Not even a pear let alone a partridge...

On the first day of Christmas my customers gave to me,

Not a lot actually as one whole table of ten didn't show up despite being confirmed and having paid a deposit, which is odd to say the least. It's odd and worrying now that I come to think of it because if they show up some other day they are likely to be very disappointed.

I was also promised a number of celebrities for dinner tonight. Number of celebrities promised, two. Number of celebrities delivered, none unless of course you count the strange blonde haired kid from that show, Skins. Which of course I don't.

It's gonna be a long weekend.......

Half man, half badger - all waiter....

I had to get up at eight on Wednesday morning. Can you imagine the horror of such a thing for a chap like me? Eight? In the morning? It was frightful I can tell you. Just like badgers, waiters are primarily a nocturnal species. There are a few day walkers who work lunch shifts and what have you but I wouldn't know about such things. Badgers and waiters have many things in common. Yes we do. They prefer the night and also dress in black and white, as badgerland.co.uk notes, "They are nocturnal, which means they usually leave their setts at dusk or later. They emerge cautiously, sniffing and listening for signs of danger. Once they are sure it is safe, they leave to groom, play and forage."

If that doesn't describe your average waiter well I don't know what does. Surely "groom, play and forage" transcribes as - dress, drink and kebab!

I'm losing it aren't I?

half man, half badger

all waiter....

And why, I hear you ask, was I up at such an ungodly/waiterly hour? Fixer upper men that's why, fixer upper men in my house to be precise. Okay there was only one but one is enough. Following the recent flood in the house, when the sitting room was literally under feet milliliters of water, repairs were required to return my own badger lair to it's former glory. And being as useful as a chocolate fireguard when it comes to handy chap activities I obviously called upon the Landlord to fix my water beaten floor and what have you.

The Landlord is a fairly affable and pleasant chap though he does have a tremendously annoying habit of leaving long pauses during conversations that I feel duty bound to fill. And fill them I do, normally with incoherent gibber and indeed jabber. I find long pauses unsettling and will happily volunteer any information, no matter how personal just to fill the void. It's a safe bet I would not fair well in a wartime situation.

Anyhoo he phoned last week to say he would be round on Monday, morning of course, to see what needed done. This ultimately lead to a weekend of cleaning and tidying and stuffing things into drawers. Plant pots were used to hide mysterious and immovable stains and the cousin was sent to wait in the garden until the landlord had been and gone. The two don't really get on since the cousin's attempts to have a SKY TV satellite dish were so swiftly poo pooed by Mr Landlord.

Keeping the house tidy is a challenge at the best of times but having to keep it tidy for a whole freaking week is the equivalent of sucking in your fat tum tum and fake smiling for family photos, but for a week. Oh how I long to throw stuff on the ground and build up a satisfying amount of dishes that take an hour to wash.

So he comes round on Monday and starts tut tutting and head scratching and measuring the floor with large manly strides. I stood to the side filling the lack of conversation by disclosing my pin number and internet passwords and the secret thing that happened in the summer of ought four that we don't talk about. Honestly I don't know what it is but he spooks me out. He left promising to return on Wednesday to paint the place which was unusual as I couldn't see how painting the house would fix the floor, but what do I know. I changed a plug once and felt like an electrician.

Now I didn't fancy a whole day of excruciatingly dull conversation filled only with nodding and the involuntary revealing of my many many dark secrets so I went to work. That's right I went to work leaving the Landlord alone with only his tins of creamy coloured paint for company. I not only went to work to escape having to spend the day with him but I went in an hour early. How's that for dedication to the cause? The cause in this case being my sanity.

So I get home thinking it would all be done and lovely only to find a note saying he would be back on Friday to finish the painting and that he would do the floor next week. Mother of Mercy I cant keep the house tidy and the cousin in the garden for that long. Sake, if I go into work an hour early again the aye gonna think I am up to something....

Wish I was a badger.....

Manuel and the case of the Dutchman's missing shalmon...

So the wonderful doctor has reliably informed me that my carbon monoxide levels are down from 14ppm to 1ppm. Which is nice. Nice, but still not enough. I wonder if I can trade my personal carbon monoxide levels with India or something. Reduced carbon monoxide levels, whilst surely a good thing, still don't stop you sweating like an addict in a tobacconists when you have to run round a restaurant all night in search of a Dutchman's Sheshame Shalmon.

where is the shalmon?
there it is!!

Sheshame Shalmon? Well that's what he said to me. It's another tale of control freakery gone mad.

"Excuse me?" I was looking at him and he was looking at me and the rest of his chums were looking at the space where there should have been a delightful plate of sesame salmon, apparently. Now this wasn't my table so I had no earthly idea what the hell was going on. After a tense moment of staring and incomprehension and bewilderment and raised eyebrows (me) and pointing and staring and speaking Dutch (him) he eventually piped up with,

"My friendsh all have their dinnersh but I have no sheshame shalmon. Maybe the shefsh forgots about me? Maybe the shalmon got away, eh?"

His pronunciation of "chef" made me giggle, but there was no time to dwell on it. He was a large, jolly chap - much like Santa minus the beard and other Santa related paraphernalia. But I guessed this jolliness wouldn't last for much longer if I didn't make with his sesame salmon quick pronto like.

"Okay sir......eh let me just see where your salmon is. It shouldn't be a moment", I assured him and off I ventured looking for Waiter Chum number one who was serving them.

I tracked her down to the back corridor where she was drinking blackcurrant juice. I was all a fluster and she was not.

"Where'stabletwo'ssesamesalmonhehasn'tgotitbuttherestofthetabledo. Ithinkhe'sgettingpissedoff?" I asked without stopping to breathe in my usual calmness under fire excitable voice, to which waiter chum number one replied,

"What?", obviously.

"Where'stabletwo'ssesamesalmonhehasn'tgotitbuttherestofthetabledo. Ithinkhe'sgettingpissedoff?" I added extra vim to it this time thinking that would clear things up.

"What are you saying? Gimme it one word at a time. Go ahead first word", she was as perplexed as I was stressed.

"Table two..."

"Yes", what about table two?"

"Man....."

"Yes there is a man on table two. And?" She also made reference to Lassie and Flipper but I chose to ignore that.

"....man.....missing his salmon."

"Ah right. I'll get it for him now then." And of she flounced without a care in the world in the direction of the kitchen. Turns out she had held it back, to stop it going cold, as he had been out smoking when she brought the food to the table originally. I had a pear to calm myself. Seriously I can get myself worked up over nothing in a second. Did I mention I am a control freak?

So ten minutes, and one pear, later and I found myself walking towards the happy Dutch folk when I spotted the formerly jolly Santa-esque chap looking a whole lot less jolly than before and with still no salmon. "Mother of jebus what now", I thought as I stuck my nose into someone else's table again.

I stared down at the still empty place setting wearing an expression of someone who has just discovered they had trodden in dog shit and trampled it through their mother in laws carpet. That is to say I was mortified.

"Sir, still no salmon?"

"No sheshame, what am I to do eh?"

Partly losing the ability to speak I stuttered, "I...I...I...I....I'm soooo sorry sir, let me get this sorted. I can only apologise. I'm so so sorry."

"Itsh okay shir, I jusht wants my shalmon." By the way it's hard to do a Dutch accent without bursting into Sean Connery.

I stormed off bypassing waiter chum number one who again was nowhere to be seen and headed straight to the source of the problem - the last bastion of the strange, the refuge of the aberrant, the kitchen. Never a safe place for a waiter with a fiery temper and a missing salmon.

"Where the fuck is table two's salmon?", I asked with my usual tact. Shouting in the kitchen is like flicking the nose of an angry dog, not smart and likely to leave you without a head.

"It's nat 'ere", replied little chef.

"Where the fuck is it then?"

Attempting to look behind him little chef hits back with, "Dunno, it's nat up my ass that's for sure."

"I swear to fuck I'm sick of you pricks fucking things up all the time."

"OI......" It was the head chef who I thought had gone home ages ago.

EEK.

"...your salmon isn't here, now get out." He may have called me a fat something or other but again I chose to ignore that as he is off the smokes too.

