J is for...

J is for...

...Jerk. Now Jamaican Jerk is a combination of chillies, thyme, spices (such as cinnamon, ginger, allspice and cloves), garlic and onions. And it's quite tasty when used to flavour meats and what have you. But this is not the jerk I speak off. If only we waiters had to deal with just Jamaican Jerk, life would be quite sweet and probably a bit spicy. But life ain't like that. No the jerk I speak off is the guy who wants his steak re cooked as there is a tomato on his plate. He's also the guy who tells you at the start of the meal that he started the tipometer the moment we greeted him. The jerk is the guy who wants to move tables, not because he has a real problem with the first table you gave him, but just to stamp his authority. He likes to repeat this trick with his soup. He speaks for his date and orders for them too. But he saves all his insecurities and hang ups for the waiter. He loves to, try, and make himself look big in front of the "help". He fails almost every time. You can try to preempt the jerks complaints and ensure the soup is piping hot, you can give him the best table in the restaurant, you can ensure the wine is served at the optimum temperature but it's all entirely pointless. He is a Jerk after all. Not to be confused with the lovable Jerk as played by Steve Martin,

"Waiter: Would monsieur care for another bottle of Chateau Latour?

Navin: Ah yes, but no more 1966. Lets splurge! Bring us some fresh wine! The freshest you've got - this year! No more of this old stuff."

Quality.

it's also for...

...Jam & Jus. There was a time in restaurants when food came with either a sauce or a gravy. These were simpler times. Not necessarily better times but certainly simpler times. Sauce or gravy, magic moments. You could choose your sauce by colour, red and brown being the most favourite. Gravy was mostly brown and tasted of meat but liquid meat. There were of course fancy sauces such as pepper or even garlic for the people who liked olives and had not only been to France but liked it. But then chefs got cocky. Sauces and gravies became old news, meat flavoured liquid wouldn't do. So it was out with sauce and gravy and it was in with Jam and Jus. Instead of brown, beef flavoured gravy we were offered jus. Jus is of course the most mispronounced word on the menu. Jus, you will be dumbfounded to hear, is the French word for juice. A dish that is served au jus is served with its own natural juices. But most often it is touched up a little with some fine Knorr product or other thus making it, wait for it, GRAVY! Emperors new clothes! And where once you got chilli sauce with your fajita or chicken you now get chilli jam. It's the same bloody thing but wankier. But now even jus's and jams are old hat. These days it's all foams and essences. You could say they are now yesterdays jam. You could say it, I can't be mithered too.

and...

...Jenga. There are few things I hate more than playing Jenga with a stack of plates. Why, I hear you ask, would I be playing Jenga with a stack of plates? Well I never set out to play Jenga with a stack of plates but with one thing and another it happens. Not often, but it still happens all the same. Some guests, not many but some, like to help. And whilst I am very grateful for the thought I really do prefer that they don't, well not when it comes to the clearing of plates. If you really want to help then tip more. (You really are relentless - LMM) You see, some of them try to help by popping their plates on top of the carefully balanced stack you have perched on your left arm. If they knew how fucking precarious the whole business was they would go to the toilet when the waiter was clearing the table. I mean I've come close to stabbing more than a few guests in the eye with stray steak knives. No, the clearing of tables is a one person game and the help, no matter how well meaning, is the exact opposite. This also applies to the delivering of drinks. Im not sure if it is an attempt to help or just a lack of patience but the fookers that grab their drink off the tray are just asking to get a lap full of beer/wine/flaming Sambucas. We are dealing in millimeters here people, one wrong move, one drink lifted off in the wrong order and it's wet trousers, ruined shirts, and grumpy waiters all round. This is all something we want to avoid isn't it? Isn't it?

K is for King and for Kumquat. They may not actually feature but I do like the word Kumquat.

Greatest putdown ever.......

I heard this vignette this evening. And it is without a doubt the greatest putdown to a rude customer ever.

I really want it to be true.

A gentleman diner at one of Belfast's better restaurants committed the cardinal sin of beckoning the waiter by clicking his fingers. The young woman was rightly offended and approached the gentleman and in a clear and controlled voice said,

"It takes more than two fingers to make me come. Sir."

Ladies and gentlemen I give you the greatest putdown ever.

I thank you..........

If you ask for shit on a stick then expect shit on a stick....

Be careful what you ask for.....no seriously. If it's not wise to poke a sleeping dog with a stick then it's not wise to beg the gods to send you lots and lots of teachers. Not just any old teachers but teachers that are as giddy as it gets on their last day of work before their two month holidays.

Lordy it was a tough day!teacher with drink orders
he's thinking about the Bacardi Breezers
awh look at his little face

If you ask for the world to fall on your head just so that you have some golden blog fodder then you have no one else to blame when the world duly delivers. I was awoken at about ten o'clock by the sound of my mobile phone. I sat upright considering for a moment what they hell the noise was. It sounded familiar but it didn't register straight away.

Da da da da da da da da da da daaaa

Da da da da da da da da da da daaaa

(It's never been changed from the factory settings)

Shit, it's my phone, I thought. Someone had better be dead, or at the very least nearly. Why else is someone trying to wake me from my slumber. I lifted it and through crusty eyes I could see, "NUMBER WITHHELD."

Number withheld eh. Normally I just ignore those and let the answering service pick it up. But for some reason, still unknown to me, I answered it.

"Manuel?"

"Ugh"

"Manuel?"

"Ugh, eh, um, er yeah, yeah it's me. Eh who's that?"

"It's work."

Fucking magic moments.

"There is another 18 booked at twelve, we need you to come in."

"Arse biscuits. Right. I'll be in before twelve then."

"Cheers fella"

I love our little chats.

I wasn't due in until 2 so this was devastating. Devastating I hear you ask? Oh yes, I had nothing in for breakfast and didn't fancy working without some. I'm traditional like that. Then I remembered what I had written a few hours previous. This was not an auspicious start. I trembled as I shaved, hence the cut.

The day was indeed a super mental one. But more of that to come. But I did laugh out loud when I was conversing with two women that I had served last week. They were telling me they were heading to see Kylie and that they had been to see The Police last Friday and Billy Connolly before that.

"That's a lot of money!" I commented

"Hell yeah." Said one.

"Still it's cheaper than buying heating oil." Said the other.

I laughed but it's probably true.

More teachers tomorrow, and French tourists. The very epitome of the axis of restaurant evil...

Ho hum, what is a boy to do?!

Blogger brain freeze

I don't know what is wrong with me. I think it's just that I have been writing so much lately, and not just on here, that I am all tapped out. My brain has froze. I'm sat here gazing blankly at the screen and I have nothing to say. Which is odd as I'm still typing. I stopped there but you wouldn't have noticed that.

actual size of brain....

It's not that there haven't been things going on it's more that I haven't the energy to write them up! That cant be good can it? I mean you shouldn't be beat out at 35 should you? What I think I need is some good quality stimulus. Something I can really get my teeth into, something that I cant wait to get home to write about. Something like, eh um er, something like about ten tables of teachers. That should do it. A bit drastic I know but there you are.

