Introducing Leunam

Two big sleeps to go!

Well the excitement is building ahead of Saturday's Irish Blog Awards.
I literally cannot contain myself although LMM says this is due to over eating and lack of regular exercise and little to do with the IBAs.

Pfft.

I think I have more concerns than hopes for the event, well for me more than the event itself. I haven't had a proper drink since Halloween, and that didn't end particularly well. And as I am off work for a week now I will probably let my, metaphorical, hair down.

Will I get drunk and fall down? The answer to that is of course yes, a very definite yes. But what collateral damage will be caused both on my way to the ground and as I drink my way through the contents of the bar? This thought alone has kept me awake for weeks now. I have visions of rubbing my hand down Mr Mulley's face telling him what a great guy he is. I worry that I'll run round the place playing a game of guess the blogger, which for a while will be fun but you will bore of it soon enough.

And then there is the issue of the mystique and aura of splendidness (arf! -LMM) that I have carefully crafted about myself. Let me assure/warn you that it wont last for long once the devils buttermilk starts flowing. No before long I will knocking your drinks over, ordering shots for everyone in the room, and telling you my life story.

Good grief why am I going?!

With all this in mind let me give you a few handy tips if you find yourself cornered by Leunam (backwards Manuel, my drunken alter ego) and ways to ensure that both you and I have a great/safe night.

1. Leunam is basically a friendly chap even with lots of beer/wine/whiskey in his system. But if you think he is going on a bit and doing your head in start a conversation about cars. Leunam knows nothing about cars and he will just wander off, probably whilst you are talking.
2. Leunam is a little deaf so he tends to shout. This is not aggression. When he says, "YES I'D LOVE A PINT" he is not implying that it is about time you bought one, he is just happy that you have. You should also direct all conversation to his RIGHT ear as the left one is banjaxed.
   
3. Much like a Gremlin, Leunam should not be given any liquids after 12am or he will sleep in and miss his train home and then you will be stuck with him for another night. You don't want that, he doesn't want that, the good people of Dublin don't want that.
4. Leunam is Manuel, he is not Twenty Major, Fat Mammy Cat, Grandad, or Old Knudsen despite what he will tell you. He will think it's funny to say that he is someone else but it's not and you shouldn't laugh at this "joke" it will only encourage him.
5. Leunam doesn't take drugs. Don't encourage him to do so, he is easily led and will do whatever the big kids are doing. The world isn't ready for a coked up Leunam.
   
6. If Leunam decides he wants to go for a kebab someone please go with him. He and LMM will reward you with cash for looking after him.
7. Leunam is no good in physical situations so don't rely on him for backup if it all kicks off after the Best Blog Post winner is announced.
   
8. Leunam is a sleeper when drunk. It is essentially a safety measure that kicks in to prevent him from causing any more damage. If you find him asleep please wake him and sent him back to his hotel. This information has been sewn into the lining of his jacket by LMM. In the event of him having lost his jacket please direct him to the nearest fireplace, his comfort zone.
9. Leunam is also a crier. This can be very hard to stop. LMM's number is in his mobile phone, call her she will know what to do.
10. Leunam is also a smoker so if you want to avoid him stay inside at all times. Also you may need to remind him of the smoking laws, he will "forget."

I apologise in advance........

(I will also pay cash for incriminating photos of myself)

What happened next?

It was about 7.45pm and a young woman called me over to her table, she was clutching her bill and looked anxious. Not the "I haven't got enough money" sort of anxious, more the "what the fuck is this?" sort of anxious.

"Yes madam, is everything ok?" I enquired

"Well it's our bill you see."

"Yes?"

"Well you implied...."she said implied in a very nasty tone "....that we got side orders with our fish course? But you have charged us for them? Seems like a bit of a con."

There was more than a whiff of a teacher about her, a first year teacher at that.

Now, my question is what did Manuel do next?

But before you rush to answer there are three vital pieces of information that you will need in order to make the right decision.

1. It was busy, hella-busy, bend over and take it without any love or even a cuddle after sort of busy.
2. Lucyfer had phoned in sick so I was left to fight the good fight on my own. I say on my own but the Glorious Leader set down his clipboard and helped. Huzzah!
   
3. And I had been given some bad news minutes before the shift started so my mood was less than favourable.

Did I.....

A. Check the bill and in a gentle conciliatory voice say "Oh madam I'm sorry I think you have misunderstood me. I was recommending that you get side orders to accompany and compliment your fish dish. Dearie me, you must have thought I was a right scoundrel trying to swizz some extra money out of you lovely ladies. To make up for this little boo-boo I'll take those of the bill for you. "

or

B. Check the bill and in a firm but fair way explain that side orders are only included were stated and that I was recommending that they get side orders to accompany and compliment their fish dishes. But take nothing off the bill.

or

C. Refuse to even look at the bill reasoning that I know what it says as I printed it and in a voice verging on the manic say, "Implied? Hold on a moment I never implied a thing? Those fish dishes are not served with any side order so I was asking you if you wanted anything to go with it right? The menus clearly state what each main course is served with and if you didn't want a side order you didn't have to get one. I don't need to con anyone and I find that offensive in the extreme. " And then storm off muttering about a la carte menus and "bloody people who don't know how to order."

And if you cant make up your mind what I did and said I should add that they left me 15p.

a fun time wasn't had by anyone, least of all me
and it wasn't my finest hour

Roundtable week 11

Nerds are people too, just very annoying people

I had a fun fun fun table of eight land in on me about an hour before closing.

They received my usual "me angry waiter, you stupid customer" caveman type greeting that I reserve for tables of 8 that arrive within an hour of closing without a reservation.

I followed it up with sarcasm, mild fury, and a snarling (and mumbled) lecture about how reserving tables can really save time.

Nerds are just so easily frightened.
I felt bad and spent the next fifteen minutes over compensating.

So after a bit of huffing and puffing from me I seated them. In they came with their unwashed hair and peculiar body odors. The lead orks had laptops with them. Those without waddled behind a little sadder looking than the leaders it has to be said as if they haven't yet won the right to carry a laptop. That challenge has yet to be completed.

I actually like serving nerds, geeks, and people with more online identities than actual friends. There is something almost naive and childlike about them. Ok childlike in a freakish sort of way but childlike all the same. I don't know why but we seem to get a lot of these types of tables, it's like we are on some sort of "approved" list floating about on an internet message board somewhere, probably geekchat.com, fuck that actually exists! Well you get the point. We probably score high in the "No Jock" category and the warnings on the menus about nuts and gluten probably please them too.

There are two types of nerdish tables, the first is proud of it's nerd credentials and lets you know that what they lack in social skills they make for in smarts, D & D tournament wins, and because they boast the largest soft rock collection this side of Boston. They wear t-shirts with dragons emblazoned across their chest, jeans with black shoes, and bloody awful denim jackets. They love that they are nerds and don't care who knows it!