I walked away muttering and swearing and promising vengeance, under my breath of course. Chefs have big knives and little respect for human life at the best of times. But this still didn't solve the riddle of the missing salmon. I got back into the restaurant and headed towards the Dutch table only to discover the jolly Dutchman happily chomping through his salmon. He looked up and saw me peering at him.

"More sheshame, it's good eh?"

"Yeah.....really good." I was so utterly confused, had it all been a dream? Was I imagining complaints now? Had I crossed a gateway into a strange and unknown place where I make up problems? No apparently I hadn't. He had quite innocently sent his salmon back to the kitchen to get more sesame added to it.

And as waiter chum number one said,

"You just need to keep your nose out of tables, and salmons for that matter, that don't concern you."

Sheesh, as the Dutchman may or may not have said, that's me told.

This is Belfast, not Lilliput.......

As I posted yesterday, Sunday was a challenging experience. It was the sort of service that makes you wish you'd stayed in school. Honestly I would have thrown myself down a set of stairs just to get out of it if it wasn't for my inability to withstand any level of pain. So with no obvious route to escape the lunacy of the dining room floor one just had to grit ones teeth and try and act professional. Or at the very least not hit anybody. Considering my lovely little restaurant was filled to the bloody rafters with the grotesque, the odious, and the downright repugnant that was always going to be difficult. But I survived, as always. Funny old weekend though.

farmer
not funny people....

You know who's just as difficult to serve as children? Country folk that's who. I should preface this bit by saying that more than half my family is made up with farmer types and people who have more than a passing interest in the weather. So I know about country ways and more importantly country attitudes. But knowing is one thing, dealing with it is something else all together.

In they sloped, twelve rosy cheeked men of the field, about twenty minutes after their scheduled arrival time of 8pm. They had clearly been enjoying a drink or fifteen somewhere else before they arrived. Their spirits were good and they appeared jovial and approachable at first. There was no hint at this point of the hideousness and whinging to follow.

It took several minutes to complete the toilet runs and fidgeting (them not me) before they finally settled and acknowledged my presence. Let me tell you it's difficult for a short fella to loom over a table of twelve men with arms bigger than my legs and with voices that would make Brian Blessed seem reserved. I steeled myself and prepared to make my opening gambit.....

"Good evening gentlemen, can I get you something from the bar?" Show no fear I thought.

"Yeeeeeeeooooowww". You know you are going to have a tough time when the first words from a guests mouth is, "Yeeeeeeeooooowww".

Ignoring it I continued with, "So what can I get you guys?"

"A big blonde with a million pounds", replied the joker of the group PJ or DJ or Cecil or whatever the hell he was called. Everyone from the country is named after their grandfather or father or favourite cow, that's why no one from the countryside is called Shakira or Kylie or Dakota. I'm not saying it's a bad thing but it is worth noting all the same.

I raised an eyebrow and decided that I would forgo with speaking to the group and just tackle them one by one. The first chap was the fine orator who "yeeeeeeooowww'd" my presence at the table. Clearly he had been dressed by his wife or mother, in fact it's a fair assumption to say that they had all been dressed by their wives or mothers. I just don't see him in NEXT trying to decide between the floral shirt with the white collar and the white shirt with the floral collar. He was wearing the former.

"Can I get you a drink sir?"

"Certainly can there fella....Here boys, boy, boys, boys, BOYS...." they all looked round "this fellas gettin' us a drink.......fair play 'til him....I'm gonna get a double brandy seein' as he's buyin'."

"Ah jaysus, great fella ye are...." and so on from the rest of the table. I played along for a minute until I got bored with the fake laughing and what have you.

Bleurgh.....!!! It took ten minutes to secure a proper drinks order from them what with all their shenanigans and boisterous behaviour. But I was sure they'd settle down after a bit, there was a bit of a school trip feel to them, boys away from home and all that sort of thing. Actually there is nothing worse than a group of country boys out of sight of their wives/mothers. They get a bit too giddy for my liking.

But it wasn't their giddiness or obvious jokes or even their insistence on handing me their plate as soon as they were finished a course no matter if anyone else was done. It did rankle a bit it has to be said. No, what gets me about serving country folk is their insistence that everything in the city is smaller than back on the farm.

I served one chap his lamb ramp and asked him if he need anything else to accompany it, meaning sauce or salt or glass of wine, to which he replied, "aye I'd like some lamb with me lamb."

"Excuse me?"

"Jaysus fella that there's a small lamb boy." Shouting up at one of his cohorts he continued with, "Here John Junior, John Junior, John Junior...." John Junior was busy having a similar discussion with waiter chum number one at the other end of the table regarding the salmon which he claimed he couldn't see on his plate as it was "so small". But he persevered until John Junior was finished badgering waiter chum number one.

"What you want PJ, I'm trying to find ma salmon."

"Here, this must bay wan o your lambs?"

"What you fuckin' on abouts?"

"Ah say it must be wan o your lambs, it's that fuckin' small hey...." And with that the table of twelve descended into laughter and swearing and sweary laughter. There then ensued a conversation about the credit crunch and maybe we had served them lamb crunch or credit lamb or something as equally as dull. Obviously it took them about five minutes flat to shovel their food into their pie holes.

Now I know these country types have big appetites what with building barns all day and getting cows pregnant at night and practicing for the ploughing competitions at the weekend but I know our portions are generous and can floor your average everyday punter. But these chaps make out like they have entered the Kingdom of Lilliput such is their whinging and insisting that everything is "fuckin' small".

Obviously the bill isn't small though. You can bet your tiny city ass every time you get country folk that they want to negotiate about the bill.

"And what's a service charge for? Is that fer youse waitresses."

Oh I got that dig loud and clear. You see in the country, men do men jobs, digging holes, filling in holes, cow tampering etc. In the country men don't wait tables unless of course they own the place and name it after themselves.

"Jaysus if I thought I was gonna have til pay that I woulda carried it meself."

I said nothing. Eventually he produced a wedge of notes, no doubt he lifted it from under his mattress before he came out, thicker than an elephants trunk and asked me how much I wanted to settle the bill. I read the total again as it was printed on the bill.

"Aye I see that but how much will yis take?"

This went on for a further five minutes until he realised I wasn't for bending on the issue. I hate serving country folk, obviously........

Jesus, or rather Jaysus wept.

You know it's a bad day when you need a hacksaw.......

stop fingering my forks....

Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Manuel and I am a control freak. There I've said it. I'm not ashamed to say it but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I wasn't such a control freak. I'd like to be a guardian of control or an occasional babysitter of control but not a control freak. You have no idea how exact Wikipedia's definition of control freak describes me.

"In some cases, the control freak sees their constant intervention as beneficial or even necessary; this can be caused by feelings of superiority, believing that others are incapable of handling matters properly, or the fear that things will go wrong if they don't attend to every detail. In other cases, they may simply enjoy the feeling of power it gives them so much that they automatically try to gain control of everything around them."

And? What's the problem?

When you add a huge case of OCD to my control freakery you get a real fun guy to work with. I'm so bad now that all my bathroom products are faced off so that the labels all face the same direction like the wine bottles etc behind the bar at work. My curtains must be equidistant on either side from the wall, just like work. My glasses are all stacked in equal rows and my shoes are in a perfect line from Converse to work shoes. It's oh so depressing and time consuming.

It would be so much easier if everybody else shared these obsessions goals with me. Waiter chum number one is nearly there but the new kids are years away from developing a full Obsessive Compulsive Disorder like all true waiting staff have. No really, the laughing never stops. But that's mainly at me rather than with me. I wonder sometimes if a restaurant is the best place for a controlling freak with obsession issues to work. I mean the most satisfying part of the day for me is that final minute before we open when everything is just so symmetrical and perfect. And then the guests arrive and start touching things.

Cunts.

Lets take Sunday for example. All was well in my world. The guests were neat, actually neat not neat like you crazy Americans say, that is to say they weren't spreading themselves over two tables when one would suffice. That shit irks me actually it vexes and irks to the point of distraction. Your coat, bag, children etc have a large enough table to fulfill your dining needs you don't need to involve the immaculately set table beside you. Anyway my restaurant was free from any of that nonsense and it was clam, calm like a Sunday should be but rarely is.

I was in a jolly mood and was acting the convivial host between my regular gig schlepping plates to and fro. I was exchanging pleasantries and laughing gayly with all the nice civilised sorts about this and that and the other. Even the children on table ten were keeping their sticky mitts off table twelves cutlery. This was just lovely, too good to be true but lovely.