Oh wait what have I booked on Thursday?

Is it?

Could it be?

Oh I think it is!

Teachers, all day, lunch and dinner, hundreds of them! A veritable school full of teachers, actually many schools.

Fantastic! I never thought I'd ever say that. All that finger snapping, hand waving, fine print reading, getting on like they are teenagers is just what I need for a good long bitter rant of a post. And say what you like but I know it's what you all want. Fluffy stories of lovely customers being lovely and saying lovely things and tipping lovely amounts is all fair and well but you want the pain and the angst of Manuel. You want me to put the rant into restaurant. Admit it.

And you know I love it too.

So don't wish me good luck with my day from hell, wish bad things for me. Pray to the deity of your choice that the teachers are true to past form and they shout at me and refer to me as "you lad" and ask me to conjugate the verb "to go" and give me 100 lines for not clearing their plates quick enough. This blog needs it, I need it. I think I'm becoming a sadomasochistic, "Oh be rude to me, be rude me. Oh I love it when you snap your fingers."

So come on teachers gimme your best/worst.
Manuel wants it, Manuel needs it!

I is for...

I is for...

...Irish Coffee. Or also known as Gaelic Coffee but most often it's known as super sized pain in the ass coffee. Here's what happens when someone orders an Irish Coffee.

"So can I get anyone a coffee?"

"I'll have a cappuccino."

"Mmmm yeah me too."

"Two cappuccinos and gents, any coffee for you?"

"I'll just have a regular."

"I fancy an Irish."

"Irish and a regular it is."

Waiter makes 2 cappuccinos, a regular and an super sized pain in the ass Irish Coffee. He serves them, 2 caps for the ladies, a regular for gent number 1 and an Irish for gent number 2. BUT it doesn't end there, oh no. When the rest see the Irish Coffee they all want an Irish coffee, except one wants a Calypso and another wants a Royale and another wants a fucking French with less cream and blah de fucking blah on top. Every fucking time. I don't mind making them, in fact I'm really rather good at them. But it's the having to go back to the bar and making another round that makes me twitch with anger. Christmas is the main harvest for Irish coffees. The thing is that when one tosser orders one the rest of the table of 25 wants one. It's hell! Irish coffees are practically smuggled to tables behind the backs of other waiters or under service cloths.

To make an Irish Coffee heat an appropriate glass and then add whiskey. Don't worry about it being a good whiskey as you are gonna mix it with sugar and coffee so does it really matter? Bob in a sugar and coffee and mix. Using a spoon pour some thick cream on top of the coffee. And then run, run waiter run. Get it to the table before any cream heads south. That's the standard method. I prefer the get the manager to make it method.

and also....

....Ignore. Customers really don't like to be ignored. They get really snippy when they cant order. They are beside themselves with frustration when they cant get someone to take their money. They tend to go quite gaga when they cant get a waiter to refill their water. Poor lambs. But are you being ignored or are you just being impatient? Eh? Is the waiter just busy with someone else? It doesn't pay for the waiter to ignore you. But if the customer perceives that they are being ignored then they really do believe that the waiter has it in for them. It's that whole perception is reality thingy. So how can you tell if the waiter is ignoring you or just busy?
Answer yes to any of these and you are probably being ignored,

Have you arrived late for your booking?
Have you complained about your table and been moved to a different part of the restaurant?
Have you previously been a pain in the arse?
Have you previously tipped like an Australian? (Poorly)
Are you Australian? (Hehehehehe couldn't resist, you know I love you guys really don't you?)
Do you have any previous for any infractions that are likely to have cheesed the waiter off on your last visit? Think hard, waiters are sensitive.
Are you a bore? Come on now be honest? Do you really think the waiter wants to know about the new plants in the garden?

Answer yes to any of these questions and you probably aren't being ignored, it's probably just busy or most likely you have Napoleonic issues.

Is the restaurant busy? I mean are all the seats taken and you only see one sweaty fat waiter?
Has the waiter told you that he'll be with you in a moment?
Is the waiter currently with someone else, maybe taking an order or serving food? I mean he cant be in two places at once now can he?
Waiters don't ignore guests unless of course you we are ignoring you.

J is more interesting, honest. I mean there is Jerk, both Jamaican and regular!

Mulletopia

I saw a dog running down the street on Monday morning with it's leash flapping behind it. Clearly this little boxer had broken free from it's post and was now on an adventure. You rarely see dogs on adventures anymore. There it was charging up the street with it's tongue flapping and ears pricked.

FREE!

It was doing that half run half jumpy things that dogs do when they get off the leash. He surely knew he would be recaptured but for a moment he was free and was going to sniff as many butts and pee against as many posts as he could before he was restrained again. That's how I felt on Sunday when I finally got out of work.

Well minus the butt sniffing and post peeing, but only just, I was very very pleased to be, "off the waiter leash".

But I too charged up the street with tongue out and ears pricked, FREE! I didn't write on Sunday night due to exhaustion, both mental and physical. I also didn't run up any street but I did get into a very nice taxi which sped me home post haste. The weekend was one of the toughest in a very long time. Two tables went wrong, very wrong. The rest of the weekend was a rip roaring success with tips at k-ching k-ching k-ching levels, that is to say very good. But the human condition being what it is I just couldn't get the two tables that went wrong out of my mind. And if I had posted something on Sunday night it would have been a thousand word diatribe of bitterness and anger akin to the final words of a pre-rampage murderer. So I decided to give it a miss and instead opted for a full nights sleep.

rawk n roll...
or something like that

Despite the one table that had me reaching for the stabbing fork Saturday night was very funny. The word of the day on Saturday was mullet. Those bastions of hair rock, Whitesnake and Def Leppard where in town on Saturday and they got the kids out big time. Well maybe not the kids, but definitely the kids parents. Bad denim jackets, is there any other sort, were pulled from wardrobes all over the country and squeezed round bulks that just cant pull that look off anymore.

Oh yes by half six the restaurant was awash with mullets, bad denim, brand new AC/DC t-shirts, ill advised faded skin tight jeans, shiny new leather trousers and 40 year old men and women who should really know better. It was a mulletopia! These people spend there lives as accountants, teachers, bin men, lawyers, gardeners, and policemen (as I discovered accidentally) but tonight they would relive past glories and RAWK to the dubious musical stylings of David Coverdale and chums. It wasn't just mullets there was a hell of a lot of big eighties hair in evidence too and it wasn't just the men either!

I only discovered I was serving some policemen when I joked with them that I had to ask my dad who Whitesnake were. They laughed then one said, "You know very well who they are. You're probably 35 years old with a dodgy record collection of your own." I was taken aback. I am indeed 35 years old and there are more than a few dodgy records in my collection. But how did they know this? "It's my job to be able to identify people" he replied at half whisper, "Cops" he concluded with a little wink.

