You're my BFF......

When I wasn't dealing with the Oscar award winning performance of a 65 year old man on Saturday night I was pandering to the needs of a table of young 20 somethings. I say 'pandering' but then again it's what a waiter is meant to do. You know the sort, pockets full of disposable income and free from the responsibilities of life. Frigging wasted on them if you ask me. God what I wouldn't do with money and energy. Actually forget the money, just some extra energy would be nice. Oh what it must be like to get through the day free from the need for an afternoon nap.

Manuel is down with the kids.....
apparently

They were all very sweet and all very attractive, even the 3 boys in their Abercrombie and Fitch sweaters and light blue shirts looked pretty. All very pretty but all very dumb. (The sort of dumb that laughs at Adam Sandler movies) This was obvious from the off when one guy pointed to a bottle of chardonnay on the wine list and asked if we had it in red*. I had to bite my lip to save from laughing. But I didn't and instead helped him. That's my charitable deed for the month. Bless his little cotton socks, but not his loafers, awful shoes. This isn't the deck of daddy's boat you know.

Their conversation was light and breezy and full of "Way - no way's" and deep and meaningful discourse about shoes and the new Urban(e) Outfitters in town. The young women weren't much better, they were giving someone called Beth a right going over about going out with someone called Josh or Steve or Craig or all three. Whatever, as they probably said. But they truly were the only highlight in a very dull weekend.

I had been a bit po-faced with them when they arrived as they were half an hour late. I must have reminded them of their old history teacher as they sat there with their hands on their knees looking at their, pretty, shoes. It was like shouting at a puppy and I felt bad so I jollied them up with a few one liners. We got talking about music and movies and wine and I made a few recommendations of bands that they might dig (do the kids still "dig" things?). Just some Jurassic 5, Handsome Boy Modeling School, The Smiths and other stuff they had never heard of. It scares me that some people have never heard of The Smiths. The Smiths should be taught in schools. Morrissey is as sage and as wise as Plato. Even if he doesn't enjoy the meaty goodness of a rare ribeye steak. We all have our foibles.

And by the time they left I was like their BFF or as one of them put it "you're like an old guy who is like cool and stuff....like"

Old guy?

I'm thirty fucking five!

I was mortified as I hobbled away. I thought they were taking me seriously but the boss insisted they were taking the piss. Oh the cynicism of management.

But it got me thinking about my friends. And I've come to the realisation that I'm more popular online than I am in the real word. Not only more popular but cooler too. Seriously, I get invited to more parties, events, gigs, and social events online than I do by my actual friends. And if I say I don't want to go they don't take the huff, they don't cut me out of the loop. Why only today I was asked if I wanted to go to three gigs. None of my flesh and bone friends invited me.

Bastards.

Okay I know that Facebook sends the invites and none of it is for real but still it's nice to be cool somewhere, even if it is online. Oh that is so sad I may cry........

* I know there is a red chardonnay now available but I'll eat my own head if he knew that....

All training should involve whiskey.....

So whiskey tasting before shift then.

There's a novel idea.all gone

Out of the group of about ten only two of us had to work afterwards. This was harsh. A tear escaped from the corner of my eye as they all headed of to the nearest bar to continue with the whiskey sampling. No doubt beer and wine would be consumed in large doses as well. The lushness of the whiskey and it's rich history long since forgotten by the time they hit their fifth round and they're asking for Jägerbombs and ordering wine by it's alcohol content rather than by grape.

Bastards.

I can be so bitter some times.

You know when you have to go to such training sessions there is always one guy who never shuts up? He asks a thousand questions and makes lots of pointless points and remarks despite there being an unwritten rule about asking questions. (ie. you don't so that everyone gets away quicker!) The guy who gets shot dirty looks and evokes huffy sighs every time he opens his mouth. The guy who even the trainer gets bored with and has to ask, "anyone else?" ? Yeah that was me. The longer the training went on the more whiskey I got to drink the less time I had to spend with actual customers.

Well what would you do?