The second type is, in many respects, the complete opposite. They would rather be home reading the history of BASIC even though they have read it 50 times but it reminds them of a happier, simpler time. Going out for dinner is a major moment for these kids, they would much rather be at home heating some allergen free soup in a microwave. There are no t-shirts with dragons, "witty" slogans like "my other computer is a porsche", or characters from South Park. No instead there are jumpers, shirts, corduroy trousers and duffle coats. They go red when you talk to them, they cant make a decision, they don't speak loud enough so that you can hear them, and you can see their sense of relief when the whole torturous ordering process is over. Poor lambs.

Tonight's table were definitely from the second camp of nerds. Despite having brains the size of Televisions and the ability to do mental arithmetic, they can probably do the hard stuff like 6x8 and 7x8 with ease, they were intimidated by me. Now I know my welcoming was a little rough but I tried to make amends quickly by cracking a few jokes, which died, to show that I was a friend to the nerd. To be honest I was worried about the little 32 year old guy at the end of the table peeing himself as I stood there cracking jokes with my hand on his shoulder. Physical contact is a big no-no in nerdish culture.

Just like taking orders from children you have to be patient and resist the urge to shout at them. You just have to wait as they throw the 12 sided dice in their head to decide what they want for their first course. At least with the overt nerds you know about their allergies before they order as they announce them as if it was something to be proud of.

"I cant have dairy, nuts, or beetroot! Thus I am the king of this table and you shall be my serfs! Now give me all your points"

Not so with my table of super brains. I had to delicately eek and pry each life threatening ailment out of them. I had to go to the kitchen twice to check the ingredients of the soup to see if it contained nuts or had been prepared in an area that contained nuts. The fact that it had been made by nuts wasn't a factor though.

Ten heart breaking, grueling, suffering, breathing through my mouth because the stench from lead ork was so bad minutes later I got my order!

Yippee!

I was relieved.

They were relieved!

The kitchen were not so happy. They don't like a lot of substituting and leaving out of ingredients, it upsets them so. I had to go and warn them to follow my instructions to the letter or we would end up with 8 dead nerds or at least 8 bloated, spotty, and itchy nerds. And I didn't want to have to clean that up.

After the starters were served they seemed to warm to their surroundings, much like a new pet does when you take it home. They began to relax and laugh a little. It was sweet to watch them, much like a new pet. They still went sheepish when I visited the table. But that's ok, I like my customers with a bit of fear in them.

Remember nerds are people too, they are just people with huge brains, bad clothes, and a predilection for fantasy role play and antihistamines. Bless......

(no offence intended to the many nerds that read well done fillet, you know who you are. And so do I)

There WILL be questions

picture nicked from the New Yorker

Is it...

There WILL be blood

or

There will BE blood

or

There will be BLOOD


It's doing my HEAD in

Life is too short, even when you are 80

Quote of the weekend,

"I thought you people were meant to be jolly and happy?"

You people?

You mean waiters?

"No, fat people"

I had been joking with a table of 4 but still that was a bit harsh. I laughed it off at first but by the time they left it was all I could to stop myself setting about them with a bag of sugar and a blow torch.

Cheeky old men who should know better aside, it was a great weekend. Saturday was a bit of a shocker as it turned out to be our busiest of the year so far. It was the sort of weekend were you need everyone pulling together, singing from the same hymn sheet, shooting the same ducks in a row, or at the very least not bitching and whining about each other. No "I" in team and all that bollocks.

Alas, that was not the case. The kitchen were magnificent. The bar was quick and accurate. I was my usual ray of lightness and perfection but not everyone wanted to play ball. No to be exact some people wanted to play their own game, their own one player game at that. It all started last week. The Princess and Lucyfer don't get on. Cats and dogs, waiters and chefs, Hillary and Obama I mean they really don't like each other.

Not liking each other is fair enough, I could care less if they hate the hell out of each other. But at least have a reason, which they don't. And if they wanna go toe to toe, well I'll hold their coats. But they don't even speak to each other, they don't call each other names, they don't try and trip each other up or anything like that. No, what they do is far more annoying than that. They use me.

I've become the conduit through which they fight. If The Princess isn't calling Lucyfer lazy in one ear then Lucyfer is calling her skanky in the other. It's all very unseemly. I feel like the child from Kramer V Kramer. So I cracked up towards the end of shift last Saturday night, telling them to shut their yaps and get over it.

I used to work for the UN you know.

Well my words seemed to work. They have stopped using me as their conduit of hate. But my attempts to get them to call a truce appear to have floundered.

"Talk to her? Fuck right off." They said in some bizarro union.

I left it at that. But decided for the sake of my ears, the other waiting staff and the customers to put some distance between them, two flights of stairs and about 30 customers to be precise. Where is the love people, where?

Sunday was much more like it. P-Chops and I had lovely day, tag team smoking, occasional customers, and coffee until the machine threw a huff and decided it wasn't going to do another thing. Nearly wrecked my afternoon. But as I stood there waiting for P-Chops to come back from her smoke, she must have been having a 2-smoke break, I began looking at the customers we had in for lunch. Not in a stalkerish sort of way you understand. There they were the same people, at the same time, sitting in pretty much the same seats, eating the same meals they always do.

It was sort of comforting.

Sunday is a day for regulars.

And after four years you really get to know them.

You watch their kids growing too big for the highchairs and having no need for a "wee spoon" any more. They stop calling you "mister" and start calling you by your name. They ask how your week was and seem to mean it. You watch as relationships come and go, new guy here a new girl there, new babies, new customers on the way. Haircuts change, their fashions change, their waistline changes too. They all get a little older, some get wiser with it, some wont ever stop putting brown sauce on rare beef. They still have the pork with an extra boat of gravy and the ice cream with "loads of sauce". There is always the same table of four, the same table of eight, the same tables of two, the same tables of one. Except today there was a table of three that used to be a four. It wont be a table of four again. Poor love.....

It's funny but you don't notice them when they are there, but when their seat is empty it seems to be the brightest thing in the room.

Life is too short, even when you are nearly 80, for petty squabbles about nothing that really matters.....

Unless of course they are calling you a jolly fat man

I am waiter, hear me roar!

I'm not the only waiter in the world, despite what I may have you believe. And lots of them have blogs, here are the best of them from this weeks

Service Related Blog Carnival,
the Roundtable...
no arsed bastard....

Where to start.....Ryan from I Serve Idiots has been blogging on and off for quite a while now and has joined our happy little blog carnival. To Ryan and Idiot is an idiot, black, white, redneck or whatever. Now why cant everybody be so open minded.

Sometime waiter and full time crazy, Upset Waitress, is never one to let a good double entendre get in the way of a good read. She has been having wiener trouble, little wieners.

Customers are odd creatures, seriously they say the oddest things. Just ask Tony about his Creme brulee man.