EEK, what else did he know? I went home a discarded a few records to be on the safe side.

Now being a big fat fan of stereotypes I assumed that a rock metal crowd, even if Whitesnake and Def Leppard barely make that category, would be steak munchers. How wrong was I? It was a night of low fat diets and no sauces with cream and, "can I get that as a salad?" Good grief, I was as bemused as I was amused. The rock years had obviously taken their toll and these boys and girls were now on strict calorie control diets or unable to eat red meat due to it keeping them awake all night or something as equally as weak. I wanted someone, just one person, to neck a beer in one go, or at least order a bloody beer!

Eschewing a second round of drinks most opted for some coffee, decaf of course, before they headed to the gig. It was very disappointing but also a sign of what awaits me over the next five years, a slow steady decline into safe eating and bad fashion sense. Off they went with a song in their head and a creak in their back.

And they left me to get ready for the next sitting...

..."here I go again on my own" I thought "down the only road I've ever known." I pouted, flicked my imaginary full head of rawk hair and then got on with it.

Not tonight Josephine.....or any of your friends either.

If you came here expecting a whimsical and life affirming post by a happy fat waiter then sorry, not today.

If you came here hoping to laugh along at the crazy japes and scrapes of the writer of this blog, then again, I'm sorry, no dice.

Instead I offer you a cat, not just any cat, but the cat that knows.

The cat that knows
it's a cat and it knows....
....stuff

What does the cat that knows know?
It knows everything you did last night.



And it judges you harshly.

******

I'm too tired/grumpy/a little touch angry to write folks, two twelve hour shifts in a row and I'm fooked.
If I was a race horse they would probably put me down.

I wouldn't complain either.

The elevated pfft......

It's performance review time again at restaurant chez moi.

Goody fucking goody.

Oh how I love performance review time. I used to get really rather irate about the whole thing. You'll be surprised to hear, unless you know me that is, that I don't take criticism very well. Many a huff has been thrown and quite a few chairs knocked over during performance reviews in the past. They always pull me for an apparently temperamental temper. Buttons to that, I've no idea where they get these notions from.

I used to get all worked up but now I'm tremendously ambivalent. Meh, I'll sit there, smile politely, nod gently, sign it when finished, and then carry on in my same old way. I'll probably reign in the terror rages for a week or two but after that it's back to normal.

Still it's not easy to resist the urge to pull the stabbing fork from my bag and let loose. Lets consider last years "highlight",

"Manuel is a perfectionist and needs to stop seeking perfection in everything from customers, to the food, to his work colleagues."

Oh is that fucking right then is it. I would have considered this to be a positive trait but there you go!

Pfft.

Actually.....

...pffffffffffffffft.

I'd write more about why being a perfectionist is a great thing and why you want your waiter to be one but this one handed typing is right royal pain in the...well in the one good arm I actually have. I have all this rage I need to get out out but I cant......grrrrrrrrrr!

Fame! I wanna wait forever.......

Thinking before you speak is a wonderful concept. Not one I follow all the time. But I really do try to engage the brain before engaging in conversation with the great dining public. Unless of course I am throwing a hissy fit/being an irrational ass. The brain tends to get switched off for a moment during such times. But like I say I generally like to give a moments consideration before speaking. But for a second time in a week I pushed it a little too far when I should just have walked away......I mean where the fuck was my brain when I engaged the table of five salsa dancers in a bit of light conversation?

"Yeah so you guys are dancers then?"

"Ah yes we are salsa dancers" replied the gruff looking Frenchman.

"Salsa eh, that must be fun then."

"Fun? Eet is not fun, okay maybe eet's a little fun, but eet is hard work."

"Kaaaaaay then, who'd a thought..."

He seemed to take offence at my casual assumption/remark that Salsa dancing was fun. This was a bit uppity for my liking. I was just chatting whilst clearing the table. Now I should have left it at that, I should have just walked away, but no I wanted to continue on with a conversation and subject I know little to fuck all about.

"You know I used to dance."

"Yeah?" They seemed more than a little dubious about this. And I can see why what with me being more raspberry pavlova than Anna.

"Oh yeah I was a ballet dancer for about three years."

"A belly dancer? A male belly dancer?" Asked the Frenchman

"Yeah a male ballet dancer." I was a bit taken aback at their reaction.

"Oh you said ballet......" and the five of them burst into laughter.

As did the manager who overheard everything, the KP who was on his way out, and a bar man who was wandering through the restaurant at the time.

"We thought you meant belly dancer!" Said the Frenchman who was heading for a sneezer if he didn't stop laughing. Then the cheeky fooker poked me in the tum tum with his pen and said,

"You'd make a great belly dancer."

There was no need for me to share my ballet dancing past with them? What sort of reaction did I think I was gonna get? Was I hoping they would ask me to join their troupe? I'm not talking to anyone else for a fucking week. I cant take anymore face slapping and belly poking.

They got the bill a moment later. Not that they asked for it.......

Whinging Wednesday

This is officially Whinging Wednesday.

It was originally going to be Feedback Friday but I had to bring it forward two days due to my need to whinge now. My neck, shoulder, and right arm are sore and stiff. I assume this is some sort of "the way I slept on it" type issue. Well that's what every amateur doctor and so called expert/taxi driver I've come across today has told me. The next mook that remarks, "You must have slept on it funny" is getting a smack from the hand on my one good arm. Oh and a filling has just popped out of a tooth. This didn't really come as a surprise as I'd been jabbing it with pens, pencils, and forks for a few days now as it was pissing me off. Dentistry for morons if you will. But the pain has gone so that's that sorted. I've also got a seven day stretch at work, including three doubles, before I see Little Miss Manuel again.

I'm in a mood.

But it's not all about me, it is, but it doesn't have to be. So have at it, spill, share, tell me what annoys you most about going out to eat. This is a follow on from last weeks post on the sexism of restaurant service. We seemed to have opened a whole world of dissatisfaction there. So there must be other things that make you wanna stay home. Help me learn. Saying that I might just get moody and tell you all to go, "Serve yourselves" if you know what I mean.

So go ahead let loose the inner restaurant rage and share with Manuel.......

"Sath" African Crazy Lady.......

It wasn't just the Hungarians who provided the amusement at the weekend, there were others too. It has to be said thought that the sight of grown adults having to make barnyard animal noises and doing fish impressions really will stay with me for a very long time. Or until Wednesday, whichever.

But like I say there were others and as surprising as it will sound they were South African.....

"Oh mun, am so drunk!" Said the fairly respectable looking middle aged lady as she and her family made their way out of the restaurant. I really didn't think she was drunk at all.

"Now madam, you seem great! Hardly a drop touched." I exclaimed trying to make her feel better. Not that she was in any embarrassed. I think it's quite hard to embarrass a South African, all things considered.

"That's very kand of you, but am very drunk."

I couldn't just say goodnight and let them leave, which upon reflection would have been the smartest thing to do. But no I had to get on in there and be here best bloody friend.