The training/tasting itself was jolly good fun unlike most training. Most training is patronising and pointless, especially when you know everything. Do I know everything? Probably not but I can bullshit like a champion when backed into a corner.

We were focusing on Kilbeggan Whiskey today, Ireland's only independent whiskey distillery. And I have to say the chaps from the distillery did a great job. I mean it really is hard to dislike anyone who is pouring you whiskey for free.

We sampled the Kilbeggan itself, lush caramel like flavours and smooth to taste. Then we hit the Tyrconnell single malt. This was a little bit harsher to me but you could detect the fruit like tones and honey like flavours to it. Again it was lovely stuff. But for me the gem in the bunch was the Connemara Peated Single Malt. It was like drinking a turf fire. The aroma of the peat was captivating and enticing before you even touched it to your mouth. Magnificent stuff though when it did. The flavours were explosive to say the least. The room burst into chatter and amazement at it. Not one to knock back quickly but rather one to be sipped and enjoyed as you wisely stroke your beard. You will need a beard to drink this stuff oh and an Aran sweater too. It is a five time gold medal winner at the International Wine and Spirt Competition. And it is easy to see why.

Delightful stuff, so step away from the Bushmills and Jamesons for a moment and try these, you really will thank me for it.

I wish there was training everyday, I want to learn.........and drink whiskey.

Victory is ours!

The shady little loophole that let shady restrauteurs do shitty shady things with waiters tips is to be closed so says John Hutton, the business secretary.

And about time.

From the Scotsman Newspaper

He said: "I am really pleased to announce we have decided to change the law so tips received by staff must be paid on top of the national minimum wage, not as part of it. Customers who leave a tip want it to go to staff. They don't expect it to be used to subsidise owners paying the minimum wage."

Those shady fuckers that are still stealing their waiters money to pay them with need to stop doing it now and not wait to be forced to do so by law. Get it done. Also part time commenter and full time waiter "Belfast Plate Carrier" did a radio interview about tipping last week. I'm hoping to have a copy of it in the next day or two and will post it when I get it. The wanted someone else to do it but that someone else is far to pretty to appear on radio. Pfft!

********

In other news...

Waiter from Waiter Rant has de-cloaked to reveal his true identity.

These bad waiters made me laugh. Legends.

Glass in the tuna isn't cool.

Reasons why I wait tables....*

1. I get to meet new people everyday.

2. No two days are the same.

3. The flexibility it affords me.

4. I have a passion for great customer service.

5. Whiskey training.

Training? Whiskey? Me?

Su-fucking-perb!

mmmmmm
can't see it going wrong at all...

The only bummer being that I have to work a shift afterwards. But I'll have a buzz on so it should be fun. Can't really grumble though, there's worse ways to spent the afternoon! I hope they set the training to Survivors, "Eye of the Tiger." I really hope there are whiskey related punishments for not paying attention, "Drop and drink 20 maggot!" Or something like that.....

* It's all about the cash really, nothing else but the cash not even free whiskey.

Chef does the cooking, you do the eating, I do the drama...

I didn't have a fun weekend. I never really got my groove on at any point. It felt long and it felt more arduous than it should have. It was like being forced to watch Adam Sandler playing that one role he has, you know the likable dim witted hero who fucks up for 85 minutes but wins the girl/the trust of his father/the game for the team in the last five minutes. It was that shit of a weekend and I yearned for it to be over. Much like watching Chuck & Larry.

But we all love a little drama from time to time, whether it be in films, books, TV, even online. Oh yes a little drama is a good thing. But drama has it's place, particularly amateur dramatics. And a restaurant is no place for amateur dramatics. Such things should be left to the professionals, professionals like me.

boo fucking hoo

Amateur dramatist of the weekend, and there was stiff competition, was a 65 year old gentleman. I know he was 65 as he told me whilst sulking at the end of his meal. He ordered a particular meal but wanted it without the chili infused sauce. "Fair enough" says I advising him that to do so would alter the dish quite considerably.

He insisted.

I ordered it.