And then the door opened.

Taking no notice of my charming welcome and pleased to see you expression a rather brash couple sidestepped me and wandered through the restaurant. Well they tried to. When I finally cornered them they explained that they were looking for the rest of their family who they had arranged to meet at the restaurant. After a quick shufty about we all agreed that they weren't there.

"Well you need to get us a table then", blustered Mr Brash. He seemed annoyed that I didn't have his family.

"Yes sir and how many will there be of you?"

He stared at his wife who stared back at him who then stared at me. It was like the end scene of Reservoir Dogs, you know when everybody is pointing guns at everybody. Soon someone would die, me, obviously.

"Deirdre, Sean, Sam, Bob, Brian, Matilda, Roisin, she bringing her Dave?"

"Aye, her Dave and his kids and wee Dave too and......", continued Mrs Brash counting out family members on her fingers. No wonder she looked so haggard. I stood there wondering when the roll call of names would end. I also wondered how wee was wee Dave but decided that it wasn't really a priority right now.

"Bout 20 of us", says Mr Brash.

"About 20?"

"Aye 20 at most", Confirmed Mrs Brash.

"And you don't have a table reserved, for 20, today, here, in this restaurant, for 20?"

"No do we need to?"

I got shot of them and told them I would have their table ready in about a half hour. I necked an espresso and tried to push the vein in my neck back down. But it wouldn't go down. In fact a half hour later, when the table was ready and looking magnificent, it popped out a little further.

In they strode with babies here and toddlers there and special bags with baby equipment and small boys with PSP's and screaming, oh the screaming. I can still here the wails of wee Dave as his brother beat him for no apparent reason. The men all wreaked of cigarettes and the women of cigarettes and Calvin Klein. Is there anything more annoying than the sanctimonious complaints of an ex-smoker?

"Here..." begins one of the women with a child at her legs "...er's nat enough seats fer us uns."

And she was right there wasn't enough seats for all of em uns. When Mr Brash said there would be about 20 of them he meant to say there would be about 25 of them uns. My bad, apparently, as they took the huff with me as some of them had to sit on a separate table. That's right, my bad. Sake.

At this point I decided waiter chum number three would be doing this table. My marvelous Sunday mojo was in tatters and I deduced that serving this lot wasn't gonna bring it back. Standing, or was it hiding, behind the bar I watched as cutlery hit the floor, each little clang forcing the vein in my neck out a little further. Why bother setting the table and making it pretty when a couple of buckets and trough would have done the job better? The three window blinds were raised and lowered and raised again like it was an Olympic sport and when they had finished with that all three were at different levels. They're mocking me. If there is one thing I really cant cope with it's my window blinds at different levels.

The order was secured and then changed and then sent to the kitchen and then changed again. Children were rushing round the place like it was an outdoor pursuits camp. Up the walls they went and under tables too. The toilets became a water park and other customers were just trivial inconveniences. Funny thing, I didn't sell one dessert after that table arrived. It was as if they had all decided, en masse, that now was a good time to leave and they did. Or at least they tried.

Someone had locked the door. The door to the restaurant, the door through which people enter or in this case leave. The door was locked and we needed a key to get them out. But alas they key would not work as the lock had been bust when said individual had locked it. Mother of all that is holy I was stressed. Three lovely couples were staring at me with, "please get us out of here" eyes whilst I fidgeted and pulled at the door. But the door would not budge. At this point the computer system decided that because it doesn't need a door to exit that it would leave in it's own special way and it did, it crashed. I had lost all control and was drowning mainly in a sea of toddlers and falling cutlery.

I ushered the nice people out the backdoor. It was like saving the Jews from the oncoming Nazis. Yes it is! Now, taking customers out the backdoor of a restaurant is like inviting your mother to read through the history file of your internet, that is to say there is shit in there you don't want them to see. But what was I to do?

Food was served and food hit the floor. Thankfully the restaurant was empty now, obviously as the door was still locked. But after someone, the manager I assume who was running between the office and the front door trying to fix all our problems, secured a hacksaw we managed to get the door open again. As we watched them eat/drop their food we discussed what had happened to the door and wondered how it had become locked. Various reasons were offered and in the end children were blamed. "Not so", responded waiter chum number one who had been on a smoke break (oh how I envied her). One of the dad's had done it. She had over heard him explain to his wife that he had locked the door to stop the kids getting out.

UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE.

The children were now through the restaurant like an invading army. I had tried to reason with a few of them and had even tried to coax them back to the "loving" arms of their various mothers. Like they listened. No they would much rather ping cutlery off wee Dave's head. In the end I gave up. I gave up trying to keep the restaurant tidy. I gave up picking food off the floor. I gave trying to push all my elevated veins back under the skin.

You can't control the weather and you can't control a half dozen children if they want to ping your cutlery off their cousins head.......

Table for one is it? Awh......bless

Ah another weekend approaches and no doubt many of you will be making plans for mirth and merriment and quite probably jocularity too no doubt with the ones you love or even with your family. My cousin went out with family last weekend and arrived back late on Sunday night talking like a washing machine with a pizza in one hand and a tandoori chicken abomination in the other. A real renaissance man. But spare a thought for those poor unfortunates who aren't as blessed as the rest of you and able to waste away the lazy weekend hours with someone special having a frolicsome and gleeful time.

Table for one sir?

For once I'm not talking about waiters, although you should spare a thought, and your change, for us. No, for once I am thinking about other people, sadder people, more mournful people, people who for one reason or another have no one with which to frolic or enjoy high jinks, in other words people who have to dine alone. Bless. It's not unusual for people to dine alone at lunchtime but it is unusual to see diners eating alone at nighttime, especially at the weekend. There are three types of lonely single diners - the out of town business person, the Billy/Billie no mates, and the uber confident.

The out of town business person doesn't care that they are dining alone. They have their crackberry, their copy of some over important broadsheet or the latest John Grisham-esque borefest to keep them company. The difficulty with the out of town business monkey is that they cant be fobbed off with a tiny table in the corner. Which is disappointing from a waiter's point of view. They normally kick up a stink and mess themselves, and your doorway, until they get a large enough table to accommodate their mobile office.

You can, however, stick little Billy/Billie no mates on to a tiny table in the corner, they are used to it. Oh why am I trying to be even handed about this? Billy no mates is always Billy no mates and never Billie no mates. It's always the weird guy with the straight legged and suspiciously perfectly ironed jeans carrying a plastic bag. Billy doesn't care where you seat him as he is just glad to be out in the public and not cooped up at home with his dead mother and her cats that scare him. The only real problem with Billy, apart from the house smell he brings with him, is that they either talk way too much or not at all. I mean getting an order from these social amoebas can be like pulling teeth from a man with his mouth closed OR conversely they take every opportunity they can get to talk to you. They will ask about each and every menu item, line by line, ingredient by ingredient. They are so starved of social interaction that you reading the menu to them is enough to warrant a whole page in their diary. Sad, but they are easy.

And then there are the uber confidents. Not many of these about, I've probably only served five or six of them all year. There is one guy that comes maybe once a month, he's an uber confident sort of guy. He comes on his own, gets some food, chat's a little, tips and leaves. Nice work! The uber confidents don't make themselves small or have to hide behind a book or need the constant chirp chirp of their mobiles to have a good time. These are the sort of people who are happy and obviously confident enough in their own skin to go out on their own. I say huzzah for the uber confidents!

We waiters are a judgmental lot and will note the fact that you are dining on your own but that's not how we will judge you. Dining, like most things, can be so much better when you are on your own. So if you are intending to dine on your own this weekend here's my advice....

Book in advance. Waiters will use any excuse to put you on a the shit table they normally cant give away if you turn up without a booking. Plus tables for one that reserve in advance scare the bejesus out of waiters, chefs and restaurant managers. A table for one can quite often mean someone doing a review or evaluation of some sort. So bring a notepad with you if you want to get the best service and food you ever had.

Bring a book or something small enough that can fit into your bag or pocket. Seriously it can get very fucking boring very fucking quick listening to the next table overs conversation about the new house extension or Susan's promotion. I know because I'm listening too.