"Well I'm sober madam and you seem fine to me." Why I was persevering I don't know. They were leaving and had tipped handsomely, there was nothing else to be gained.

"Oh Sophie, that really is very kand of you to say." Sophie? Who the fuckity fuck is Sophie? I don't think there is enough booze in the world you could drink to confuse me for a girl called Sophie. I said "sober" she heard "Sophie".

At this point I realised she was hammered. I also realised she was coming over to me in that wibbly wobbly way drunk people do. "For fuck sake" I thought "You just couldn't just wave them goodbye and be happy could you?"

"Oh Sophie, ya just so cute." She had invaded my personal space, moved in, and set up camp. She was indeed blitz. She was hammered, off her mong, three sheets to the wind, in other words pished. I assume she could tell I wasn't a woman called Sophie but I elected not to correct her. I knew her table had drank the best part of two cases of wine but thought they had been shared amongst the 25 of them.

I considered the bear attack defense, "Stop, stay quiet, and make no sudden moves" but it was too late she moved in with her hands heading for my face, to grab a kiss I assumed. But I assumed wrongly. No she thought my face was so cute she would slap the shit out of it with a two handed assault.


"You're-jast-so-cute." Each word announced with a healthy slap on the face. She repeated it too.

Magic fucking moments.

I considered the other bear attack defense, get in the fetal position. But there was now a gaggle of waiters, managers, and chefs watching the little break in play that was the crazy South African woman. I was sure one of her party would be suitably embarrassed and drag her away but no, they thought this was great fun!

"She laks you mun." Laughed her husband. Bastard. "Maybe she wants to tak ya home."

I'm not a fucking souvenir, I'm a human boy with feelings and emotions and two very sore face cheeks.The slapping and general poking continued for about 25 minutes, well okay maybe not, but it bloody felt like it.

She got bored after about a minute and stumbled away shouting, "Nat nat Sophie."

Mentalist.

Friends

Having friends is great, it really is. Wouldn't life be very sad and lonely if we had no friends? There would be no one to share those exciting moment with, there probably wouldn't be any exciting moment without friends. Friends help us grow and they enrich our lives. The best of them are there through thick and thin. Whether your circle of friends is a large and varied one or a small and tight one it's just smashing to have them.

Friends...
...not mine.
Mine aren't that good looking, tidy, sober, etc.

Still, it's a real fucking pain in the waiter's hole when they book tables or even worse arrive unannounced at your place of employment. I really fucking detest serving friends at work. It's got nothing to do with being their waiter or being subservient to them, not that I am anyones gimp, but you know what I mean. It's just that I'm never sure how to serve them.

Am I supposed to be Manuel their friend or Manuel their waiter?

Some situations can be dealt with a quick swapping of sections or a well timed break but when the worst comes to the worst you have to serve them, your friend. Your friend that knows what you did that summer in the holiday cabin in Donegal with the thing and the stuff and knows you don't talk about it. Your friend that loves to embarrass you when you are being your most professional. Serving friends is two hours of sweat and nerve jangling torture, not always but mostly.

I've served numerous friends over the last few weeks. Some are better friends than others, some I'd rather serve than others. Actually there were a couple that I'd rather drown than serve. But hey ho a waiter's gotta do what a waiter's gotta do.

Serving your very best friends (is it still okay to have best friends when you are 35?) isn't so bad because you know they will cut you some slack if you are under pressure. They might give you some gentle-ish abuse at a later date but for the most part serving your grade -A Chums is okay. Things start getting a fair bit shitty as you move down the pecking order from Grade A chums to run of the mill chums to stop and chat friends then acquaintances to friends of friends and finishing off with the guy who is always in the shop when you are.

Oh and then there are ex-friends. But that's a whole other post and hierarchy of friendships, you know ex-girlfriends, ex-wife, friends of theirs and so on. And it's a stone wall guarantee that when an ex walks into your section she will look a million dollars her new chap will probably be worth a million dollars and you will be covered in chocolate sauce and smell of sour milk and or piss.

Guran-fucking-teed.

Like I say serving best friends is easy. Just as serving the guy who you always meet in the shop is easy. It's that middle group of hangers on friends that are the problem kids. Best friends you can tell to fuck away off if you have to and there wont be any come back. You hold no emotional attachment to the guy from the shop so he can be ignored if you have to. But the middle group of acquaintances and second order friends are just so bloody difficult to serve.

It's the small talk you see. Most tables require an certain amount of small talk during the meal, the weather, sport, cultural events, are they or aren't they secret service agents and so on. I'm very very good at small talk with people I don't know. I am very very shit at small talk with people I sort of know or are peripheral friends. Once you have covered the usual, "What you up to?" and "How's the family?" and "Have you seen John Doe recently?" type shite what else is there to talk about?"

It's at this point that awkwardness sets in. Now that's okay as long as it's me suffering from the awkwardness, I can just stay away from their table. But if the awkwardness is theirs then I start to feel bad and try to over compensate. It's all so unbearably horrible. I once did the, "When's it due?" thingy to a couple who were friends of my ex-wife's just to look like I cared and wasn't all bitter and what have you only to discover she was just carrying a few extra pounds. Cheeeerist.

I had more friends in On Friday with the table of 80 teachers. One of them I was delighted to see and we hugged it out and caught up on news and babies and that sort of stuff. The other conversation went something like this,

Work
News
Family
New house
Nodding head - me
Nodding head - her
Silence
Awkward silence
More head nodding
Embarrassed silence
"Okay then......."
Walk off.

It's such a drag. I'm resolved to not repeat such a carry on again and have decided just to act aloof when friends arrived for dinner. I still love you I just don't want to talk to you. And really isn't that what we all want from our friends? Maybe I just need some new friends with more interesting lives.

Maybe I need a more interesting life......

You're being a real Budapest

We all like a challenge but....

...when you have a table of ten Hungarians who don't speak English and one English person who doesn't speak Hungarian that really is taking the piss.

More butt fun...!

I don't want this blog to become fixated on my bottom but....

Apparently this stuff cures chef's arse, Anti Monkey Butt Powder. It's good that the worlds top minds and scientists and nobel prize winners have come together to cure this most irritating of afflictions.

Still no cure for arsy chefs though.

Thanks to BiggerHead who sent me the link, together people we can stamp out chefs arse and the causes of chefs arse.......

That's your lot today. I have 80 teachers for lunch tomorrow and need time to get my mind into a state of zen and calm.

Crikey......80 teachers on Friday the thirteenth!

More G-Men fun.........

It would be fair to say things weren't exactly going my way at the start of the night. I had a table of ten reduce to eight, thus no service charge. I wouldn't mind but they were teachers, and they aren't well known for being either easy to serve or generous. On another table I had Australians, also famously tight with the cash. On yet another table I had some really lovely Japanese tourists who again are even less generous than the Australians. So despite having a half full restaurant I guessed I was about to make sweet fuck all for myself.