At Least Call Me "Miss" has turned all wise and even though this is the shortest post ever, it is the most accurate.

Over at El Vermino Boulevard they have been watch some "classic" movies. Crikey....is Cat Ballou a classic? I dunno!

People never believe me when I tell them that St. Valentines day is a waste of time for waiters. Ask Lobster boy if you still don't believe me.

Ireland's own Queenie has been dealing with dogs and guests. Ha she deserves it! Only joking! Hehehehehe

The world's angriest server, Ribeye, has a new manager to contend with. Let me tell you I feel his pain. Honestly they always need broken, like horses. Maybe Ribeye can be like a horse whisperer but for new managers.....maybe!

As for me?

Fuck it you have read all my whinging haven't you?

But I was sent this by Mr DNA

from boingboing

Viva la Waiters!

Viva La Manuel!

More toilet trauma

I had a genuine first at work on Thursday night, never happened before, and I pray to all that is good that it doesn't happen again.

It almost had me boaking my lunch.....

(boaking by the way is a charming Norther Irish word for being sick)

There was a young man eating on his own. Seemed pleasant enough, quiet, polite and a bit jokey. There were no immediate warning signs that he was in fact a sausage short of a good dinner. It wasn't very busy but he seemed to fade into the background all the same, I'm not saying we forgot about him, but maybe he could have got a little more love.

His plate was cleared and he declined the sweet menu and anything else. He seemed content enough so I left him where he was, like I say it wasn't busy so we didn't need his table back in a hurry. I plodded about, serving the few tables I had a with my usual charm and wit, which was of course pretty much wasted on the really rather dull Thursday night crowd. But whatever.

As I cleared another table I happened to catch yer man out of the corner of my eye, he was slumped over his table.

Good grief, what's this!

Dead?

The food looked fine!

I dropped of the plates first, I judged it bad etiquette to try and wake a dead man with plates in your hand. Eddie, who was sniffing about the manager as he was trying to get home early, was press ganged into coming with me to check on our dead punter. Turns out he was just having a wee snooze.

Let me tell you something nobody gets to have wee snoozes on my shift, nobody! So he was politely, but firmly, told that there would be no more snoozing, zeding, napping or any form of sleeping or he would be out on his ear. He apologised and said he would be leaving shortly. No problem thought I. A couple of minutes later I popped back to check on him and guess what? Yup, he was back in dream world again. The bastard. Up with this I would not put! Eddie was called for again, I'm not good in potentially physical situations, not with my pretty face.

We roused sleeping beauty's brother and informed him of his right to get the fuck outta here! He started blabbering making no coherent sense what so ever. Jesus! I offered to get him a taxi, he said something about the weather in Madrid. Say what? I wasn't in the mood for all this. Time to go chummy, and up he got.

But as we watched him stumble away I noticed his wet jeans.

BALLS!

The dirty, sleepy, gibbering fucker had pished himself!

For fucks sake!

And that is a definite first for me. I have had sleeper before but never a pisher. Eddie, the legend, cleaned it up. I had tables that needed distracted, obviously....

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

I am paid an hourly rate, which in theory, means I get paid for the hours I work. I say in theory because sometimes whacky things happen. There's quite a bit of rounding going on, mainly in a downwards direction. I might bring a lawyer and accountant to work next week when this months wages finally make the bank. But for once I feel a bit sorry for the management at work. Next Friday, as you know, is the 29th of February. Bonus day! It only comes once every four years. And if you get paid monthly, as the management do, you wont get paid for this extra day. And I assume it is the same for most if not all salaried employees. Crikey working a day for free whilst the tills are over flowing with cash, not sure I could do it. I shared this startling little fact with a couple of the clipboard warriors on Thursday night. There was a definite whiff of revolution in the air as I walked away.....

I wasn't shit stirring...
honest

It's more of a buffet today...

by David Shrigley
from the book "Ants have sex in your beer"
Makes me chuckle every time!

by Nick Dewar
via the very luscious
Made in England by Gentlemen

I love these pictures by Nick Dewar. The first one says it all, thank you on the outside fuck you on the inside. Some times it's hard to disguise the "fuck you very much" on the inside as yesterdays post proves. I emailed the artist who created it to ask if it was available as a print, it's not but he's gonna do one for me! How freaking sweet is that? He also completed my 50 questions. Legend!

**********

New Badges

available next week....

*****

I've been awarded "condescending waiter 2008" by Old Knudsen. I'm ever so proud, and my family are just delighted for me. It's taken years of sneering, pouting, pretending to be deaf, but finally it's paid off.

Old Knudsen said,

"To Manuel the waiter for his Blog 'Well Done Fillet' (among others) for being consistently funny when others would have failed and raising the standards for Northern Ireland Blogging. The most Condescending Waiter award of 2008 is yers."

[dabs tear from corner of eye]

what you mean this isn't a proper post?
pfft

Crikey!

fish face?

Automated ordering systems now used in most restaurants for sending the order to the kitchen, bar, etc are great. They make life easier, quicker, and mean less contact with the cooker jockeys in the kitchen which is clearly a good thing for us waiters. They really do make life better for both the wait staff and the guests alike, except when they don't....

Particularly when this happens...

From the BBC via an emailer, thanks Mr Nash....whoever you are!

"A restaurant owner has apologised after diners had their very own F word experience - without Gordon Ramsay.

Ten friends found the abusive and sexually-explicit message on their bill at Joe Delucci's Italian restaurant in Bird Street, Lichfield, Staffordshire.

Diner Clare Watkin said she thought it was written after they complained about poor service.

The party from Walsall had gone to the restaurant on Friday. Owner Nigel Langsdon has begun an investigation.

Ms Watkin said: "I couldn't believe it. The bill read 'fish cakes', which one of us had for a starter, and it was written right above it - absolutely disgusting language.

"We actually booked the table for 8 o' clock in the evening, by the time they had taken our order it was quarter to nine and we didn't actually receive our food until quarter past 10."

She added: "I'd like a written apology from the restaurant and I'd also like some compensation.

"I think that the way that we've been spoken to is absolutely outrageous."

TV chef Gordon Ramsay's foul-mouthed diatribes on his Channel 4 show The F Word have given viewers an insight into the often industrial language of the restaurant kitchen.

Joe Delucci's owner Mr Langsdon said the message had been meant to be seen only by kitchen staff and he did not know how it ended up as an item on the receipt.

He said: "That shouldn't come out on the bill, so we've got to find out what's gone wrong there.

"But we have apologised unreservedly to the girls concerned and said that they're very welcome to come back and have a free meal and we'd like them to."

He has also offered to donate the bill for their meal to charity.

The cost of the meal came to £284.68, including a 10% service charge."

Bwahahahahaha!