Put something, your coat, bag, etc on the other chair. This shows the rest of the restaurant and other waiters that you are dining alone and haven't just been stood up. You don't want to spend the entire meal getting sad sympathetic smiles from every waiter/customer that walks past. Or maybe you do.

Dress like the uber confident person you are. People are gonna stare at you as you chow down on your bread for one. So damn well give me something to stare at.

Order whatever the hell you want! There is nothing better than dining on your own. (Apart from dining with LMM obviously) But you can eat what you want without having to share or having to deal with disparaging looks when you order the cheesecake having just eaten your own body weight in meat.

Dining on your own is one of life's true pleasures, just as dining with someone you love is, so treat yourself and do it now. Eat for one and tip for two. [Ahem cough cough] I'm still a waiter with needs you know......

Any other advice?

The first step of the long surrender.....

I was chatting with Dances with Glue, one of my more regular customers, on Tuesday night about this, that, and the other. She gets her name due to her fondness for handicrafts and that sort of thing. Practically everything she was wearing had been handmade or altered or had something garish sewn into to it, from the crocheted coin purse with "attractive" frog on it to the wooly cigarette case adorned with sunny flowers. Yes because putting them in to a wooly "sock" makes them less deadly. Honestly birthday gifts from her must just be a delightful surprise, delightful like diarrhea.

mirror mirror on the wall

who's the grumpiest of them all....

We were just shooting the breeze whilst we waited for the kitchen to bodge together her tagliatelle. And when it comes to pasta they always bodge it together. It's as if they must leave it under the hot lamps for a minute or two before they send it, just so that it develops a nice thick skin. We were discussing all manner of nonsense from the state of the world to her difficulty in acquiring cheap fuzzy felt when she turned the conversation to my not smoking. We had enjoyed numerous conversations in the past about the best places to go for a smoke when in town and the rights of smokers in general. Obviously she knew I had quit.

"So how's it going then, cracked up yet?", she inquired with her usual forwardness.

"No, I feel fine. Eating a lot of fruit and nuts and that sort of thing."

"You've been eating a lot of something that's for sure" says she and pokes me with her pinky.

Obviously I was taken aback at her impertinent remark and assault on my pudgy person. I was at a loss for a good comeback. I did consider asking about her boyfriend who had recently done one but didn't. Familiarity does indeed breed contempt, and a waiter poked with a sharp little pinky is a waiter who will hold your pasta under the hot lamps until it has a skin thicker than a rhino. I was annoyed for the rest of the night. Mainly because it's true.

You see your average French waiter is tall, model tall with Bowie-esque cheekbones and has the ability to stare down at his own feet without having to both suck and push in his tum tum. This was particularly the case at the fancy Cafe Marly at the Louvre. Crikey they were better dressed than I was on the morning of my wedding, and none of them bore a haunting look of impending doom. Still I've always thought the staff shouldn't look better than the guests. The only way for that to happen with these guys is if a bus run of lovelies from the planet of beautiful people show up.

I was considering this and Dances with Glue's fickle fat pointing finger whilst staring at myself in the mirror on Tuesday night. Believe me this isn't something I do often. I normally throw a shirt over the looking glass to shield myself from the horror it reflects. This has been a tactic that has served me, if not the general public, well over the years as I've grown from a waif like teenager to a bald 36 year old with a spread more generous than your average deli counter. Little Miss Manuel enjoyed the view though, shit I think I went a bit gay for them too....for a bit.

Like watching a good car crash or Kerry Katona on a daytime TV show it was hard for me to take my eyes off the grotesque reflection. How it had happened was not in question, a fondness for pies, cakes and all the wonders of the pig. Why it happened was not in question, greed and the folly of youth. Ah I think back with fondness to the halcyon carefree days of last year when I could eat, drink, and smoke what I wanted without worrying about whether it was likely to keep me up all night with indigestion. Those days are over. How am I gonna shift it and return this once wondrous body (Ha! LMM) to it's former svelte like condition, now that is a question.

Eventually I gave up trying to suck my paunch back inside my body whilst trying to imagine what I might look like after some intensive dieting and climbed into bed with two mini twister lollies and a half bag of minstrels. As I lay in the dark developing strategies to lose weight without having to give up any of my favourite foods and eating habits or having to exercise I got a nasty case of heartburn. Christ the world is out to get me. I tossed and turned and beat my chest and in the end I had to get up again.

So as I sat on my bed in the dark with the light from the modem flickering off my hairy legs trying to belch the pain away I realised that this was only the beginning, the first step of the long surrender. Soon I will be one of those men who has to pop twenty pills in the morning just to keep his bowels under control and I'll have to takes swigs from a bottle of Milk of Magnesia after every meal as I complain about, "my guts." All my food will be boiled or steamed and be devoid of all flavour. And butter will be treated like my own personal kryptonite. I'll wanna order a rare steak with chips and LMM will suggest the "heart healthy" fish that comes with nothing but derision and dirty looks from the waiter.

Fuck I cant be arsed with getting old and having to change my ways. If anybody needs me I'll be eating butter straight from the tub and throwing hand grenades at the pretty thin people.

Or of course I could not overreact and maybe I should just not let Dances with Glue back in again........

Christmas is coming and the waiter is getting fat (well he is off the smokes)

Christmas is coming. This startling and most fear inducing of facts only really dawned on me the other night as I was about to roll over to sleep. I mean I knew it was coming but I guess I had blocked it out in the same way we block out thoughts of our own mortality. Yes the two are the same. I was all snug and warm and had the duvet right up to my chin and had tucked the rest of the duvet under my generous bulk. I'm not saying I was aiming for the caterpillar cocoon type thing but that's the way it ended up. Well it was until I realised that the season of the Crier, the Mentalist and the Drunk was fast approaching.

I spent the next few hours breathing into a brown paper bag. There is nothing I can do to halt the oncoming cavalcade of christmas chaos. There is nothing I can do but re-post last years guides to surviving The Office Party......

The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving the Office Party Part 1
The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving the Office Party Part 2
The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving the Office Party Part 3
The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving the Office Party Part 4

Ten days people, ten short days, get em read...

Cry me a River......you massive douche.....

So Justin Trousersnake (although Britney claimed otherwise) has been screwing the crew, not literally of course. Mr Tiddlerdick cheated his restaurant staff out of their tips and failed to pay overtime at his Southern Hospitality BBQ restaurant in Manhattan, allegedly. Including the word allegedly means he cant sue me right? Southern Hospitality eh? If that's his idea of hospitality then I would hate to be on the end of his hostility.

Any hoo a waiter, Felipe Ramales, has decided that enough is enough and has filed a lawsuit on behalf of fifty of his work chums to reclaim the allegedly misappropriated money. Justified? Probably. Cry me a River Justin you massive douche. Huzzah for Mr Ramales, I hope he and his fifty waiter chums get all that is owed to them and more again on top of that.

little man syndrome can lead to
massive douche syndrome if indulged...

Talking of massive douches I had this chap in on Sunday evening who was indeed a massive douche, a massive douche and then some.

"Mr Waiter", called la douche grande. Mr Waiter? What am I, a Roger Hargreaves character? Did I mention that this guy was a massive douche?

"Mmmmmm Yeeeeees sir?" I gave him a nice long drawn out yes so as to indicate my dissatisfaction at being called Mr Waiter.

"Mr Waiter..." that worked well then "....Mr Waiter I wish to move tables."

"Again sir?" He had already moved from his original due to the light above it, "blinding" him.

"Yes waiter, this table affords me no view. I wish to have a view."

You can have a view of my boot up your ass in a minute matey. The pomposity with which he spoke was outstanding, especially for a little fella. He wasn't a dwarf but he was a very small man. He also spoke with a big booming, Brian Blessed-esque, voice. To be honest it sounded forced and I was sure that at any moment he would fail to maintain it and end up squeaking like a jockey.

"A view sir, maybe we could try the first table again. It had a lovely view." I suggested with a large snifter of my own pomposity added for good measure. I am no stranger to the world of little man pompousness having suffered under it for years until I met LMM who cured me of my pomposity if not my littleness.

"Yes but it did have the light problem though didn't it?" I was trying not to smirk as he stared up at me with his little small mans face all contorted and serious as if we were discussing the impending death of a loved one or something.