I grumped for a while. What else was there to do?

Then the door opened and in strode 3 huge American chaps.

K-ching!

g-men here
g-men there
g-men every where
or was there?

G-Men, no doubting it either. They all looked like they had come straight from I-Rack. They were immensely polite and kept calling me sir which in itself was amusing. It felt like an episode of Little House on the Baghdad Prairie. They ordered and ate and drank and were polite and when I wasn't at the table they talked openly. But should I come anywhere near it they clammed up like fuck. This also amused me. I kept finding reasons to go back to their table and the tables around them and every time I did they stopped taking.

This was great craic!

In the end I decided to pull them on it. "Hey lads, if you stop talking when I come over I can't hear what you are talking about!" They laughed but at least I had found a way of starting a conversation with them. So I just went straight for the jugular.

"Soooooooo, you must be here for the Presidents visit then?"

Now, if you are a member of the secret service or something like that and you don't wish to divulge this information to the nosey waiter my advice is to answer quickly. It's best not to stare at each other and then just say,

"Eh....um...eh....er....sir?"

And then rapidly follow it up with,

"Yeah I suppose we are" and then get all grumpy about it. It's not like I was waterboarding using legitimate interrogation techniques on them.

By the end of the night I had another three tables of tall polite American men with dubious reasons why they were in Belfast. I outed them all. The best was the table of two who laughed when I asked them in they were here for Shrub's visit and then said no comment. I quickly changed the conversation and asked them if they had been in Belfast before. The really tall one answered,

"Yeah, I was last here six years ago."

That would have been when Bush last came for a Guinness cup of tea? Maybe I have some tremendous ability for interrogation that I never knew. Any way they are all coming back again tomorrow for dinner. I'll try and find out where they keep the alien ships and who really killed Kennedy. After all it wasn't you and me.

So outing G-Men is my new hobby and a welcome distraction from dull tables of teachers who in the end left me 15%! The G-Men all tipped well too. One left his pen behind as well. I took it apart, just in case..........

Why the man tastes the wine......well why he used to.

"When a man is served before a woman, that also means you’re welcome to leave before paying. If you regard chivalry as ancient gibberish, you don’t deserve to eat well"

So Says Trevor White, yes him again, in his turgid little book "Kitchen Con."

"Bollocks to that" says Manuel in his tremendous blog, Well Done Fillet.

You're all the same to me
the bringers of cash...

Restaurant service is alive and kicking with old sexist habits. And, as hard as it is for me to admit, waiters are essentially the purveyors of these rituals. Does the little lady woman need to be served before the man? Is there a practical need for it? Of course there isn't! As for me I take a David Bowie approach to service, man or woman, you're all good for me. Wasn't always that way......

I've had to learn the hard way. I was trained by men and women back in the 1800's, or there abouts, and these people knew all about deference and "ladies first" style of service. And so it was passed on to me. The man got the bill, the man was presented with the wine, well hell he ordered it. The man, quite often, ordered for the "lady" unless of course she was one of those uppity Germaine Greer reading types. And even then she ordered the chicken and the "man" had the big man sized steak. And that's the way it stayed for quite a while.

But as society has changed restaurant service has in a lot of places failed to change with it. Still to this day men will be presented with the bill, they will still get first dibs on tasting the wine, and it will be assumed he will be eating the steak.

I admit that I had to learn the hard way, financially. I brought the bill to a table of two one evening and presented it to the bloke much to the very great annoyance of his boss. She paid the bill and told me that if I wanted a tip that I needed to ask her employee as I had no chance of getting one from her. D'oh! I didn't ask him all the same. But I have never presented the bill to the man at the table ever again. Manuel needs the cash...

Here's a list of sexist assumptions and what have you that, some, waiters often make.
I'm sure there are more, do feel free to add your own...

The host is always male. No, no they're not. I approached a fairly large table one evening just after they arrived to find out if they were all present and all that sort of stuff. I went straight to a chap that looked like he was in charge. BIG MISTAKE! "Don't ask him, I'm in charge round here" guldered a slight but forceful young woman. She pretty much owned me after that and kept making little jibes each time she ordered something, "Just check that is okay with my husband..." and so on. I haven't done that since.

The man will order/taste the wine. No, no they don't. Back in ye olden days, about 20 years ago that is, men ordered the wine, men tasted the wine, women drank the wine. Men were given the wine list as a naturally as breathing. You couldn't get away with that now though. I'm pretty sure that this archaic routine is in the past. Men were also supposed to taste the wine so as to save the little lady from the horror of tasting some rancid wine. I assume men have an ability to put up with sour wine better than the frail mouths of women. What utter tosh.Oh and the woman quite often enjoys a beer with her food just as the man quite often likes to kick back with a strawberry daiquiri whilst waiting for his caesar salad.

Men eat steaks, women eat chicken. This one has got nothing to do with waiters. But I've watched many a male chef preparing a menu and they always put "something light on for women", like chicken or if they are really lucky maybe some fish. They really do consider this to be their bit for women's lib. Chefs quite often consider salads and chicken and what have you to be women's food. Back when I was a wet behind the ears waiter I brought down steak and chicken to another waiters table. I popped the steak in front of the man and the chicken in front of the woman. Needless to say there was no tip that night either. Again utter tosh.

The woman must be served first. I knocked that on the head years ago. It simply wasn't practical, particularly with large tables. I serve it as I get it. I've yet to see a woman get upset or angry about it. I've seen a few men get agitated about it and step in with a snarky remark, "Oh it should be women first.." and so on. Yeah go fuck yerself big lad, if you wanna go tell my chef that be my guest.

The man gets the bill. Oh no he fucking doesn't. You wanna know where the bill goes? It goes slap bang in the middle of the table. Fight about it, arm wrestle, whatever, just pay it and tip the big fella. I don't know a waiter who hasn't fucked up with this one and I guarantee they changed the habit after. Women get rightly pissed about it. And pissing off the person paying the bill just doesn't make good sense. Not that I'm saying I'd still be doing it if it wasn't for the money but it did help me change my ways.......

So female readers of WDF have you experienced sexist attitudes in a restaurant? Do you get treated differently because you are a woman? Does this differ when you are out with other women from when you are out with a man? Share with me so I can learn and as a consequence earn.

Waiter Club, it's not so bloody, but still great

Waiter Club, it really is bloody great. Our needs are simple, steak, cooked for but a moment, and served quickly. Speed is important as we will most likely be on our splits so we have to get there and back allowing us time for our second favourite activity, smoking and drinking coffee. It's good to have a plan....

...but occasionally the plan fails at the first hurdle!

Where: Muriel's 12-14 Church Lane Belfast (Formerly Nicholl's)

We ordered: Well, we wanted steak and chips but Muriel's doesn't do steak. They don't do chips either. Oh the late afternoon horror! I'd have broken out in a sweat if I hadn't been already, probably got something to do with the amount of red meat I eat. But we had committed to eat there and eat there we did! So in answer to the question we ordered salt and pepper chicken with chimichurri sauce on sourdough bread with a generous bowl of olives on the side for me and a Caesar Salad for chummy.