I shouldn't laugh but it's hard not to. I admit I have sent rude messages to the kitchen about customers but our system doesn't print them on the bill, thank fuckity! Telling a customer to "Suck my d*** f*** face" is as bad as it gets, but sticking a service charge on the bill after the customer has complained about poor service is in my opinion even worse. And the owner's priorities seems a bit askew too,

He said: "That shouldn't come out on the bill, so we've got to find out what's gone wrong there"

Eh no, you need to find the little scroate that wrote it and beat him to a merry pulp for dropping you in it and probably signaling the end of you restaurant business. As if it was the fact that it printed on the bill rather than it was typed at all!

Plonker.

Like I said I've done it too. But doing it is one thing, getting caught is something else all together.

but if it was his last shift and he was leaving anyway......

Deviation is the road to unhappiness

Life can be easy if you want it to be.

Book your table, be on time, order well, eat, pay, tip, leave.
Do that and your dining life will be an enjoyable one. Deviation is the road to heartache, tables with bad views, slow service, cold food and mouthy waiters.

Tonight's guests followed the path to dining enlightenment. They were particularly enlightened when it came to the 5th tenet of dining enlightenment, tipping.
Enlightened to the tune of £140 that's 280 of your America dollars!
Frickin sweet for a Monday night.

I'm feeling very fucking zen like right now

hmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Piss off

Picture the scene...(but don't try too hard)

Mens Room, Sunday afternoon at about 3pm. A handsome yet stout waiter meanders in to check and take advantage of the facilities. There is one other chap in there, numbers ones in the stall, with the door open.

Classy.

Hehehehe

Small willy I assume

you taking the piss out of me?

"What you doing in here?" says the punter as he turns round to find me checking the hand soap.

"Excuse me?" says the handsome yet stout waiter (that's me by the way)

"What are you doing in here, you shouldn't be in here!" says surprisingly irate punter.

"Okay...eh...whatever."

I wasn't in the mood for explaining myself. It was clear to anyone with a titer of wit what I was doing. Plus I'm not really a fan of having conversations with strange men in public bathrooms. And it wasn't as though he asked me on his way out, he was looming over me whilst zipping his fly. I just moved to pass him and carry on about my, work related not personal, business. There was no way in hell I was unzipping with this character hovering about.

"Don't you have your own staff toilets? You should be using those. It's not very hygienic what with you working with food."

He was being cocky, no pun intended, and condescending and as a result was pissing me right off, again no pun intended.

CHEEEEERIST!!!

Fantastic! It's shitty enough, no seriously I'm really not doing the toilet puns on purpose, working on a Sunday without having to deal with the super paranoid toilet police. We have to check the toilets on a half hourly basis. We check them for supplies, toilet roll, hand soap. We check that they are clean and that kids/idiots haven't stuffed 25 toilets rolls down the head or that people aren't snorting their own body weight in Columbian Marching Powder. We sign off a sheet on the wall when the job is done. Now having to explain this to a tall man with a small willy, hell any size of willy, was not how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon.

I have to be honest I really don't put a huge amount of effort into checking the toilets.

Toilet roll? Check

Hand soap? Check

Stalls free from coke snorting fiends? Check

Toilets still attached to walls and floor not 3 inches deep in "water"? Check

In and out in 20 seconds, unless I gotta go.

I'm a simple man with the needs of a simple man. I go work when I'm asked. I eat when I'm hungry and I God damned pee when I need to God damned pee. There is no customer, manager, law, or etiquette that's gonna stop me. And actually staff cannot be stopped from using public toilets where they work. We have full toilet privileges. And the staff toilet is not, what's the best way to put this, of this world. It's not cool, not cool at all. It's Glastonbury like at the best of times. [shudder]

Back to the paranoid toilet police. He stood for a moment and considered what I had told him. He thought on it. The cogs cranked into gear. His eyes went blank for a moment, far away almost. And then he hit me with his retort. This would be his winning come back, the line to knock me out.

"Well make sure you wash your hands before you leave."

"Yeah my mum showed me when I was four......" and followed it up sharply by muttering "small dick" and slammed the stall door shut and.....well you don't need any further information.

What is happening to the world when a handsome, yet stout waiter, can't even get a pee in peace?

Chuckie choons and kids make Manuel a very unhappy waiter

The first sitting on Saturday night was filled with children on their way to see High School Musical on Ice. Oh the joy! We don't cater very well for children and it usually has the chefs searching through the freezers for something appropriate or at least for something that can be covered in baked beans and made to look tasty. Kids can spot bullshit though and aren't afraid to say so.

"Mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy?"

WHAT?

"This burger is rubbish, it's icky"

chuckie choons
and that's the Belfast meaning of chuckie by the way...

And if you think the chefs have trouble dealing with kids then you haven't seen me with the the little darlings. I try to to that "Hewo wittle buddy" thing but it seems to come out wrong as they tend to grab their mothers arms and try and hide behind them.

"I don't like him" Said one little snot nosed brat.

Feelings mutual kiddo.

And what's with the running around and the constant touching of things they don't need to be touching? Glasses get pawed over with sticky hands, cutlery from other tables gets rearranged, whole tables are commandeered for forts and castles. Wouldn't have happened when I was a lad, you didn't leave your seat, you did even consider leaving you seat.

Thing is I cant even shout at them, too likely to go off crying or smack you back these days. I think it's the lack of power that pisses me off. It takes me a good hour or so to set up the restaurant it takes a half dozen kids smacked up on fizzy pop and sausages twenty minutes to dismantle it. And you aren't allowed to complain to the parents because their little child is an angel and they are likely to throw an even bigger strop if you say otherwise.

So whilst this fucking mayhem was ensuing the music system decided now was the time to start at it's lark again. Heavy metal wasn't good enough, nor opera, nor Jazz (and we know how much that offends people), no this time it decided that since the restaurant was full of "nice" middle class families it would play some Republican music. Whilst I was trying to negotiate my way round a table, trying not to stand on any small fingers whilst balancing 4 plates is no mean trick I can tell you, the music system switched from bland background tunes to the Ballad of Joe McDonnell. Nice. Listen to it here. Not particularly appropriate music.

Thank you music goblin for that. I couldn't get the plates down quick enough. With that sorted and "normal" order returned to the air waves I went for a smoke. I had given up on trying to protect my tables from the marauding hordes of rug rats and decided it was a futile quest. Beaten by children, not my proudest moment. But worse was still to come as the music system still hadn't had enough fun and decided it wanted to see me freak out once more and played The Broad Black Brimmer.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?

But before I could even get to the stairs a body pushed past me in a blur swearing loudly. Thirty seconds later the music went dead and it stayed that way for a good hour or so. I should add that the machine is supplied by a firm from Dublin.

By 8:30 the restaurant was full of adults again, well in reality the restaurant was full of larger children as my table sucked the helium out of their friend's birthday balloons. But at least I got to shout at these ones.......

Eddie update...and it's a shocker...