I headed off to busy myself with other waiter type activities such as small talk, drink fetching, ego stroking, plate clearing and cigarette smoking. I'm highly skilled in all the dark arts of waitering. The ego stroking itself takes years of practice but once you can live with how dirty it makes you feel it becomes both easy and lucrative. Saying things like "Oh and don't we look fine tonight" at the guy in cheap suit and slip on shoes or complimenting people for choosing the second cheapest bottle wine instead of the cheapest can bring tears to a newbies eyes. But you have to push past it, see only the wallet not the nasty man with breath like dog food, I tell them.

But by now the birthday boys food was ready. I collected the food and went to the table. I performed all my waiterly duties, as I am required to and as I like to do, in a happy and convivial manner. I wished them a happy meal, not a McD's, and off I popped again to look after my other lovelies.

After a while birthday boy and his charming wife were finished. I strode with confidence to their table to pick up the plates. I had enquired as to their happiness during the meal and whilst he wasn't gushing with praise, not that sort of chap though, he hadn't indicated any dissatisfaction. Hence my confident stride.

"So folks did we enjoy that this evening."

There was a prolonged pause as he exhaled some wind and pushed himself right back into his chair. He was adopting a fighting position. Crikey.

"It's my 65 birthday today...."

"Oh congratulations sir." I was hesitant, this could go either way and right now it was veering towards unhappiness.

"...and in 65 years I have never had such a worse meal. Not one other meal in my 65 years on this earth has been that bad." He started it in a low rumble but was announcing every word with considerable gusto and fortitude by the time he finished speaking.

Fuck, fuck this wasn't good. I considered for a moment, whilst he blathered on about living through post war rations and tins of dried fruit, about what to do. In our defense he had done it to himself, removing the chili infused sauce was a mistake, a mistake I warned against, a mistake he insisted upon. But it was his 65 birthday. But then again he was making dramatic claims.

"Sir, I did advise against having the sauce removed."

He ignored me and carried on his hymn for the evening of, "Worst meal in 65 years you know?"

"Yes sir, you said. I'll let chef know. Would you like to see the sweet menu sir?"

"I suppose we'd better. Maybe the sweets will salvage something from this disaster of an evening." He said as he sat forward whilst putting his hand over his eyes, his wife clutching at his arm.

Yeah as long as you don't want your ice cream with mustard, I thought. Sweet Jebus, give me a break. I was waiting for a round of "I survived a war you know?"

A while later he called me over to settle the bill. He was annoyed that we had made appropriate deductions to his bill. I was as confused as a dog with a bag on it's head.

"Sir you clearly weren't happy so we reduced your bill by way of apology." I explained. Personally I would have charged the old goat for everything, fuck it, he did it to himself. But again he insisted we charge him fully. I stood firm this time and told him we wouldn't be. This was weird, it's normally the other way round. I think he had another plan, letter of complaint. Letters of complaint pay off better than discounts received at the time. Again he was beside himself with anguish and there was more rubbing of the head and wifely arm clutching.

Worst customer in 20 years, or is that just too dramatic........?

I regret nothing, but......

Following on from yesterdays upset....

My first table of the day?

A septuagenarian English couple!

For a moment I thought I was in the middle of my own comedy show were I was the permanent fall guy! But you know what? They were an absolute delight and tipped like champions. So all is right in the world again.

My faith was shaken there for a bit......still, one must learn to take the views expressed on internet message boards with more than a healthy pinch of salt. I'm so easily wound up it's not true. I stormed out of my own surprise 21st birthday as I thought my chums had stood me up. Bless....

Fuck you....

Waiter from Waiter Rant has a post up on The Guardian's food blog Word of Mouth. It's to mark the upcoming release of his book, "Waiter Rant - Thanks for the Tip--Confessions of a Cynical Waiter". I cant wait to read it and I hope it's a roaring success.

Now, trying to promote your book on a British website with a post that is less than complimentary about British people probably wasn't the smartest move but the comments are out of all proportion.

