement many hours later when the pain had in fact got worse. I attempted to lift my bulk from the couch.

Crikey!

I was bent over at a 90 degree angle. Now I'm no doctor but I was pretty sure that there was something rum going on. I made my way to the fridge and retrieved a bottle of pop and some chocolate from the basket on top. I inched my way back to the couch. And there I sat for hours feeling sorry for myself. And then the oddest thing happened, my voice went. It happened just as LMM came in from work.

"I'm not well" I croaked as if the pain from my back had moved and located itself in my vocal chords.

Clearly LMM was having none of it and it took ages to persuade her that I was indeed sicky bad. The final proof being my inability to finish my dinner. This hasn't happened since I was about 7 and a crazy aunt had put beetroot on my plate. She immediately swung into Florence Nightingale mode. My brow was mopped, my whims were catered to. And then she went home.

But all that was nothing in comparison to what was still to come....

1.30 AM, 3.35AM, and my favourite moment of the day 5.30AM found me throwing up into plastic bags, over the Belfast Telegraph, and even down the toilet. It was super fucking grim. I mean it was like back stage at a fashion show. And all this hours before I was due to return to work. Hell I was chucking into a bag an hour before I was due to leave. Friday night/Saturday morning's sleep was the worst I can remember. Sweats, disorientation, the constant feeling that I wasn't much longer for this world. I evoked the help of god, jesus, allah, and all the superheroes. I pledged that if they saw fit to get me through the night I would make changes.

I went to work all the same.

Probably shouldn't have. I was even more grouchy than I expected to be. My busted back ensured that I was unable to do any heavy lifting or smile. I even asked a pregnant woman to pick a menu off the ground for me. Classy, and a new low for me.

When I finally got home form work on Saturday I was ravenous. Having not eaten since Friday I was dying for something to eat. But I also didn't want to anger the demons in my tummy. I couldn't face another round of puking. So I had two boiled eggs. They were lovely. Not so lovely when they were coming back out again via the same route they went in 4 hours earlier. I know I need to loose some weight but I'd rather do it on my own terms rather than this really rather violent system.

But the worst is still to come.

Tuesday sees the launch of our new spring menu and with that our new wine list. In preparation for this we have the double joy of food and wine tasting on Monday afternoon. Three hours were I get paid to eat and drink! It's my favourite thing in the world. But with my stomach currently being more inhospitable than most of Iraq I'm not sure I can face it. What have I done to anger the gods?

What?

I have never felt as old as I have in the last few days. I was a pathetic sight on Saturday night as I hobbled about the restaurant. I still made more money than the rest of them but I am convinced this was sympathy money. No one wants to see their grandad serving them steak n chips. But if I want to continue doing the job that I love I need to drop a few pounds, lay of the smokes, and realise that sweat pants are for more than sitting about in sweating.

It's time to think about considering maybe looking into making changes.

maybe....

(this also explains why I haven't visited any other blogs in days, but I'll be round later, leave out a bucket or two)

You cant make me go back...

Back to work today after a great week off

Oh there'll be tears,
swearing,
shouting
and tantrums.

But I'm back and they'll just have to deal with it!

Going back to work is a nightmare in three stages

who's been touching my tables?
WHO?

Sadness...

Shite, I will have to wash and shave again. Each run of the razor over my beardy face will cause a little tear to trickle down my smooth but raw skinned face. It will be months before I can enjoy a satisfying beard stroke again. Pulling my uniform on will be like getting dressed for a funeral, sad, long, sombre and with plenty of dramatic sighing. LMM will hug me and clasp my hand and whisper, "It's ok....it's ok.....I'm just a phone call away...." (No, no I wont - LMM)

Anger...
Going back to work angers me.

I'll be stomping about for an hour or 3 looking for problems that don't exist and rearranging things that are just fine where they are. I probably wont speak save for a few mutterings of an exasperated, "For fuck sake" and no doubt several exclamations of, "You take a fucking week off......" Ah the joy.

The overlords like to make changes when I'm off work, changes they know they cant get away with when I'm prowling like a Friesian Cow. So that'll take another hour of my time.

In the end comes the acceptance...

But that could be Tuesday maybe Wednesday....

“It's a good thing that life is not as serious as it seems to a waiter”

It was but a year ago, today, that I published my first post on Well Done Fillet. And what a year it has been. I have loved every minute of it, even if those minutes meant I was up until 3am and that my waist has grown larger. I cant eat out anymore without writing a post in my head whilst I consider if the waiters are showing enough love or not. I'm addicted to my stats and I've all but given up on watching TV. I fear being outed as my batman like alter ego, Manuel, by the overlords at work. But I fear having nothing to write about the most.

Life has changed since Fatman and Thumb Stubber walked into my restaurant that fateful night.

And you know what?

I love it....

My reasons for blogging were several. Firstly, it was and still is cathartic. When you come home from work late at night tense and still replaying an incident in your mind from the previous service it is good to have somewhere to vomit all that bile and bitterness. LMM couldn't cope with listening to me for a moment longer. Secondly, I just wanted to share all my "fun" times with you.

Being a waiter isn't the toughest job in the world, far from it. But over my nearly 20 years in hospitality I have witnessed the steady decline in standards, both from customers and amongst the people who serve them. It irks me so. Please and thank you are becoming but a distant memory. Courtesy, civility, and manners have been replaced with rudeness, boorishness, and a sense of entitlement. If your waiter is rude to you or not giving you the service you richly deserve fucking pull them on it. But don't be surprised and go running for mummy when we call you out for your finger clinking, ass grabbing, and tardiness. I'm getting too old, too fat, and too grouchy to put up with it any more. You fuck with me and you will have to prepare to say hello to my waiter's friend.

But it ain't all bad.

For every 10 mouth breathers I have to serve well done fillet steaks with sauce on the side and a bucket of ketchup to I get two or three little gems, the customers who remind me why I continue to wait tables. And the tips are good too, obviously.

But mostly I hope you have all learned to love the waiters in your life a little more.

You have haven't you?

Cheers folks for all the visits and comments it really does mean a lot to me.

and remember

Book your table, be on time, order well, eat, pay, tip, leave.
(deviation is the road to dining dissatisfaction)