The only thing stranger than 6 tables of 2 not showing up on the same night is all my tables showing up as expected, which they did tonight. In they marched on queue, smartly turned out, said please and thank you, ordered well, tipped better and left without having to be lifted by the scruff and chucked onto the street.

It was all quite shocking!

It was as if I had crossed into bizarro restaurant.

But it wasn't the only shocking revelation of the night!

Oh hell no....
don't cry
a new man whore will be along soon...

Brace yourselves...

...for I have news of such great importance and significance,

news that shocked even me,

ladies and gentlemen, I'm not sure how to break this to you....I'll just come right out and say it.....that's the best way...like pulling off a plaster, quickly, it will sting for a minute but we can deal with it.....together...

Eddie, the gentleman whore, is getting married.

There I've said it. I'll repeat it for anyone who didn't quite get that, Eddie our in house man whore, the man who will move on anything, hell he'll move on anything even if it isn't moving, he'll hit on it until it moves, is engaged to be married.

I'm chuffed for him, I really am. But it does leave us with one large man whore shaped hole that needs filled. (lovely image eh?) It is the law that every bar/restaurant/hotel must have a whore. Eddie was ours. So if Eddie is retiring from active service who can take his place? Someone needs to be able to take the harmless flirting to the next level. If we have no one to perform such a role we are in danger of losing credibility.

Eddie was the perfect man whore as he had a touch of tact and subtlety about him. He wouldn't kiss/shag and tell. And damn it he got the job done. There aren't any obvious candidates to take his place. The next most obvious candidate just got married, so he's out, well hell he better be. With Eddie now in line for matrimonial bliss that brings the total engaged at work to seven out of a staff of about 30. And every last one of them is under 30, hell most of them are under 25.

Good grief!

There should be a law against being married before you are 30. Or am I just bitter? Hard to say...

There are two more chaps in line for this most important of positions but they are young and lack the finesse that the role deserves. Ready to know the ways of the Jedi man whore they are not. Clark Kent is eager enough and has shown lots of promise but is too ready to spill the beans after. Nobody needs or wants to know! So he needs to be schooled. Eddie needs to guide him and take him under his man whorish wing. Maybe he can run some sort of training course. Day one "flirting", day two "sweet love making", day three "acting like nothing happened whilst still being friends."

Work will be a stranger place without finding Eddie out on the back stairs whispering sweet nothings into the ear of a charming young/old woman. Huzzah for the woman who changed Eddie from a man whore to just a man! As Eddie is a rock child I foresee the wedding being something akin to the video for "November Rain" by GnR. Quality.......

So rest easy, our man whore king is dead.....but there will be another along presently......please form an orderly queue.

Manuel and the strange case of the missing M's

I am officially giving up on St Valentine's night at work. It's a total waste of time and effort. The place looked great, actually I think the only word is fabulous! But did anyone care? I doubt it.Did anyone care about the carefully selected "love" tunes that wafted through the restaurant? I doubt it. Did anyone pass comment on the wonderful food and sexy service? Did they fuckity fuck! They sat there with glum faces and you could have cut the passive aggressive tension with a knife and serve it with hot buttered toast.
But that's not what has me vexed tonight.

No, tonight I wanna know what happened to my missing M's!

Six tables failed to show up tonight.

They were all booked for 8pm.

They were all tables for two.

And all the surnames began with the letter M!

Now that is spooky! Seriously how fucking odd is that? Now I know it could be coincidence. But lets set reason and rationality to the side for a moment shall we. I know the internet is full of whack job conspiracy theories; 9/11 was an inside job, Area 51, Pan Zionist Alliances, the CIA created AIDS, George Bush is an alien. Actually I think that one is true. But who am I to ignore this great world wide web of bullshit? I should add to it!

So here is what I think happened to my missing M's.

1. M is for murder, murder most horrid! Maybe they all got whacked as the mafia and wannabe gangster types like to say. Lets be honest St Valentine's day has previous for massacres.
2. M is for mistresses. Maybe the tables were all booked by men who were planning on taking their mistresses out tonight but got caught by their wives who put an end to their shenanigans.
   
3. M is for missing. Maybe they got lost. It could happen.
4. M is for messing about. Could a prankster be at his work? Could someone have maliciously filled the restaurant with fictitious tables? Maybe another restaurant, maybe a lazy assed chef? Mmmmmmmm!
5. M is for marriage crisis. They could all have had fights and decided not to share the love at all and sit in and stew the night away.

Or maybe just maybe they couldn't have been arsed. They could have phoned all the same. M is really for Me, Manuel, Missing cash, and Mithered again on St Valentine's Day........

This is my Church and I'll do the preaching

It wasn't just the bed wetters who were out in force at the weekend, the God Botherers were spreading the word, good or otherwise as well. There must be a major recruitment drive on or something. Or maybe they know something that we don't know. Crikey! Doubt it though. Actually they probably know less than the rest of us.

in the Church of Manuel
I am the way the truth AND the light
worship me

There were two instances of attempted recruitment at the weekend, both with varying levels of amusement. Now before we go any further I just want to say I have no problem with people of faith, just as long as they do it behind closed doors and don't push it in my face. What they do in their own house is their own business. Isn't that what they like to say?

We were just clearing up from lunch service on Sunday when a large Christian lady, sporting a very large hat and booming voice, approached me.

"Now sir are you the manager?"

"No, hell no, not me!"

When someone asks to speak to the manager you immediately re-run the table over in your mind looking for something that may have cheesed them off. I found nothing in the 3 seconds that it took to review the service.

"Can you get him for me?" The lady was Afro-Caribbean in origin and when she spoke she sort of sang the words out. It was very disarming.

"Yeah sure I'll get her for you now."

"Oh that's great" she sang

"No problem" I replied and grabbed the other waiter, P-Chops, and had a quick Q & A regarding the lady's table. Nothing of interest was noted. So I phoned the manager, who took a good five minutes to show up! Coffee doesn't drink itself apparently.

As we waited for the manager to set her coffee down and tell her mum she should phone her back one of the chefs sauntered onto the restaurant floor. Probably didn't want to do that as the lady who had been patiently waiting for the manager to show up, whilst humming to herself, lit upon him thinking he was the manager.

Now this particular chef is an oddity at the best of times and we try and discourage him from talking to the customers. It's not just that he has a face fit only for radio or that he drinks enough booze for two chefs but because he is very very militant. I mean even the simplest of requests can turn into a five minute rant about the rights of workers. For example when he was asked if he had completed his cleaning duties on Sunday he said, "You can sack me, discipline me, you can beat me, shout at me, fine me, even kill me. But I will not clean. You can take my very soul but you shall not make me clean." This was delivered with the conviction of a man addressing a rally of a hundred thousand people. He quotes Marx & Engels, Castro is his hero and he has more chips on his shoulder than he does in the fryer.