They display a contempt for waiting staff that is baffling to me. So you want good service but you don't want to pay for it? Is that what you are saying? Many commenters suggest that waiters should demand higher wages. And if we were successful would these same people be okay with paying the higher prices that would inevitably be levied? I very fucking doubt it. They suggest we get better jobs. So if all the waiters fucked off and got better jobs who would serve your food and stroke your ego? Catch a fucking grip.

Read the post and comments.

Beyond words. My blood is boiling with rage and not just with the dig at me either.

Fuck you, fuck you with bells on.

Grody to the max and other pen pal issues....

I was reading Flirty's blog the other day when she made mention of Pen Pals and this got me thinking of the two pen pals I wrote to as a child. I should say that I was a child at the time and wasn't a sweaty man pretending to be a 12 year old. Just in case you read that the other way.

manuel didn't have many friends as a child
which is unlike now of course.....

I cant remember exactly how old I was at the time but I assume I was young. Our teacher encouraged us all to get involved. So all us nerdy kids filled in the little form - ticking what we wanted in a Pen Pal. The cool kids weren't having any of it though. Why spend their nights and weekends writing letters to people they didn't want to know when they could be hanging out with and smoking fags with actual friends?

Fuckers.

Every boy wanted a girl from America and every girl wanted a boy from America. These were the early 80's and Cyndi Lauper and Shalamar were all the rage. Shalamar? I don't know maybe it was Hall and Oates, the hell if knew what girls were into back then. The point being we all wanted to write to and more importantly get letters from America. America was super kwell to us kids living in the tiny provincial town of Armagh.

So we all filled in our forms and waited and waited and waited and waited oh we waited. Time moved slowly before the wonder of the internet. Cyndi Lauper wasn't so cool any more and Shalamar had been replaced by Gary Numan by the time we got our new pals addresses.

I struck Pen Pal gold, a girl from California called Chan! Chan? This was tremendous! Who knew somebody called Chan? Hell, who knew somebody from California? Never mind that the only girls I knew were the ones in my class and my sister and they all knew how desperately uncool I was. Chan, meanwhile, was on the other side of the world, thousands of miles away from my sensible boy shorts and "big truck" posters.

MWAHAHAHAHAHA!

...or not as the case may have been. I fancied a bit of reinvention but didn't really have the wit or brains for it back then. I think the first letter went something like,

"Hello Chan, my name is "Manuel". I am 11 years old and I live in Ireland with my daddy and my sister. My mummy is in hospital, she is not well. I have a bike and a 5 cars and a fire truck and pet dog." (That was a lie, I had no dog. Oh the shame....)

I mean really you'd screw it up and chuck it in the bin wouldn't you and then go riding about in bouncy cars they way they do in California. But hell she replied! It was weird, I mean really weird. There was a sticker on the envelope, which in itself was weird, that read "Grody to the max."

Grody? To the max? What the fuck did that mean? Dad didn't know. My sister didn't know, not that she came out of her room to answer the question. She had sold her soul to Duran Duran so she was useless to me or was it the other way round? There was no internet with which to google such a thing. I so wanted to Grody, I wanted to Grody to the very best of my abilities. I wanted to Grody all night long, if grodying was done at night that is. Grodying to the max didn't sound like something I would normally do but I wanted to do it anyway.As long as grodying wasn't something you did with a girl I was on safe ground as I had little to no experience in that department. I knew girls existed but that was the height of my knowledge.

I worried about it.

I wanted to impress my new pall, which is probably the uncoolest word for chum since..well since chum, with my grodying skills. Her letter was full of glamorous and wonderfully interesting stories about people called Todd and Heather and Chad and all their wild parties. I only knew people called Sean or Orla or Seamus, there was a Jody in my class but that's as glamorous as it got. Now that I think back it was probably a crock of shit because how wild can an eleven or twelve year olds party really be? It's not like kids parties now days when it's all knives and alco-pops and drugs.