We got: Exactly that! My sandwich was great. It wouldn't really matter to me if chimichurri sauce was made from stewed bugs and onions I would still have ordered it. I just like saying chimichurri......chimichurri, chimichurri, chimichurri. Chimichurri is a herby garlicky lovely sauce from South America incase you are wondering. The sandwich was served with the obligatory nachos and salad, which got pushed to one side. Chummy' caesar salad looked great too. I cant really tell you how it tasted as the greedy little salad muncher wouldn't give me any.

We thought: I was really really impressed. The food was fresh and light but equally filling. It's nice to eat lunch without feeling you are another meal closer to death via a heart attack or stroke. Through a mouthful of cos leaves chummy said, "Mmmmmit's flumping great." Which I took to mean it was really good.

We paid: Sandwiches are a fiver a pop and can be made as a salad for an extra quid. Bowls of mixed olives are £3.00 each and worth every penny too. So throw in a couple of shandies and a tip and you will be down about 20 odd quid. But worth it.

Would we go back? Double fudge hell yeah, I've been in about 5 times since. Muriel's is a great looking bar. It's design is based on an old hat shop run by a woman called, wait for it, Muriel. Muriel appears to have been a bit of a one as she also ran prostitutes out of the top floor. This service is no longer available. The bar itself looks very lush and is suitably decorated in memory of the previous occupants business, with hats that is and not, well nothing related to prostitution. As well as sandwiches and salads they also offer cheese and meat boards, seafood platters, and le croques (bowls of hot stuff). But the breakfast menu looks like the real winner for me, not that I can ever imagine a situation where I would be up in time to sample it. There is everything from salmon pancakes to Croque Monsieur to eggs Florentine. Sounds tremendous......!

I should add that I did get asked to cover my uniform up as they have a no uniform policy. Fair enough, but it was the hottest day of the year!

Muriel's,
it's Waiter Approved
(just change before you go)

*********

Week 20 of The Roundtable

BleurghBQ

Come on now people I know it's a bit tight these days what with all that crunchy credit floating around. And I know that soon only the richest Kings of Europe, and the Middle East, will be able to drive a car such is the price of oil.

But still that is no reason to start cooking for yourselves!

die die die die die

It's all starting to have a negative effect at work. Whilst our weekend was still very busy it is taking longer to fill the booking sheets. It took until about 4pm on Saturday before I could call the restaurant fully booked. The weekends are good but it's the mid week that's starting to bum me out. It's not just the price of oil and the rise in household bills that's messing with my general happiness it's the freakishly good weather of late as well. And it's this that makes Manuel such a bitter little man.

And I am bitter.......and little.

Any sign of the sun in this country sees men, and it is almost always men, dragging the family out of the safety and comfort of their homes and onto the recently decked patio to eat medium rare chicken breasts, burnt sausages and pathetic burgers. Lovely sofas, widescreen TV's, games consoles, and general happiness are all set aside to afford dad his magical summer moment of cooking for the family. Caveman cunt. Oh yes the sun triumphs the arrival of the food poisoning season like snow heralds Christmas.

It should be noted that I fucking detest BBQ's and everything associated with them, the food at BBQ's, the constant smoke in your eyes, the cunt in the apron and novelty chefs hat with some piss poor slogan on it that reads, "Get me a beer" or "Daddy's hat" or "I make up for my small penis by BBQing."

BleurghBQ would be a better word for it.

And don't tell me your BBQ's are better and all that. I've never been to a BBQ yet that didn't have the obligatory asshole with a pair of elongated tongs in one hand, that he guards with all his might, and tin of cheap supermarket beer in the other. Being master of the mesquite sauce doesn't impress me much. AND when half the street gets food poisoning it's all down to the butcher and his dodgy sausages isn't it? Amateur bastards.

And it's the same every year.

The sun comes out, the customers disa-fucking-ppear. When I'm making my way home from work, early, the smell of burning charcoal and salmonella fills my lungs with anger and disappointment. Your part time love for the restaurant and all that work in it depresses and angers me. You may have guessed this already. But you'll be back and I'll welcome you with open arms.

But it wont be the same.

Because I'll know where you've been.

You were there last summer too. Serving yourselves shite food on shite paper plates and drinking out of plastic cups. Hey if you like BBQing so much why don't you BBQ for juniors graduation, it's coming up soon? Or for your grandmothers birthday eh? Some soggy salad and a limp burger says, "I love you mum!"

Ha!

Feels good to get that off my chest. And the one good thing about this country is that every spell of good weather breaks sooner rather than later and when it does my cup, of cash, will runneth over. So here's hoping it pishes down all week......

How bitter is that?

Touché

For one reason or another I decided to give the frenetic to-ing and fro-ing of the main restaurant a miss tonight. Instead I chose the more relaxed salubrious surroundings of the private dining room. This decision was in no way influenced by the early booking, 6pm, that would afford me the opportunity to skip away before 9pm. Some people are just so cynical.......

So there I was in the private room with a very dapper table of 18. They were just so lovely, polite and friendly and used words I had assumed were long lost such as "please" and "thank you". They handled themselves with class and civility whilst at the same time being relaxed and clearly enjoying themselves.

No one was in a hurry. Not I. Not them. The kitchen was screaming for the order but poohy to them! They were just in a grump because they had their TV taken out and were forced to listen to the football via the very worst radio in the world. It's clogged with years of flour, grease, steak and many many fishes.

But after a while all 18 had finally arrived and the first round of drinks had been served I approached the table to recite the soup and specials. The table went quiet. That's always a great help! And a good sign of the people you are dealing with.

"Good evening folks, I hope you are all well this evening."

There were pleasant smiles from the attentive group.

"Todays soup is cream of asparagus and todays special is, apart from me, ...." pause for ripple of laughter. They liked that one. Yes yes I know it's a terrible line but it gets them laughing which is what I want.

"....todays other special is some beautiful baked salmon with cress and dill ....WHAT THE?" and at that the room burst into laughter. The lady to the side of me had reached out and grabbed a big slice of my sugarloaf!

I was shocked!

Her husband was shocked!

The rest of the room wasn't so shocked as they saw her reach around.

It took five whole minutes before the room quietened down so I could recite the special again. Sometimes I do set myself up for these things. Who's special now then eh?!

Touché my dear touché.......

Not that I'm counting but that's three sugarloaf assaults in two weeks.
Rumors that I love it are of course strongly denied by me.

I really fucking despair sometimes.......

Iris "The Reason Cure" Robinson

Iris Robinson MP MLA and wife of the First Minister for the Northern Ireland Assembly, Peter Robinson, has a friend who can "cure" gayness. Her special friend is a Psychiatrist, allegedly, who has apparently "cured" many people. She said,

"I have a very lovely psychiatrist [I don't doubt that for a moment!] who works with me in my offices and his Christian background is that he tries to help homosexuals trying to turn away from what they are engaged in."