"Yes indeed sir, the light problem. What to do though, it really is a pickler." I was laying it on thicker than jam on a sandwich in my house after a night on the hooch.

"Yes, it is a pickler."

"Indubitably sir." I see it as my life's goal to get the word indubitably used at least once a day. It is such a fantastic word to say if a little ostentatious.

"You want a seat with a view and I have a seat with a view for you but the [cough] blinding light problem prevents you from availing of said seat with a view. What. A. Pickler Sir." I was now speaking in such a grandiose level that I wasn't sure if he got the fact that I was taking the piss.

"Can anything be done about the blinding light? Maybe it can be dimmed or the light from it be reduced to such a level where it no longer becomes blinding? Do you have the capabilities or indeed the equipment to allow for such a thing Mr Waiter?" He was chin stroking now. Chin stroking is indeed one of the tell tale signs of pomposity or as it's more commonly referred to as being a massive douche.

"Alas sir, I, that is to say we, are unable to dim that light."

"My, that is disappointing."

"Indubitably sir", replies I.

"Indubitably Mr Waiter", agrees Little Man.

We both paused for a moment to consider our positions. It was quiet enough so I had time to indulge the whims of a small man with a massive douche syndrome. His brow was furrowed and his face was the very picture of both concentration and consternation. He eventually piped up with,

"Maybe we could just remove the light bulb from the light fitting whilst I am seated at that table."

I was now bored with my new plaything and wanted to get away from him. His suggestions were becoming ridiculous. So it was time to bring the whole mess to an end.

"No sir we cannot remove the light bulb from the light fitting."

"Well what can we do?"

I was so sorely tempted to answer that with, "We, as in you, could pick a seat, any fucking seat, and order dinner and maybe just maybe we could not let the blinding light and the lack of a view ruin the night/the rest of our lives. What say you Little Man?" But I didn't, obviously. I just shrugged my shoulders as if to say I no longer cared. He made one more plea to have the light bulb removed to which I replied,

"Sir, there is a light that never goes out, and that's it."

He stayed where he was and mithered a few more times about the lack of a view. I wouldn't mind but it was pitch black outside and there was nothing and I mean nothing to view through the window.

Douche.

Five...it's like 24 but shorter......

You know what's "fun"? Nicotine patches that's what. Oh mummy they are bonkers. I'm surprised the kids aren't lashing them on all over their scrawny drug addled bodies so that they can live the Hunter S. Thompson lifestyle whilst they sleep. The dreams I've been having are the stuff of nightmares, if you know what I mean. Even that old crazy horse Dali would have struggled to create the surreal landscapes that fill my mind in the wee small hours of darkness. It's not just the usual dancing with horses kid of stuff that I usually dream, oh no it's far more peculiar than that. All the mythical creatures are there from Minotaurs to Australians that tip (Seriously any chance? Stiffed me even though I seated them five minutes after we had closed!)

But half man half bull(shit) creatures and Minotaurs aside I'm still off the smokes after five days. Which is nice.

But I was seriously tested and tempted on Friday, the day Bob and all his builder chums were due to depart, never to return, from my beautiful restaurant. I arrived to work filled with optimism as I had been assured my restaurant would be free from builders and builders detritus, Jaffa Cakes and Pepsi Max, by the time I arrived. My optimism was short lived, as short lived as my temper. The next five hours was a race against time. What Jack Bauer does in 24 I can do in five, and I don't have to turn into a right wing poster boy to do it. The thought of me being anybodies poster boy is quite amusing.


12.05pm - After a quick walkabout round the restaurant I couldn't help but notice the complete lack, that is to say none what so ever, of swanky new tables and chairs and a complete lean of builders. Wikipedia assures me that a lean is the collective noun for builders. Really? A lean? I'm sure we could all come up with something far better than that. Hows about a recline? I sought a manager for an update. None to be found.

12.10 - As the coffee machine was plumbed and ready for action I availed of it's services.

12.12 - I discovered that espresso just isn't the same without a cigarette to accompany it. It dawned on me at this point that it was going to be a tough day. I fingered a pear for a moment but decided I would keep it for later.

12.18 - Whilst drinking a pint of water I finally found a manager. He filled me in with all the wonderful things that wouldn't be happening today. There would be no new seating nor new tables adoring the newly varnished floor. There would also not be any new heat lamps and the bar wouldn't be finished for another few days. Where's that pear?

12.30 - I discovered that people don't take your rants seriously whilst you are eating a pear and pear juice is trickling down your chin. See, whilst pears are a good cigarette substitute for maintaining a healthy lifestyle/diet they do lack a certain something when it comes to trying to appear serious and important. Jack Bauer probably doesn't eat pears.

1230 - 1.10pm - Didn't do anything. Stood and watched as builder after builder strode wobbled back and forward through the restaurant. What was worrying was that they appeared to be bringing more stuff, spanners and saws and other implements of manliness that I know nothing about, into the restaurant than they were taking away. I was concerned. But my concern was assuaged by the manager who assured me, "we will be ready by five."

1.49pm - Having done nothing but watch Bob and his chums and assistants to chums wobble back and forward what seemed like a thousand times I decided someone needed to inject a bit of urgency/panic into the proceedings. With only three hours to opening we still had no tables and chairs and the place looked like a shite hole. I sought the calming influence of a manager. I had fingered my second pear to the point where it resembled something more like a bad Swiss cheese than a fresh fruit.

1.50 - 2pm - It took ten minutes to find a manger who was drinking coffee and having a gay old time with some sales chap or tother. Was this really the best time to be discussing the price of loo roll? Was it? Really? You sure? He didn't appreciate my line of questioning and I was sent to "calm fucking down."

2.15 - My breathing was more relaxed again so I had another go at the espresso. This invigorated me so I thought I would take my concerns straight to the lead Bob. The lead Bob is a portly man with a roughish wink and all the urgency of a three toed sloth, on holiday. Every thing's "Grand" or "Looking good" or met with an "Ach now..." Jesus, he's infuriating. I addressed my uncertainties with regard to the whole restaurant being open by five thing with him in a calm manner but with a sense of urgency. He replied, "Ach now....it's all grand....looking good"and then winked at me. What the fuckity fuck does that mean? He was so evasive it was infuriating. Jack Bauer wouldn't stand for evasiveness.

2.30 - Whilst destroying another pear the manger comes up to me and tells me that I need to stop bothering the builders. I considered this for a moment.

2.45 - With my moment of consideration and ruminating at an end I decided that I was gonna have a smoke. These were testing times, there was only 2 and a bit hours to opening and the bar was yet to be cleaned let alone stocked and there were still no tables or god damned chairs. Who wouldn't forgive me a little toke at the wet end of a hand rolled cigarillo? Who, I ask you would think I was bad for relieving my own tension? Jack Bauer, that's who. So I didn't.

3pm to 3.07pm - Nothing happened. I didn't totally freak out. I didn't swear. I didn't threaten to lodge a pear up anybodies "dark passage." Not me, must have been somebody else. Jack Bauer probably.

3.15pm - Bob and all the little Bob's, because nobody is bigger than Bob, started packing up their grotty collection of Toyota Hiace vans with all their paraphernalia and assorted lunch boxes. Huzzah! I haven't been so happy to see someone leave since the Russians quit Afghanistan.

3.25pm - I gave myself a talking to. This was Manuel time. I could shine or I could shite, the choice was mine. I had an hour and forty five minutes to get the restaurant ready to open and damn it I always open on time. "Yeah, LETS DO IT!" I screamed. It hurt my throat a little so I calmed myself and then realised my math was for shit and I only had an hour and thirty five minutes to go.

3.30pm - As we were now in the red zone, time wise, I decided I need to pressgang the manager into helping me. And for about ten minutes he did until the assistant manger arrived and the two of them thought it would be fun to try and wind me up. They were as giddy as kids on a school trip. Honestly. I was both tetchy and irascible and in dire need of a smoke and they fucking well knew it.

4.30 - After an hour of ball achingly slow progress, not helped by Beavis and Butthead and their constant giddiness, I realised that we weren't gonna make it, no chance in hell. The tables, now in place, still hadn't been set and I had no idea where the cutlery was. I freaked out again. This manifested itself through a two minute sweat soaked rant which was met with laughter.