Thankfully there was a bomb near my house so my next letter was full of that and I got to bypass the whole Grody to the Max nightmare. I expected her return letter to be full of "wow's" and "goshes". But not a word of it! All I got was a one line palm off about people being shot all the time in her "neighborhood". Fuck that. I lived in Northern Ireland, we were interesting back then! But not a jot did she care.

She sent me a photograph after about the third letter. I had resisted such forwardness on the basis of it wouldn't be good for the chances of us getting married. She really need to fall in love with me before seeing me. She was hot, her hair was styled. This was a shocker as back then in Ireland there were only about 4 haircuts for girls, hair up, hair down, hair curly, or short hair. So hair that was styled was something else. I was well and truly out of my depth. How could I, a boy, hope to compare to this woman (aged 12) with her friends with fancy names and hair that wasn't cut by her mum or auntie?

I knew that things were beginning to wane after about our 6th or 7th letter. My stories about bombs and shootings weren't impressing her and that's all I had. Things were becoming difficult between us and then one day she casually wrote a line about her other pen pal, from England. Other pen pal? I was heartbroken. Was there nothing these English wouldn't steal? First our country and now our pen pals. I never wrote back....

Saying that I also had another pen pal, from Finland. But she looked like my Uncle Liam, so obviously that wasn't gonna work out either. I was such a fickle 12 year old.

Pen palls eh? Glad I don't do that anymore. I mean how sad must it be to write to people you don't know about the minutiae of your daily life?! Pfft....

So did you have a pen pal? Even better, do you still write to them? And hey Chan if your out there I hope your still Grodying to the Max, dude!

5,4,3,2,1 make rocket go now.......

Wednesday was fun, I mean what else could it be when you have 80 rocket scientists booked for dinner!? That's right actual rocket scientists. In they shuffled as giddy as politicians in a massage parlour with pockets full of oranges and gimp masks on hand. (Politicians that is, not the geeks) I think they were just happy to be out in public with other people as opposed to sitting in their parents basement listening to math rock whilst chatting online in a Dungeons & Dragons forum.

Gee whizz, do I love a good stereotype, especially a nerd/geek related one.
I've done it before....

5,4,3,2,1...
..."make rocket go now"

...and I'm probably going to do it again!
Like right now.

We are the restaurant of choice for this particular band group petri dish of scientific delight. We had them last year as well. They were very naughty scientists last year as some of them skipped off without paying leaving the leader of the group (and man with very large head) to pay an extra £150 AND someone in his group stole his camera. Bad boffins, very bad boffins. Bad night for super brain too.

But we had plans in place to ensure that this didn't happen tonight. We devised a portable till system, that involved a pint glass and a calculator. Take that slippery boffin types. Your massive intellect is no match for my trusty beer receptacle and Casio calculator.

Mwahahahahahaha!

Saying that my pint glass/calculator system was no match for their ordering system. They had emailed their order in the day before. Standard issue for a table of that size. And the sheet was very clear and mathematically accurate.

It was all going so swimmingly well until we approached the first table of twenty with their starters.

"Who's having the duck to start then?" asked the charming little man festooned with plates of duck confit. (Me)

Blank expressions

At first I put this down to a language difficulty, these boffins were from every corner of the world. Some where even Irish as I discovered when I approached one lady and asked where she was from in my, speaking to foreigners voice. "I'm from Dublin" she replied in her speaking to idiots voice.

Eek!

I persevered, "Duck folks? Anyone having the duck?"

I refused to make "Quack Quack" noises. The duck would go cold before that happened. They stared at me with confused and baffled expressions, I looked back with increasing anger. Ducks are indeed small but when you are carrying four they tend to get heavy after a while. A couple of them shrugged their shoulders, some just looked lost, some looked scared. I looked round to one of the other waiters for some sort of help. Just at that moment one of them came skipping past, fresh from serving her twenty starters with ease.

"What have you got?" She asked

"Kryptonite I think. No one will take these ducks from me!"

"Duck?"

"Duck." I confirmed

"Yeah that's number 2"

"What?"

"Watch and learn old man." And she relieved me of my cooling ducks.

"Who's starting with number 2?"