"And I have met people who have turned around to become heterosexual."

I'm in a grouchy mood as it is today and this sort of bogus bullshit quackery isn't helping. Thank fuckity The Royal College of Psychiatrists stepped in saying it

"did not regard homosexuality as a psychiatric disorder, adding members of the gay community should enjoy full rights, including "a right to protection from therapies that are potentially damaging, particularly those that purport to change sexual orientation."

Good stuff. Members of parliament need to engage their brains before they open their mouths to speak. This sort of hocus pocus nonsense needs to be condemned and dealt with in a quick sharpish manner. Sometimes living in this country feels like living in the freaking 70's.

Idiot.....

If you want to you can listen to her balderdash here.

H is for...

H is for...

...Head Chefs. Lovely people, relaxed and well mannered. They rarely let their emotions override the situation. Not ones to make a drama out of a crisis. Ha! Nah I'm only messing with you. They are mentalists, moon beams, Lords of the Darkside if you will. There are two types of head chef, those that "do" and those that very definitely "don't". Those that "don't" tend to be the real fucking a-holes of the kitchen and tend to lead brigades that are a-holes too. Head chefs have to be referred to as "chef." Yes chef, no chef, sit on this chef. Oh the insecurity of it all. Talk about dramatic! I've seen plates of food being flung into the bin, plate and all, for some minor infraction like being over sauced. I've ducked for cover to avoid flying knives, pans, and cups. I've stood there and took volley after volley of the most sadistic, foul mouthed abuse you can imagine over daft things like asking for more chips etc. And the language out of them would make Twenty Major blush. Still they are marginally better than that really lazy bunch of no marks, the executive chef.

it's also for...

...Head Waiters. Lovely people, relaxed and not in the least bit snooty. They rarely let their emotions override the situation. And are never likely to make a drama out of a crisis. They never, ever, make sarcastic remarks about your lack of foresight when booking a table and would never dream of looking down their nose at your wine selection either. They would be offended if you tried to bribe them with money in return for a table. These people are professionals! Head waiters are masters of all they survey. What did you expect? Balance? Pfft!!!!

and...

...Head Cheese. Not as you might imagine the head honcho, the boss, the person that owns the place but rather a delightful if somewhat odd little dish. It's not cheese either. Head cheese is brain. Nice eh. Usually the brain of a sheep or a cow. It's boiled and poked a little and formed into a terrine. It's then served like a luncheon meat. How's that bad boy for ya? I'd try anything once but even brain is a bit much for a committed carnivore like me. But imagine the horror of someone who reads it wrong on the menu........crikey!

that's probably enough "head" to be getting on with so....

...Humble Pie. Rarely served in a restaurant. You may occasionally get it from a waiter but unlikely. And you will never get it from a chef. No when humble pie has to be served it will be the management who has to dish it out. And that's the way it should be.

and unfortunately....

...Hospital. Where my sister is. Which is a bummer. She will be okay and she needs to be as I have no idea when peoples birthdays or anniversaries are or other such family trivia. Yes, I joke to hide the worry. Family eh?

Hearing things....

Yet another odd night at work. It started with a table of six Americans. Yippee thought I. Having taken an extra day off I needed to get back in the cash quick sharpish and there is nothing better than six lovely Americans to get you back in the folding gear. They didn't arrive all together, in fact they didn't even all know each other. So as they arrived they introduced themselves by name and by job title. The names have been changed to protect the shit out of my ass.

"HI, I'm Bob from Air Force One." I was standing right there when he said it, Air Force One.

"Hi Bob, I'm Melissa from NSA." NSA? The National Security Agency? Well bugger me.

And on it went, Air Force, Military, State Department, and so on. Their conversation was full of Middle East this and "I-Rack" that. I was busting a gut to hear what they were on about. I'm sure it's all to do with Shrubs visit here in the next few weeks. I know these are different times in the North of Ireland but they could have shown a little discretion. I'll probably be on a flight to Saudi Arabia by the time you read this......

The last time he was here I went on the protest with all the other hippies, reds, veggies, and Guardian readers. I was all pumped up and angry. I'm not so interested now though. In fact I could give a fuck. Apathy eh, it's a real killer. Still it was all very exciting for a while. Then other customers showed up, buggers.

not so secret, secret agent

"Ah hello, and how are you tonight?" Asked the nice waiter in his ill fitting shirt that must have shrunk in the wash because there is no way he has put weight on, hell no.

"Yes a table for three actually?" replied the older of the three women.

"Mother! He's not asking you that...." interjected a frustrated younger woman.

"No....eh have you a table reserved ladies?" asked the nice young(ish) waiter wearing the figure hugging shirt.

"Yes, Doris actually, for three" answered the older lady again except it reads much nice than she said it. Her reply was delivered more like a moody teenager who's just been asked a question they perceive to be obvious. It was the equivalent of "Duuuuuh, of course I have."

Fuck that.

Up with this I will not put.

"And what was that name again, Boris?"

"Doris!"

"I'm sorry I have no Morris booked here." I said pulling at my shirt which felt more like a second skin.

"Doris dear, I said Doris." She was quite ruffled now. So I called that evens and showed them to their table.

I didn't get them a drink order straight away as I need a moment, just for me and she needed to stew a bit. But I returned a moment later with a smile painted from ear to ear. Time to try again I thought.

"Where's the wine list? You haven't given me a wine list."

It took every fibre in my body, every last ounce of strength not to pout and point at the wine list and go, "It's right there, duuuuuuuh."

One nasty bottle of Pinot Grigio ordered and brought to the table but before I could even announce it she was off again.

"It's very noisy here."

"Really? Eh? Really?"

"Yes, those kids are making a terrible racket. It's hard to hear myself think let alone speak."

I can fucking hear you loud and clear I thought. Now those kids she was referring to was a table of six twenty somethings out to celebrate a friends birthday. Sure there was a bit of squealing and laughing when they arrived, but by now they were reading their menus and not exactly partying hard in an Andrew Wk stylie.

"Yeah to be honest madam I really don't see any problem with them." I was whispering as I didn't want the table of six to get wind of yer woman's complaining. The only thing worse than tables ganging up together is tables fighting with each other. It can get a bit wild west.

"Are you not going to speak to them?"

"Speak to them? About what?"

"The noise man, the noise!" She said getting rather loud with it. I considered asking her to tone it down a bit but decided that was just likely to inflame the situation.

"No honestly madam they aren't doing anything wrong. If it gets loud again you just let me know and I'll deal with it."

And with that she said, "NO, NO, NO come on girls, we're going."

And off she popped.

Really really strange.

Game, set and match to me.......

Art v Doodles...