"What are you laughing about? I have a table of fifteen coming in at five!" I asked with sweat running down my nose.

"Do you wanna tell him or shall I?" said the ass-istant manger to the glorious leader.

"All yours" says he. By now I'm practically convulsing with an anxiety attack.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TWO UP TO?"

After five minutes of laughter the ass-istant manger informs me that my table of fifteen phoned, the day earlier, and moved their table back by an hour. What happened next is really rather unprintable. Needless to say I didn't cover myself in glory. Manuel is not a fan of jokes were he is the punch line.

But with the arrival of waiter chum numbers three and four we got open by half five and as I stood there surveying mine and Bob's very fine work, and it was very fine work, I couldn't help but think that if I could survive that day without a smoke then the rest would surely be do-able too.

Then the guests arrived which is, of course, another story........

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Let your tongue rattle round it.

Well Done Fillet now offers free advertising for whatever it is you wish to propagandize, within reason of course. For example if you were trying to attract new members to your waiter baiting club then I probably wouldn't carry such an advert. And if you are from a big fat company with lots of mullah then you too can also do one, or get your cheque book out. But if you have a gig/club night to promote or a CD to sell or even a quality market filled with crafts, books, art, zine's - both mag and fan amongst other things to publicize then, sure, contact me for more details and lets get it done.

Well Done Fillet, giving something back to a society that it has taken so so much from. No, seriously.

So Grouchy.....

So after a number of false starts (or is it false ends?) I finally stopped smoking. I stopped smoking and started eating. I binned the last of my tobacco with one hand and picked up a packet of Kit-Kat's with the other and I haven't stopped eating since. Oh this is gonna end in tears, big fat tears at that.

That's your lot, I've got nothing else to say. The restaurant has been closed for two days and I quit smoking, that's it. If anyone needs me I'll be round the back kicking holes in the wall and swearing at children.

This isn't gonna work........it really isn't.

Irony.....

Oh the irony of yesterdays post bemoaning builder/fixer-upper men. Oh how the fickle, middle finger, of fate mocks me. For it was within a half hour of hitting the big orange PUBLISH button that I really wished I knew a fixer-upper man or at the very least how to get hold of such a person. Gather round and let me tell you a tale of swearing, drowning, shocks - both electric and emotional, and inadequacy, so much inadequacy. And smoking, big, dirty, lovely smoking.

???????

So as I say I had just posted my latest blog entry and had offed myself to the kitchen to make myself something to eat, chicken and chick pea curry with nan bread. Lovely stuff. I loaded the tray with all that I needed for my evening refection - aforementioned curry and nan, juice, tea and a pear. As I shuffled from the kitchen through the living room I was drawn to the sound of water. Now as we don't have a water feature in the living room I surmised that something was afoot. But I wasn't in the mood for playing house detective and I just really wanted to bate the curry in til me, as we say round these parts.

But fear overtook the hunger and so I deposited the tray in my room and headed back down to find the source of the watery noise. I also scooped a large spoonful of curry too, well if you had seen it you would have scooped some as well. I tracked the noise down to the cupboard where the magical control panel on/off switch is for the heating. I gingerly pulled back the little door to find, to my absolute horror, water literally jetting out of the bulky motor thingy ma jobby, later identified as the pump.

Shit Mittens, shit mittens with bells on.

I don't know much about household repairs, that is to say nothing, or anything in that whole general area but I do know that when you have water to the left and electricity to the right you have the potential for something to go quite seriously askew. Askew and then some. But what was I going to do about it? What the hell could I do about it? I'm a waiter for god sake and am only armed with a charming table side manner and, when needed, a good line in sarcasm. Neither of these skills would stop the waters from flowing no matter how I deployed them.

I poked and fiddled for a few minutes but soon realised that I was getting nowhere whilst the floor was getting covered in lukewarm water. I decided that I would have to rise my cousin, with whom I share my house, from his sleeping chamber. I kicked his door in, on reflection that was more dramatic than needed - meh, and hollered at him to get his slumbering largesse down the stairs. Now The Cousin is not a man known to react quickly to anything, save for the offering of alcohol based beverages. Add to that his mortal, and irrational, fear of paramilitary death squads, which he is convinced are going to kill him in his bed, and you end up with a man with all the reactions of a diplodocus. It took about five minutes for him to sheepishly make his way down to the scene of the problem.

I think he was relieved to see pishing water and not four men in balaclavas carrying guns. So when he stopped shaking I introduced him to the problem. He then set about repeating the same ill fated and utterly pointless moves that I had just done.

We stood back to assess the situation, actually that makes us sound like we were able to judge the problem and make plans accordingly which we were not. It would be much more accurate to say we stood back with our mouths open and scratched our empty heads.

"What we gonna do?", I asked hoping for an answer.

"We need to get it switched off", ventures The Cousin stating the obvious.

"You think?" Ah sarcasm, I was back on firmer territory. Well I wasn't really as my socks were soaking and my ankles were getting more moist than I'm used to. There then followed an hour rushing around the house looking for stopcocks and anything that resembled a water switcher off-er. No stopcocks were found but I did manage to get myself electrocuted. Which was alarming to say the least.

"I've a toolbox", I exclaimed with delight. As if by just owning a toolbox was enough.

"You do?", replied The cousin with a healthy dose of skepticism.

"Yeah got it in Ikea, I thinks it's a good one, it's got a hammer and spanners and eh other stuff."

"Where is it?"

"Dunno."

So that was another twenty minutes.

"Fucking got it!" I shouted. We gathered round the magical box of tools, with it's hammer and spanner and peculiarly shaped other stuff, as giddy as the kids of divorced parents on christmas morning.

"How'd you open it?" Seriously I had no idea how to get it open. There may as well have been Coco Puffs in the box as tools as I had no idea what to hit with the hammer and could get nothing to budge with the spanner. But the water kept on flowing and the contents of the living room and kitchen were getting perilously close to being ruined. It was about this point, two hours in, that a mop was introduced to the proceedings followed by towels and the bed sheeting and then pillows and finally hoodies.

By this point the kitchen, as well as the sitting room, was in danger of disappearing under the ceaseless flow of water. I was both perturbed and bewildered, which lead eventually to smoking. Not even a golden pear with the skin peeled by winged angels could have calmed me in the same way a Drum hand rolled smoke did.

We were at a loss. The landlord hadn't returned my panic stricken call and all the so called 24 hour plumbers were in bed. The lying bastards. But it was four o'clock in the morning and we reasoned that we had done all we could. As we sat there on the sofa paddling our feet in the lovely warm water I suggested that we could, over time, get used to it. I mean it was definitely a talking point for guests and whilst we would find it hard to cope with at first eventually we would learn to live with our sitting room being under a couple of inches of water all the time.

But twelve hours after the gushing water was discovered a wondrous and special man fixed our leaky pump. He had a toolbox too, not from Ikea it has to be said, and he appeared to know of it's magical ways and fantastic contents. Within three minutes of arriving he had switched the water off and ten minutes after that had replaced the faulty pump. Huzzah for men who do and fix things. We only discovered after he had left that the water was still off but neither The Cousin nor I had the requisite manly strength required to twist the valve thingy-ma-job back round to the on position again.

"Hello, is that the plumber?"

I'm so inadequate you have no idea.......

Bob's back.....worse luck.....

The builders are back, which is a massive pain in my bottom. And if you cast your mind back to May you will know that I don't particularly welcome this reappearance of Bob and all his builder chums. They aren't working next door, although that did go on for bloody months, honestly it must like a palace in there now. No, they have set up camp somewhere closer to my heart, somewhere were it hurts me more, that's right in the bosom of my restaurant.

I hate you Bob

I hate all your friends too...

For the love of Gordon Ramsay's Mother is nothing sacred?! You take a week off to relax and recuperate and wander aimlessly round the boulevards of Paris and come back to dust sheets, painters, hammerers, bodgers, standing abouters, and general chaos. The first time I realised something was afoot was when I spotted the large bottle of Pepsi Max and box of Jaffa Cakes perched on table 26 beside some sparkly polished glasses and cutlery. We don't do Jaffa Cakes and large bottles of Pepsi freaking Max. Obviously.

"Who the fuck left this shit?", I shouted out at no one in particular.