Four hands went up. Bastards. In front of each of them they had a slip of paper with four numbers on them. Each number related to a menu item. Two appeared to be duck. Only rocket scientists could turn something as wonderful as going to dinner into a mathematical formula. I spent the rest of the evening serving medium rare 9's and 14's with extra cream.

Beware geeks bearing maths formulae!

******

The barmen are getting agitated too....

Kerfuffle Maximus...

I was enjoying a sweet little evening at work, a couple of tables here, a couple of tables there, no fuss no fury when in strode a seemingly charming young woman.

She was all a fluster."Oh hi..." she was rooting through her over sized, DKNY handbag (I knew it was a Donna Karan as there has been much talk of such things in this house recently - magazines left open, web pages book marked, dates circled on all the calenders)

"Hello, are you okay?" I enquired with trepidation. I had a feeling that my sweet little night was about to be brought to a very abrupt halt.

She continued rooting in her bag, ignoring me, until she produced a tiny little mobile phone. It had been ringing but clearly she missed it.

"Damn it....oh sorry..." She was trying to look past me "...I'm joining some other girls...are they here? I'm a bit late!" She continued to peer past me.

"Eh other girls? Eh I don't think I have any tables waiting for any one else. Let me have a look." All my tables were well through their meals at this point and none of them had mentioned that they were waiting for anyone else. I went for a wander anyways, just to satisfy myself. She followed me.

"Do you have another restaurant? Could they be sitting in another place?" She was getting stressed and she kept looking at her phone.

"No. Listen do you have a booking?" I was trying to encourage her back round to the door again as the jangling of her bag, jewelry, and general presence was disturbing the other guests. We weren't at a kerfuffle just yet, but I could feel the early signs of one.

"Do I have a booking? Of course I do."

Oh no you don't.

"And what name is that in madam?" I knew there were no other bookings to come in. But mistakes do get made, not by me, obviously. I checked the booking sheets for the name she gave me.

"Listen I booked this table a month ago, it's Lisa's 30th. I can't believe you don't have it, this isn't good enough."

Kerfuffle time! Her bag was swinging with each of her exaggerated hand movements. She was getting very animated. I was ducking and weaving, I feared one strike from that bag and I was a goner.

"Madam, it's not a problem we can get you a table, now how many is it for?"

"This is just not on! Lisa is going to be so upset, it's her 30th birthday you know?!"

Oh crikey, kerfuffle maximus. Soon there would be demands to see the manager and his free wine selection too no doubt.

"Madam, honestly, it's not a problem, now how many is you table for?"

"There's twelve of us, I'm gonna have to phone Shirley and tell her about this." Her exasperated tone was annoying me. Listen I do the drama round here, not the customers, leave it the professionals.

Okay, lucky Shirley.

"Madam, wait here and I'll get your table set. Two minutes, no more than that."

She hit the phone again, "Shirley, you're not going to believe this? What...Why where are you?"

And off I bounded, safe in the knowledge that my sweet night was indeed over, soon Shirley, Lisa and all the lovely ladies would be here to get overly dramatic about their table not having been set and ready. But as I was dragging the tables together I wondered why the rest of them weren't already here. She said her table was for 8 o'clock and that she was late. It was near half 8 now and she was the only one here.

Not unusual, but certainly odd.

I faked up a big smile and went round to get kerfuffle woman. But what's this? Where is she? She's gone? I assumed she had gone to the bathroom.

I waited.

I waited some more.

And some more again.

My mood was decidedly unhappy. She was taking a the piss alright. The nice women on a nearby table saw me waiting, saw me peering towards the ladies toilet and they called me over. "Christ" I thought they think I'm a pervert.

"Are you waiting for that woman?" asked one of them.

"Yeah, she was waiting for a table." I explained with a sense of relief. Having to defend myself from accusations of being a pervert wouldn't have been fun. And not conducive to good tip making either.

"Yeah I think she's gone" said the other.

"Gone?"

"Yeah she was on her phone then she left, in a hurry."