So you can only just imagine my absolute horror as the good living church lady approached our very own Che. This was a car crash waiting to happen. She opened with,

"Now sir, I'm very glad to meet you...." Che was taken by surprise at first, people don't normally engage him in conversation, for the reasons I've already stated. But he nodded and said a cautious hello back.

"Sir, your food was lovely and your staff are just lovely too..." I was listening in and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard that. If there was a complaint it wasn't my fault. Hey it's dog eat dog around here! Che thanked her but was trying to back away. Her charismatic approach was terrifying him.

"But sir...." O OH a but

"....but sir I must ask you have you let the love of our lord jesus christ into your life?" she asked the way most people ask where the toilet is. It was just so unexpected. I nearly spat my tongue out with laughter. I had to use my service cloth to stop from them hearing me laugh.

The love of jesus?

What?

Our Che only knows the love of a pint of Harp and that's it. But bless she persevered and he listened. I just knew he was itching to start about the "opium of the masses" but he couldn't, and that was cutting him up. Five glorious minutes had passed and she was still going on about her grandson and how the love of yer man had got her through tough times. Che, resigned to the situation, just stood there and took it all.

Gold, pure gold.

Eventually the manager arrived and Che was saved, he made a hasty retreat and headed for a smoke. And who would begrudge him it? I introduced the manager to the God Botherer and pretended like I had no idea why she wanted to see her. I sat back and watched it all happen again.

"So dear have you let the Love of our Lord Jesus into your life?"

Hahahahahahahahahaha! Frickin brilliant.

Her face was a peach. You expect complaints, you expect to get grief, maybe questions about other services we offer, but you don't expect religious conversions. Priceless. She left, blessing us all on her way out, I ducked so as to avoid it. Drive by blessings are the worst. She was harmless I suppose and meant well.

Not like the sinister fucks who send the Glorious Leader a poster, addressed to him personally, that I'm sure could be counted as a threat. He opened his mail to find a large poster folded inside. It was from one of those The End is Nigh type numbers. It showed people falling off a cliff to their deaths onto a pile of skulls below. Each person wore a t-shirt with a perceived social ill on them. Not the really bad stuff like war and famine and greed or climate change. No it was stuff like "Gay Rights" and "Abortion" and "Richard Dawkins". (Okay he wasn't mentioned but I'm sure he was implied.) You know the sort of stuff that separates us from the monkeys, freedom of thought, science, human rights, fun.

Alcohol was sandwiched between "Drugs" and "Lesbianism". Sweet, I'll take that with mayo please. But seriously fuck right off. Keep your moralizing to yourself. Get your own house in order before you start knocking at mine. And now that I think about it even in the unlikely event that you do get your house in order you can still keep the fuck away. Or I'll send our Che round with 5 pints in him. And round here stiffing the waiter and rudeness are the two biggest sins. This is my church and I do the preaching round here. If there's repenting to be done I'll just add it onto the bill.

Bless......or not as the case may be.

***********

St Valentine's Day today. Oh the joy. If you are going out tonight share the love and tip the waiter. It's one of the busiest days of the year and I always end up going home disappointed with my return. It's like being a teenager again.........

Three bed wetters and a tomato

subtle eh

When did the hard assed people of Belfast turn into a bunch of weenie whinny bed wetters? I'm not being rhetorical by the way, I want to know.....

It seems I'm spending most of my time wiping the moist eyes of fully grown adults who should know bloody better. For example there was a guy on Saturday who threw a major league tantrum because he thought the waiter was ignoring him. He wanted to see the manager, who at this point was shoulder deep inside an over flowing toilet. I figured that if I went into get him we would end up swapping places. No thank you very much. So I took off my apron and assumed the role of Glorious Leader for a moment. The gent was near in tears, I could actually see them building in the corners of his eyes, actual tears! Mother of all that is Sacred!

It took me a good five minutes to assure him that he wasn't being ignored. He had settled his bill and was finishing his drink, why would the waiter go back to him? In the ned I had to get him a taxi home, open the door of the taxi, put him in the taxi and wave him off just to reassure his ego that we all deeply love him and would never ignore him. Little did i know he was just the first of a night of bed wetters.....


Then there was the other bed wetter extraordinaire who asked me to change his steak as there was a grilled tomato on his plate.

What?

"Yeah I don't eat tomato, don't like them. Never have done, they taste yuk."

He actually said yuk. This fully grown, professional looking, man of about 40 maybe 45 years old said tomatoes are, "YUK". I was tempted to ask if they made him sicky in his tum tum. But I didn't.

So you want a new steak?

"Eh yeah...it's just the tomato....."

K....eh I'll see what the chef says. He'll probably just take the tomato off though.

He looked really upset, I mean it must have been a great relief to him that he had his wife with there to help him through this damn difficult time. She held his hand across the table as I spoke to him they way someone would as if they knew their friend was about to get bad news.

Good grief.

tomatoes don't kill people
waiters do

Clearly the plate didn't even make it to the chef. One tomato-echtomy and a plate change later and the plate was back at the crestfallen man's table again. Tomatoes, and I should declare I'm no expert, are very unlikely to move about on your plate of their own accord. I mean if you wanted to avoid a tomato on your plate it wouldn't be so hard. It's not like an unwanted sauce that oozes it's way around your plate covering all in it's creamy path. This incident saddened me some what. But worse was still to follow....


Stereotype or not Irishmen and men from Belfast who may not consider themselves to be Irish have an ability to drink alcohol in large quantities. We, I say we but I really don't count, know our way around a bar, we know the required etiquette such as ordering Guinness before other drinks. We know that we need to order our drinks quickly or we lose our turn, it's not like ordering food were a certain amount of humming and haaaa'ing is expected. We know what happens if we get a bad pint, the nice bar man changes it. If we spill some punters pint we buy them another before we get our teeth kicked in. We know these things, we aren't taught them, we just know them, or so I thought.

Bed wetter the third was a go-get-em slick professional type, would have been called a yuppie in the 90's, you know the sort. He came to the bar, ordered a vodka, got said vodka, paid for said vodka, end of transaction. It should he noted he only bought one drink which means he is a tight git or has no mates. I reserve judgement. Ten minutes later the doorman is looking for the Glorious Leader, who was still up to his shoulder in blocked toilet. I retrieved him. Bed wetter the third had run to the doorman looking for satisfaction as his drink had been spilt and the bar staff wouldn't get him another one on the house and was now demanding to see the manager.

Good grief, again.

The Glorious Leader wasn't having any of it. BW III was getting shirty and demanding another drink.

"But why should we, we never spilt your drink?" Countered the GL

"But my hands never touched it!" he answered.

"My hands never touched it"? Good Holy Fuckwalla! Now all he needed to do was to stick out his bottom lip, stamp his foot, and claim his sister had done it and he would have been just like me, when I was five that is.