"'Er mine mate", came a voice from the wilderness. And as I lifted my head up to find the unknown voice the full splendor and magnitude of the work revealed itself to me. I spotted the Jaffa Cakes but not the pink walls. What does that say about me?

"The walls? They...they...sweet baby jesus in the manger....they're pink!" I stood there aghast at the horror of it all.

"Nah mate...", says yer man "...they're wine nat pink."

"Ohh They're wine nat pink...", replies I in a huffy mocking way. "That's pink, sweet mother of ....that's pink!"

"Anestly it's wine, your just nat looking at it right", continues Leonardo.

"How the hell am I meant to look at it? It's wine alright, rose bloody wine." Restaurant walls shouldn't come with viewing instructions, it's not meant to be a seeing eye poster. Oh look I can see Yoda!

It's true the restaurant needed brightened up but this was ridiculous. As I ventured round the restaurant, avoiding tins of paint, broken glasses, more Jaffa Cakes and men not doing anything I discovered that the "pink" walls were only in one section, my section. Or what used to be my section, I think there may be a reevaluation of who does what over the next week. Don't get me wrong it's not a macho thing, it's just way too bright for my liking. I feel I should be offering people shoes not fillet steaks.

The varied collection of builders, plasterers, hammerers, bodgers, sawers, and assorted assistants/tea boys were all supposed to be done by 4.30. It was now 4.20 and not a child in the house had been washed and not a fucking tool put away. I was stressed. Don't they know I'm off the smokes and as a consequence as tense as a bag of rottweilers in a nursery. It wouldn't have taken much to push me over the edge and into a frenzy of swearing and quite probably foot stamping too.

"Aye......", says the lead bodgerer "...we'll have you open for five son, never worry". There was nothing in the way he said it that had me convinced. Shit if he had been wearing a black and white coat you would have thought he was a cow meandering through a grassy meadow on a summers day such was his relaxed attitude. Cunty balls. Honestly it was like setting up a restaurant in a lumber yard. Whatever one of those is, someone else said it.

What I needed was a montage, a clearing up and putting stuff away montage. But real life doesn't offer such a thing. Worse luck. So I tried to help. But I was as useful as Yoda is tall. I have a simple policy when it comes to binning things, if if looks shit, talks like shit, smells like shit then it probably is shit so I bin it. But it appears that one mans shit is another mans double cut bevelled u- bend hammer saw or something like that. I was like one of those kids you see helping their dad in the garage with a brush and shovel play set. I finally got fucked off with it all when I was moving chairs one at a time from one side of the restaurant to the other only to be passed by one Jim Lad carrying three at a time. So I left them to it and went for a smoke pear. A lovely juicy pear.

And then, just like one of those make over programmes, the bodgerers and bluffers and painters etc all disappeared and I was left standing, alone, in a half painted half built restaurant. With many many Mods (I hate Mods by the way, I think it's the ghastly hair and silly jackets that annoy me so much) booked for dinner the race was on to make the place presentable. We got it done, but only just. It's at times like that when I would normally turn to the silky satisfaction of a hand rolled cigarette. But not any more, now it's pears. So disappointing.

I have a full restaurant booked for Friday night. They had better have it all completed by then. There are only so many pears I can eat before I go proper mental.

Internal thoughts need to stay internal.....

I've got this terrible habit actually if I'm being honest I have many terrible habits, some are clearly more terrible than others, but this one in particular can occasionally get me into trouble. It's my constant narration whilst working. I don't know why I do it but I do, all the time. Now it's fine if I'm working behind the bar setting up drinks and crafting beautiful coffees, I do make beautiful coffees. I mean who cares if the affable looking waiter appears to be talking to himself if there is no one around to hear but sometimes I continue doing it when I'm at a table.

caaaake.....

"Right I'll just move the salt and pepper and put the chips there..." or "I'll just drop these and lift that.." All fairly innocuous and rarely raises an eyebrow. I don't do it out loud and tend to use a low whisper in fact sometimes I'm barely audible. Well that's what I thought.

When it's busy or even when you just have a couple of tables at the one time you are always thinking ahead. You might be serving a lovely two top their duck and chips (Jesus wept! Duck and chips?) but you're thinking about the fatty four top's chocolate cakes and why they still haven't materialized from the dark place. You'll be wishing them "bon appetit" whilst thinking about how to structure your argument with the kitchen monkeys. You cant just launch straight in with the same sarcastic attack every time and I'm sure they appreciate, although they never say it, a new witty remark as I storm into the kitchen mouth first.

"Someone die in here?" or

"When did the strike start lads?" or

"The lady on table says that she cant stay for breakfast so is there any fucking chance of her getting her dinner tonight?!"

and so on. You get the point. They love me in the kitchen.

Any hoo as I was serving the duo of duckies for the lovely two top I was thinking about the lack of chocolate cake. I could see the fatty four top getting anxious, they were clutching their spoons like warriors waiting to go over the top. I'm sure there was sweat running down them at that. I was as anxious as they were. And before I knew what I was doing or saying I blurted out, "Right, you're sorted now to get fatty four top's cakes." To which the duck muncher replied,

"Excuse me?"

You could physically hear the arse drop out of my world. "Shit, I'm for it now", I thought. Great, now I'm internalizing my thoughts, couldn't have done that a moment ago could I?!

"Sorry sir, what?"

"You said something about cake?", asked the nice man with duck jus on his mustache which was creeping me out a bit. I wanted to dab at it with a napkin but didn't, obviously. I had enough problems to be dealing with without adding to them. I mean imagine the horror of the waiter dabbing at your whiskery top lip with a napkin!

"Cake sir? Eh.....um...er.....don't think so? Prevarication was the best way out of this sticky cake free mess. Either that or a cute puppy in a hat, "Ah look at the cute puppy, it's in a hat."And as I didn't have a cute puppy either in or out of a hat I went down the route of bullshitting the punter.

"Do you want to see the sweet menu now sir?", I asked with a feigned look of puzzlement. Best if the customer thinks he's mental rather than me.

"Hmmmm....", says he and looking back towards the kitchen he adds, "...I think there's the fatties cake now."

He pointed his duck laden and dripping with jus fork in the direction of the cakes. I took this as my queue to leave and I did just that without adding any further to bullshit to this sorry situation.

He knew what I had said and knew I was trying to wriggle out of it. So he made me squirm for the rest of the night. Which was nice. But he didn't kick up a fuss and even remarked that that table need chocolate cake in the same way that Barack Obama needs new problems.

I have resolved to stop doing it once I get over the smoking situation, well either that or I'm gonna start doing a Morgan Freeman accent. Who doesn't like Morgan Freeman's voice? He could call me a cunt, and why wouldn't he, and it would still sound like sweetness.

Right, post done must get a cup of tea and then check and see what all the other blog fuckers are up to.....joke....hehehehe

“Sooner or later, everyone stops smoking”

Seeing as change is the new black (or is black the new change?) I've decided to make a few changes myself. Well actually only one but a momentous one all the same. As of Tuesday I am going off the smokes. Can I? Yes I can! There, I've said it out loud so there's no going back. I've tried before but that was always to appease other people so it was always doomed to fail. Doomed I tells ye, doomed. My heart wasn't in it to quit in the past. But my heart is now the main reason why I want to quit. Oh yes it supports me fully this time, bless it's little blackened arteries.

sniff sniff
gonna miss you
don't watch me cry.....

just close the door after you

I always loved smoking. Christ it was great, I mean really really great. From the first one in the morning to the last one at night and every one in between, I loved them all. I particularly loved the first one after breakfast oh and the first one after dinner and then again the first one during work. Ah fuck it, I loved them all. But loving smoking is like loving Courtney Love, that is to say volatile, abusive and likely to leave you dead on the floor. And whilst it's true that a 100% of all non-smokers die there really is no long term future in continuing this relationship.

So I'm quitting, on Tuesday, probably. No I definitely am. I have even booked an appointment with the expert nurse at my local quit smoking clinic. Wow I bet she has nothing good to say. I hope it's not going to be one of those sit round in a circle type things with a lot of wheezing people with yellowy fingers talking about how much they want to quit. That would be too depressing but pure blog gold all the same. Probably more yellow than gold.