I wanted to swear, I wanted to swear very loudly but I just said thanks and went back to the booking sheets to stick a very angry cross through her booking. She could have waited to explain herself.

But as I gripped my pen of fury I spotted a message written in red pen over the booking sheet,

"Sorry, wrong restaurant. Tx"

Wrong restaurant? Ha!

Pfft......

First impressions

imagine living with that.....
......let alone having to serve it for two hours.

"Hi, how are you?" asked the cheeky chappie waiter with no hint of the sarcasm or weariness that normally envelopes such a question.

No really! My mood was good.

"Fine....this your menu is it?" replied the stern looking man wearing a purple polo shirt with tan coloured blazer and what could only be described as matching tan hued Farrah-esque slacks. Rodney Dangerfield minus the humour. He was rifling through the carefully stacked and tidy menus like he was was searching for a shirt in his size. He could have just lifted the one on top, like any normal person would do.

Idiot.

I couldn't cope with working in a clothes shop. All that rifling and flinging would have me beside myself with anger, my developing OCD/anal retentiveness wouldn't be able to cope.

I handed him a copy of the menu saying,

"Yes sir that is indeed our menu." I resisted the urge to tell him it was actually a menu shaped goat, "Look here's it little goaty beard you buffoon." As I get older I realise my capacity to deal with moronic questions is becoming less and less.

He glanced at it without any sign of emotion or sign of approval. I wasn't looking for any "whoopdy doo's" or anything like that but most people make some sort of facial expression when they see something they like.

"Right, table for two" he barked with more than a hint of 'chop chop' to it.

I didn't like this guy. I didn't like the way he was dressed, apart from golfers and Coco the bloody Clown who would have? I didn't like his manner or demeanor. I am quick to judge, yes, but I'm almost always right. He was a tool, a finger snapper, an "expert", a gruff old fucker with too much time on his hands but not enough patience.

"Fuck you." I thought

"And do we have reservations this evening sir?" I asked knowing full well he didn't.

"Reservations? No good grief do we really need them." This reply only furthered my belief that was indeed a tool.

"No, no I think I have a table left, let me see. Ah yes just here sir." And pointed at the one table remaining, with a charming view of both the toilets and the door. A wonderful little table for sure.

Ha!

"Here? Beside the toilets? Have you nothing else?"

"Nope......all reserved sir."

Ha!

"Right then." He huffed, I smirked.

"And maybe sir would like a drink whilst you are waiting for your friend?"

"She's not my friend, she's my wife."

Charmer.

"Indeed sir, so a drink then?"

"No, no drink....yet."

And off I popped. Ludicrously dressed gruff old men - 0, waiters with full reservation books - 1. The exchange had been witness by one of the chefs who was busying himself by getting a cup of tea and generally hanging about the restaurant floor.

"Looks like fun" he whispered at me.

"Oh fuck hell yes" I replied "He's gonna complain about something, mark my words."

"I'll tell the rest" and off he went to warn the rest of the kitchen. Within moments there was a buffet of chefs (see what I did there?) hanging round the coffee machine all pretending to get tea whilst sizing up the problem child. Each arrived at the same impression as the first, "Looks like a cunt".

Indeed.

His wife was lovely, well dressed, pleasant, every inch the perfect guest. I watched them as they perused the menu. She pointed out this and that, he whinged and shook his head. She was trying hard to make the best of their night out. He was trying. Very trying.


I took their order in the cheeriest manner I could muster. Both her and I were really trying to compensate for his petulant behaviour. "Don't want that. Don't like that. Why haven't you got...blah blah fucking blah."

A short while later I served their starters. I watched them, she did everything but rub her tummy and go, "Yummy". He picked and pushed and grumped. I wanted to slap the big jelly faced sourpuss.

"So did we enjoy those?" I asked with baited breath.

"Oh mine was just lovely." Replied the lovely lady.

Nothing from bizarro Dangerfield. I asked again, as much to rile him as to satisfy my curiosity.

"It was dry, that's all, just too dry."

"The bread and oils were too dry sir? Ooooooookay then I'll let chef know."