Negotiations went on for a further five minutes until the GL realised he still had an over flowing crapper to deal with. He took BW III to the bar, got him his drink and insisted he hold it with two hands this time. Well I laughed, hard......

Men of Belfast, what has happened to you? Grow an fucking set again will ya? Tomato never killed anyone, if you spill you drink get the fuck over it and just buy another, and if you want another drink just bloody say so. I'm embarrassed for you, you're turning us into the English......

p.s free badge and reader loyalty card available below...

Short list for a short sort of chap....

I made the short list! Check me out! Nominated for 5, shortlisted in one. Fair enough. Now I know how Scorcese felt. As a way of thanking those who nominated me for an Irish Blog Award I'm offering ten more free badge sets for the first ten to ask for them. Just email me with your address. But it doesn't end there, oh no, there's more....

There is a Well Done Fillet Reader Loyalty Card for everyone!

Just follow the handy instruction below and start reaping the "benefits"

1. Right click and save the image
2. Print the image onto some nice paper, preferably glossy stuff
3. Carefully cut out the image. I've included some handy "cut along" lines so even the drunkest of you can do it without making a bollocks of it.
4. Using some paper glue stick the two halves together
5. Take to your local print shop or mate's office and get it laminated.
6. Present at your favourite restaurant before you are seated and start getting some real waiter love, the sort you always heard about but never got.
   

Small Print
1.Card can be revoked at any time and without any obvious reason
2. Well Done Fillet, it's employees, editors, family members, financiers and Manuel T Waiter will
not be held responsible for any embarrassment caused by presenting this card at any restaurant
3. Cannot be used in conjunction with any other offer
4. Not all "benefits" are available at all times (this applies particularly to sarcasm and wisecracks)
5. Hot Waiter guarantee not available on Mondays
6. Don't ever use this card whilst drinking
7. Don't ever use this card

Customers - you wouldn't let them in your house...

Following on from yesterday's list of waiter types

Here are the first 12 of a list of restaurant customer types that will probably never ever be completed, much like painting the Golden Gate Bridge....

the nervous puppy

eh eh eh can I get a soup.....

The Texan - immediately takes "ownership" of the table. Pushes the cutlery, glasses, menus, candle out of the way and pushes his seat back so as to block the floor for anyone else. If his next move was to plonk his todger on the table, beat his chest and roar "I'm here! Feed me!" you wouldn't be surprised.

The Entitlement Dingleberry - starts the tip-o-meter the moment they arrive. Sometimes they let you know that the meter is running, sometimes they keep it to themselves but in their heads they are singing, "Dance little monkey waiter man, dance!" It's just their way of stiffing you on your tip.

The Mmmmmmm - cant make a decision to save themselves, soup or salad, soup or salad, soup or salad....it becomes like a spiritual mantra. You find yourself humming yourself to sleep with it hours later.

The Chairman of the Board - nobody else is allowed to speak directly to the waiter. Any and all decisions regarding the food, wine, toilet break, tips are all controlled by this one individual. Sometimes I like to ignore them and sneak down to the other end of the table and see if they want dessert or a poking stick.

The Tony Two Times - repeats everything I say to their guest. Repeats everything I say to their guest. Repeats everything I say to their guest. It gets very annoying, it's as if they have to translate for them. I ask if they want wine, Tony Two-Times says, "He wants to know who wants wine?" They fucking know that Tony, they're not bloody deaf. Pisses me off, I say it pisses me off.

The Primary School Teacher - speaks to every waiter like it is the first time they have waited tables. Very slow, very concise, and watches you like a cop on stakeout as you take their order down. God forbid you don't need to use an order pad, this freaks them right out, they cant cope with the near anarchy of not using an order pad. "Dude it's one bottle of wine, I'm not going to forget it in the 60 seconds it's gonna take to get it and serve it."

The Nervous Puppy - permanently frightened even terrified of the waiter. They panic at the slightest question and you can actually see their heart pumping like goodo through their shirt, in much the same way as a bunny does when you lift it. I wanna hug them and tell them it's all gonna be okay. But I don't, obviously.

ME ME ME - they don't see you, they don't hear you, you are invisible to them. Is that right? Two can play at that game matey.

Bed Wetters - allergic to everything! Does the sauce have cream in it? Does the chowder have shellfish in it? Are there peas in the soup? Have you any soy milk? Go fuck yourself! Stay home, drink soy, eat grass and leave me alone!

The Coupon Cutter - coupon/discount carriers are the worst, the lowest of the low, a waste of a good table. They have an idea in their head what the card entitles them to, but they never read the small print, and I'm always happy to point it out to them. Seriously, discount cards lead to more fights and arguments than anything else. And they get paranoid that they are getting less because they have a discount card. They don't get less, they get mocked.

God Botherers - Hi can I get you a drink? "Oh we don't drink, we'll have 2 cokes" Ok, so when was coke reclassified as something other than a drink? Fuck right off and you can keep your pamphlet, I can't be saved.

The Goldilocks - they aren't too hot, they aren't too cold, they are just right.......just not enough of them!

Waiters are like the cast of a Benetton advert...

...we come in all sizes, shapes and colours.

the goldfish
did you want the lamb?
did you want the lamb?
did you want the lamb?

The Denier - I'm not a waiter I'm a [insert anything else] and they let you know at least two or three times during your meal.

The Captured Soldier - doesn't say a thing, specials have to be dragged out of him, name, rank and number that's your lot.

The Talk Show Host - asks you more questions than Jay Leno and David Letterman put together.....doesn't listen to the answers either!

The Jeffrey Dahmer - would rather eat you than serve you. There is a psycho in every restaurant.

The Bad Lover - cares more about their own happiness than yours.

The Suicide Cult Member - a bit too perky for comfort and wants to invite you to their next meeting/gig/prayer service.

The Goldfish - no memory, has to come back to the table every 2 minutes to check what you just told him.

The Hugh Grant - cant tell the difference between a man and a woman thus sticks to calling everyone "guys".

The Mel Gibson - sorry sorry sorry sorry, always sorry for something.

The Harry Houdini - can get themselves out of any trouble.

The Britney Spears - has not one, not two, but many many breakdowns per shift. Cant cope with the pressure on the big stage, people expecting them to deliver and so on.

The Philip Morris - doesn't have a couple of hundred billion in the bank but does reek like a cigarette factory.

The Jerry Maguire - "SHOW ME THE MONEY!" he may not say it but is thinking it the whole time. He eyes up your wallet in the same way as a horny teenage boy eyes up his mate's sister.

The Jerome Kerviel - has your credit card and isn't afraid to use it.

The Doctor - asks "is everything okay/how you doing?" every 5 minutes.

The Invisible Man - where is he?

The Da Vinci - a creative sort, you order the lamb he brings the fish.

The Leonard Cohen - oh so gloomy, he looms over your table with a dark and erie presence. Whilst you consider the soup he is considering the futility of life.