I picked up this napkin from a table last week. It's what they pay me to do. But rather than just bin it, which is also what they pay me to do, I kept it. They don't pay me for that. I was intrigued by it. It was drawn by a woman I would guess was in her 50's. Hey maybe she was bored with the guy she was with. Maybe I should just throw out peoples doodles. Or maybe I should start a new blog featuring only customers napkin doodles.

Probably wont all the same.

"tipping"

Also I finally ordered this print by Nick Dewar from Thumbtack Press. I really love it. It's called tipping but I prefer "Stiffed Waiter" but then again I'm not Nick Dewar. There are some great prints on there and it's well worth a look. I'm not on the make here by the way. I'm also giving it some serious consideration as my next tattoo.

Dreams, I've had them.....

I have had a dream.

I know there is nothing duller than listening to somebody drone on about their "wacky" dreams. In fact the only thing duller than listening to stories about peoples wacky dreams is listening to some aging hippy drone on about some wacky acid trip, maaaaaaaaaaaaan.

But I did have a quite peculiar dream the other night. I was serving Robert Redford, he was sitting at one of our duller tables. And whilst I was serving him, a breakfast fry up which is odd as we don't serve breakfast, I couldn't help think I'd rather be serving Paul Newman.

Que?

And as I brought Mr Redford his coffee I kept seeing Paul Newman's face, but not his regular face but rather his face from his sauce bottles.

The fuckity fuck is that all about?

Where's this going?

not sure, but lets see where it takes us....

I also have a dream, more waiters on TV.

1. Waiter P.I. Much like Magnum P.I. minus the mustache and the Ferrari, and instead of Higgins he would have a busboy as his trusty sidekick. The kicker being that the busboy would be a woman and the real brains of the outfit. Quality. They would solve dastardly murders and what have you as well as working in a fancy schmancy restaurant. In fact all the murders would take place in and around the restaurant. His catchphrase would be "Time to settle the check" and he would say this as he was closing in on the villain. And as they were being lead away he would laugh and say,"What? No tip!" Genius.

2. Camp Waiter. I know what you are thinking, "Queer eye for the Straight Guy". The waiter gives sartorial advice and bitchy commentary for people going out to dine. But you'd be wrong. Very wrong. Camp Waiter is a hard assed boot camp for middle management types. At Camp Waiter they get to learn about teamwork and all that kind of stuff. The waiter would put them through a week of hell including split shifts, rude customers, sociopathic chefs, and incompetent managers. They would have to live like waiters for the week too, in a studio apartment with no running water and have to make it to work on time everyday despite a crippling alcohol problem. The waiter's catchphrase would be, "There's no 'I' in team.....but there is in waiter." The show could be adapted to cater for young offenders and gang bangers. From the mean streets to the restaurant floor. Again, bloody genius.

3. The T(r)ip Challenge. A solitary waiter on a voyage of discovery around Ireland. The waiter must get from the most northerly point of the country to the most southerly point surviving only on tips earned in restaurants along the way. He would converse with crazy characters and discover wonderful local foods and customs. He would also learn a little something about himself and his waiting abilities. In each city, town, village, and hamlet he would hook up with different waiters who would give him a little local knowledge. The show could be expanded to include, "The waiter's European Challenge" or even "The Waiter's World." That said, Australian backpackers have been doing this for years........

I don't want to feature in any of these myself but I would settle for a executive producers role and appropriate recompense.

Send money now, thanks.

And if I see these on TV with somebody else getting the credit I'll be round with the "boys" to discuss the issue through the medium of physical violence.

Juxtaposition

It was a good weekend, the money was great, the guests were cooperative (which is the best you can hope for), the new waiter seems to have some potential, and I managed to secure my first Sunday off in 10 weeks.

In many respects it was perfect.

There were also two instances of unsolicited touching, one sugarloaf assault and a kiss.
Neither were appreciated.

Well as perfect as it gets when you have to work on two of the hottest days of the year so far.

We had a table of 24 booked for half seven on Saturday night which turned out to be a hen party. Clearly I didn't know it was going to be a hen party or maybe the sections would have been organised a little differently. Maybe somebody else could have worked that section. Maybe people shouldn't hold back such details from me. Maybe I need to pay more attention when people are telling me things. But I was very happy with my twelve retired teachers, no problems here at all.

They were a sight to behold, the hen party that is, the teachers were nice too but you know what I mean. The women were all dressed in matching outfits, Britney Spears-esque, pre breakdown I should add. Every head in the restaurant turned as they marched in. Some turned back quicker than others.

In our private room we had a rather nice family birthday party. All ages were represented from grandkids to the elderly grandfather himself. It was his 75th and clearly the family wanted to celebrate this significant milestone with a special dinner. They all arrived bearing gifts and the emotion of the occasion was clear to see.

Now, in one corner you have 24 very happy women dressed like Britney having a ball of a time, suggestive comments, double entendres, wine selected by strength rather than flavour or compatibility to the food. In another corner, it was the private room but play along, you have the perfect Hallmark moment, the full family circle lost in emotions and love and stories of crazy grandad and his crazy ways.

What happens when you put a hen party in the vicinity of grandad's birthday party? Comedy moments, that's what.

One of the ladies needed the bathroom. Now rather than ask where they were located, a question I answer a hundred times a day, she decided to go on an adventure. And within moments found herself in the private dining room. There she stood, the best part of six foot tall, bright blonde hair, knee high socks, short skirt, white blouse and chewing on bubblegum. Now I wasn't there but by all accounts grandad thought his family had gotten him the best present ever as evidenced by the Father Jack style shout of,"YES" when she entered the room.

The poor woman was mortified and when we found her she running through the restaurant giggling, "I'm not a stripper!" And she wasn't either, "I'm a bloody accountant!' she said through her howls of laughter.

Priceless.

To balance this story I'm gonna do a bit on the chauvinism of restaurant service. Why does the man traditionally have to taste the wine? It's all nonsense let me tell you.

37.2 le matin (in Belfast)

Starting your Saturday off with 50 French tourists for lunch is a challenge to say the least.

Unusually only about 5 of them spoke English this included one of the two guides.

Merde!

My putting on a French accent and asking them if they wanted "Gee-Ness" really didn't help.

We served them our usual tourist set meal, garlic soda bread, ham and cabbage with parsley sauce and champ, selection of Irish cheeses, chocolate cake and cafe (as the French like to say). They loved it! In particular the cheeses. And as the head chef wasn't in at this point they had been served platters of almost all the cheese in Christendom! It really was a treat for all the senses.

For those of you not fortunate to have been in Belfast on Saturday it was like about 28oc. Women were going lobster red and men were basically naked save for ill fitting shorts. We don't cope well with such conditions. Our French friends were struggling too, beads of sweat clung to most of their old and wrinkly brows.

As I bade them a fond farewell and we did our bit from the Sound of Music, "Goodbye, farewell, etc etc" I couldn't help but thinking that I wouldn't want to be on that bus in about half an hours time, you know, when the cabbage, cheese, garlic, and sweat really kicks in........

....nice.