I was about 13 maybe 14 when I first sucked at the smokey teat of a cigarette. An older boy had them, isn't it always an older boy? But he was my cousin from England and ergo I considered him glamorous and wanted to impress him. He offered it, a Silk Cut the lamest of all the cigarettes available, and in a moment of pure hedonism I took it. I was a nervous child and not known for making such rash and impetuous decisions. But it didn't end well as I found myself in the middle of a country road coughing and spluttering and assuming I was about to die. I didn't take another draw of a smoke again for about six or seven years. I also didn't make another rash or impetuous again, until I got engaged that is. Funnily enough that also had me coughing and spluttering and thinking I was gonna die too. Well not straight away.

Now, by this point I was a waiter and living the life of a waiter with no responsibilities and too much spare cash. Spare cash? All my cash was spare. I drank and I dabbled in many nefarious things but smoking hadn't been one of them. But one Friday night after a long double shift at the Hut of Pizzaness I tried again. I was in a superb mood having made great money. All my chums were in the bar, Lavery's, and the atmosphere was great. Being as flush as a turkey farmer at Christmas I splashed my hard earned loot on all and sundry. I was buying drinks and hot nuts the way rich Arabs but football teams and Rolls Royces.

One of my chums, a lady who I had more than a special interest in, offered me one of her Marlboros. Ooooh Marlboro reds were cool looking, everybody under 25 smoked them apart from hippies who smoked roll ups. Damn hippies. So for very sad and indeed pathetic reasons I took one and then another and then another. In the end she got cheesed off at my poaching her smokes so I bought a packet. And that, as they say, was that. I eventually tried them all, from Marlboro Reds to Marlboro Lights to Silk Cuts to Benson & Hedges to the ever popular Twenty Majors. There was even a spell on Berkley Superkings, the baseball sized smokes allowed for a longer smoke break. Ironically I settled on roll ups and I'm not even a hippy! Who'd a thought it!?

But I'm done with them now. It's not just the wheezing and coughing and inability to take a flight of stairs without needing a break half way through, although these are good enough reasons to stop nor is it the fear that comes from any slight twinge of my left arm it's something much less tangible than that. I hate the way the smokes own me. And they truly do fucking own me. I am smokings bitch, I'm it's gimp. It wakes me up and demands it's attention. It shouts at me when I get off the bus and after I eat. I love smoking but smoking doesn't love me. The smelly bastard.

There is nothing that makes you feel more of an addict more of a low life than ripping your house apart at three in the morning looking for a lost packet of smokes. And if you smoke you've done it. You go mental looking for them, down the couch, into every trouser and coat pocket, twice, under the bed, in the bed, into your vast collection of man bags, eventually ending up rooting through the ashtray for half smoked cigarettes that can be reignited for that one more hit of nicotine. It's so very ugly, so very tragic. I'm done with only going to coffee shops and bars and restaurants with good outdoor smoking areas. I want to go where I want to go to not where the smokes want me to go to.

But mainly I'd like to make it past sixty and for the men in my family that is now a bit of a trick. Some make it and some sadly haven't. I've got shit I need to be doing and smoking ain't gonna get me there. Still we had some good times together, I would be lying if I said otherwise. [Cut to a dream sequence of me and a giant smoke laughing and drinking together whilst watching football and at many gigs and down the pub with the chaps and crying together when times were hard].

Oh yes I loved smoking and I'm gonna miss it. But it's become a one sided relationship and it's taking advantage of my happy go lucky and easily lead nature.

So the next few weeks will be fun. I predict swearing, mood swings, tantrums and comfort eating. So no real change there then. Stay with me folks we could be in for a bumpy ride and all help will be appreciated. And if anybody wants to make me an offer for about 30 lighters and a few ashtrays let me know.

I'm back to work today so I will post some actual waiter related goodies tomorrow....

The French Waiter - Meeting the Masters......

There is no question that the French were the pioneers of modern cooking and they literally wrote the bible of service as we know it. If it wasn't for them we would still be surviving on dirt and eating animals whole. Now of course, thanks to the French, we eat animal's holes. Didn't see that coming eh. As much as I wanted to behold the sights of Paris and wander romantically through the tree lined boulevards absorbing the Parisian culture and lifestyle I really just wanted to visit their restaurants.

In many ways this trip was, for me, a necessary pilgrimage to the centre of the culinary world. Just as Muslims must go to Mecca and Hindus to the Ganges and just as all old people are required to go to all you can eat buffets on Sunday mornings then it is incumbent on all waiters to go to Paris at least once during their working career. For only in Paris can you truly judge your "skills".

I judged my skills and found myself wanting.

These are the true ballerinas of the restaurant floor and most of the pavement too. I am the very definition of a self important schlepper by comparison to these free flowing guardians of the tray and all that rides upon it. And there is much atop the tray that a French waiter carries. I wouldn't for a moment even consider carrying the amount that they do. They shimmy and glide with the supreme confidence, if not arrogance, that only a French waiter can. Their trays carry everything - coffees stacked, that's right stacked, four tall, alongside your bottle of water and glasses and milk and little bun that you just couldn't resist. I watched with open mouth as one guy pulled the bottle top off my water with one hand whilst balancing a fully laden tray with the other. They don't even pant and huff, they barely seem to sweat.

When I consider what I do with what they do, I am a fucking oaf.

I had plenty of time to watch the waiters work as getting one of these chaps to serve you is a skill all of it's own. They see you. They know that you see them. They just choose not to serve you or acknowledge you until they are ready to do so. Ironically you just have to wait. The trick to getting a French waiter to serve you is to never take your eyes of him, not even to blink. You must, if you want that cafe au lait and sticky bun, maintain a fixed and permanent eyeball on him until you catch his gaze.

Getting a French waiter to take your order is like fishing, you must wait patiently until you attract some attention and then gently but firmly reel your quarry in with a gentle flick of your head or eyebrow. Don't try and beat him over the head with a blunt object though, like fish they don't really appreciate that. And sometimes they get of the hook and you have to start all over again with a new fish.

Most, if not all off them, were polite and friendly. But some French waiters are as rude as you hear they are. I mean if I pulled that shit where I work I would be out of a job quicker than you can fake a smile when the l'addition is produced. I learned so so much from them. But still, no need lads, no need....

"Bonjour", says I with a cheery ring in my voice and the joie de vivre in my blackened heart, to which the tall drink of bitter water replied with nothing more than a sneery grin that was more "merde" than "hello".

"Eh okay then...." His less than friendly demeanor slapped the happiness right off my face.

"You want food or just cafe?"

"Eh just cafe please", I replied sheepishly.

He tutted like I had just walked into his section a minute before closing. Charming.

"Can I get an espresso s'il vous plait?" I even put a little French twist into the svp at the end. Did he care, did he acknowledge that I was trying? Did he fuckity!

"Oui..." says he staring right at me with a very sneery grimace "...un expresso."

Did he just correct my pronunciation? I think he just did! No, no no no this would not stand. I wont be out-pronounced. I'm a waiter on holiday but I'm still a waiter and have standards to maintain and the pronunciation of espresso is a bugbear of mine. So staring him right between the eyes, which wasn't easy what with my own eyes being drawn to his thick hairy monobrow, I hit right back with,

"Un espresso." And turned to indicate that our "conversation" was over.

But I was up against a champion of the sneery last retort.

"Oui monsieur, un expresso, straight away."

Oh it was on.

"Espresso", says I with steely, and childish, determination.

"Un expresso, monsieur." And before I could elevate this from a sorry spat to a fully fledged slap-fest Little Miss Manuel arrived back from the toilet and casually asked the waiter for a cafe au lait.

Turning all charming and dropping the grimace and malice from his voice he pulled out her seat and finished with, "Un cafe au lait for Mademoiselle and un expresso for Monsieur." He stared right at me with a right cuntish grin as he said it too. And with that the crafty Gallic fucker was away.

"Oh isn't he lovely" swooned LMM.

"Oh he's a real fucking peach", says I.

We were served by many waiters during our three and a half days in Paris. All of them were French and not one of them was under twenty years of age, in fact I'd say most of them were in their late twenties and early thirties. Some were much older than that. This says everything about the French attitude to service and to waiting as a profession. It is valued and regarded as a skill. And I applaud them for that and for their dazzling skills even if they cant pronounce espresso correctly.