The Estate Agent - over inflates the size and quality of the product on offer, and has a million dollar smile.

The Manuel - actually there is only one Manuel.........

The highway to hell!

taxi mate?
sweeeeeeeet!!

What with Thursday mornings taxi shenanigans I have been forced to change from Value Cabs to Fon-a-Cab. The difference being like night and later that night. Although my taxi driver last night was a real freaking treat. I think I dialed the wrong number. I thought I had phoned for a taxi when in fact I had ordered a happy hardcore disco.

All seemed fine when I got into the car, I said hello, he said hello, I told him where I was going, he said,

"No prablem mate, sweeeeeet."

This should have been a warning to me, the elongated use of the word "sweet" is a tell tale sign of a chap who enjoys the strange delights of a home rolled "infused" cigarette. Maybe it was because I was tired but I never noticed that he was in fact a grade A, 100%, full on mentalist.

Twenty seconds later and I was gripping my seat for dear life and starting on the first decade of the rosary. A red traffic light is nothing more than an annoyance for most drivers but for my guy it was the start line of his Indy 500. As we accelerated at something approaching mach 2 he turned the radio up as loud as he could. It was something involving whistles and a woman moaning loudly, in a sexual way not about the unhappiness of her life.

I shat myself.

"THIS TUNES FUCKING BANGING MATE EH WHA?!" said he

"WE'RE GONNA DIE!!" said I

"NAH MATE IT'S FUCKING....." wait for it ".....SWEEEEEEEEEEEEET"

Oh good holy fuckarama. I'm in a car doing 70mph through the city centre with an extra from Trainspotting at the wheel. Then the nasty happy hardcore tune finished and something by Westlife came on. No relief there then. As I started on my next decade of the rosary, this time for an end to the turgid pop of Westlife, he started twiddling with the dial of his radio. This thing was like the flight deck of a space shuttle with it's many lights, dials, and buttons. He kept flicking until he found more nasty happy hardcore. This time it was a raved up version of the theme tune to Pulp Fiction.

This is how I would die, at the hands of a taxi driver come DJ playing his favourite rave tunes whilst driving like a joy rider through the streets of Belfast. My favourite moment came when he turned to face me and said,

"KILLER TUNES THESE EH WHA?!!"

I could see the pearly gates and all the dead grandparents and my first dog beckoning me in. As it was I made it home alive and it has to be said in record time. I pretty much threw the money at him and didn't wait for any change.

"AWH CHEERS MATE, FUCKING SWEEEEEET!" he said as he sped of to terrify another unsuspecting punter.

I might just get the bus in the morning and take my chances with the sick and the infirm.......

The world is full of shitty people

and you know it...

After Thursday's trip to London with the big people it was good to be back in the trenches again. And boy was I knee deep in filth tonight. Human filth. Not actual shit I should say but people who were really very shitty. If Saturday was as close as it gets to waiting perfection then Friday night was as close as it gets to being fisted by a elephant with your clothes on. That is to say it wasn't a very pleasant evening.

I had a group of 20 graphic designers who were no problem at all. They tried it on a bit at when they arrived with a bit of musical chairs and table restructuring but I nipped that in the bud quick sharpish. Maybe the right angles were too straight for them! But they were not tonight's problem. Neither was the uber sweet table of 5 out to celebrate mother's 60th birthday. I mean these people were the epitome of Hallmarkedness. You could have knocked up a quick watercolour and sent it to them for next year's collection. Granny had a little tear in her eye as she read her cards and grandad looked all proud and patriarchal, but not in a bad way.

No, these people were great guests. As was the table of 11 super geeks, probably some companies I.T. department. They were ctrl-alt-great. See what I did there.

Tonight's shit is the sugar, the crap in the coffee, the botulism on the beef was a rather unremarkable table of 3 older women. They didn't radiate sweetness and light like the birthday girl's table they weren't witty like my graphic designers nor was their conversation snappy and well educated like the boys from the geek department. And that was fine. Not every table can be Oscar Wilde.

They had arrived shortly after 6 and need a table for 3. They hadn't booked but we had one table that was free for just under 2 hours. We offered them it and told them that we needed it back before 8 as we had a table reserved on it at 8pm. They were delighted. They also wanted to use a discount card that we take. We had to say no as they hadn't booked their table in advance. This is something we have to be strict about especially when we are busy. This was explained and the lady stuffed it back in her bag.

The meal went fine. Unremarkable but fine. The Original P was serving them and had reported no problems. Waiters tend to give each other a running commentary of what their tables are up to through the night. It was about 5 past 8 when P Chops approached me with a look of worry and fright and asked me if I knew what was going on with the Original P's table. I knew nothing but not being one who likes to be out of the loop I went round to her table to put myself right into the loop again.

The Original P wasn't there. No she was out beside the bin in tears. Through the snot and the tears I could make out the words,

"Get them out.....get them out.......get them out PLEASE!"

My heckles were raised, my blood was boiling, and I had moved from Manuel Waiter to Manuel Righter of Wrongs.

FUCK THAT.

Off I stormed. The three women were finally getting their bags together to leave. I scooped the money off the table and asked them, in my quiet but stern voice, what had gone on. Why was my work colleague in tears, what had happened?

"She's a bitch!"

"Aye a bitch!"

"Excuse me madam, that's my friend you are talking about please don't call her a bitch.. She is in tears outside."

"Well I'm glad she's in tears. What about us?"

It turns out that they had tried to use their discount card again and again were told that it wasn't valid. They were also told that they need to move to the bar area as had been agreed. They figured that by throwing a hissy fit and stamping their feet they would get their way.

WRONG

And off they stomped. And again one of them said that they were glad The Original P was in tears. This was just unbelievable. In twenty years of service I have seen many waiters reduced to tears by customers but I have never seen a customer who's goal it was to make the waiter cry. I have never seen someone, outside of opposing football fans (and who doesn't enjoy watching a big fat Geordie in tears!), rejoice at someone's tears.

Making the waiter cry is just such bullshit. i hope they went home and had a good long look at themselves. I hope the recognise what they did was bullshit. I hope they feel bad. I hope they change a little of themselves as a result. I hope. But I doubt it too.

All this was played out to a busy restaurant. The table that was booked were the three bastards were sitting were standing nearby waiting for their table. It's not what you want your guests to see.

The Original P seemed to get over it quicker than I did. That sort of incident sticks with me for days. I will ruminate and mull it over in my mind for the rest of the weekend. In every other respect tonight was a success. The food was great, the service was better. There was alot to be happy about. But not me this will piss me off for days. I just can't believe people can be so fucking cruel.

And they didn't tip, funnily enough. Cunts.......

(ah it's good to be back!)

If like me you need something to take the pain away I suggest, no, I urge you to check out TOAST'S photos of Ireland......