Add oil to bread, it ain't that hard dilbag.

Main course served. Again I watched. Again she made lovely noises and smiled and looked frightfully happy. And again he moaned. He was, "disappointed" over all but couldn't say specifically why. I pushed him a little further.

"Well if you really must know....."

I must.

"....not enough ginger. You must tell the chefs to use real ginger not...[pause]...not fake ginger."

"Fake ginger sir?"

"Fake ginger" he insisted.

What the fuck was fake ginger? Was it made by the same people who make fake DKNY Handbags and what have you? Was there really a black market in counterfeit herbs and spices and that sort of thing? I went to see chef forthwith! The chef replied...

Well I cant really write what chef replied, this is a family blog and there maybe kids reading. But suffice to say there were threats, including advice were Bizarro Dangerfield could put, or rather, shove his fake ginger. And there was swearing, oh so much swearing.

I returned to the table armed only with sweet menus and minus the box of ginger that chef "suggested" I bring to the table.

"Now, would we like some sweets this evening?" I was really enjoying myself!

"I will..." said the lovely lady "....he'll probably just bloody complain." And with that she lifted her bag and went out for a smoke!

Fantastic! Take that daddy-o!

What was left of the meal was conducted in silence save for me and her chatting about tourists and other nonsense. The more we spoke the more he huffed. After a while I brought the bill.

"Give it to him, he's bloody paying."

"Yes madam, certainly!" I was grinning like a cat on speed.

"Oh and leave a damn good tip, he deserves it for the way you carried on tonight."

"You were lovely, thank you!" She held my hand, and her cigarettes, as she got up to leave. And in almost the same breath she turned to Bizzaro Dangerfield and said,

"Hurry up you....." but politeness took over and she just pursed her lips at him. I wonder what she was about to call him.....

First impressions eh, normally right.

Wow, what a fantastic audience...

It's funny when you see, or hear in this case, how others view you. Friday night for example I thought I was being every inch the ladies man. Suave, jokey but not overbearing, and handsome, that deep down sort of handsome, really deep down but handsome all the same. I had complimented the ladies at the table on how well they looked. These were regular guests but tonight they were dressed some what better than normal, no jeans or t-shirts tonight. One of their work colleagues was moving to a new job so they were all out to say goodbye. And I took a moment to acknowledge how fantastic they all looked. Some of them did that fake coy/bashful thing.

Remember it's all about tips, nothing else, just tips.

cake...
...we all like a bit of cake.

The host of the table, a plump and rather overly giggly young woman who was probably the driving force behind all their office parties, collections and birthday cards had furnished me with a cake before the rest of her party arrived. This slab of chocolate nastiness was to be delivered to the table after the mains had been cleared. And it was nasty, cheap and nasty at that. If it's the thought that counts then they clearly didn't think too much about their departing friend.

Now delivering birthday cakes to tables is all very well, you start the first line of "Happy birthday to you..." and everyone joins in and there is a big splash of excitement and noise. But a cake for someone leaving? What the fuck was I gonna do with that? I mean it's hard to generate excitement around an obviously bargain basement round chocolate cake with no decoration or "witty" slogan in icing on it. Was I to put a candle on it? Was that appropriate? I could hardly just drop it in front of him and go, "Yo, big fella, best of luck n that....." tempting though it was.

These are the pressures of the job, people, candle or no candle, sing or not sing, three cheers? It's a wonder I don't have an ulcer such is the pressure. So after much contemplating no thought what so ever I rammed a single candle into the middle of the cake and sparked it into life. Something needed to be done to add life to this brick of chocolate disappointment. But there was still the vexed question of what to do when I got to the table. Over the years I have realised that you can never rely on the other guests to make the required fuss or give three cheers on queue.

So here's what I did......

I got to the table with the cake, candle flickering under the air con, and as I set it in front of the suitably embarrassed gentleman I started singing, Christ this is so awful I'm going red as I type, I started singing....

" So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen....." from the Sound of Music.

What?

Why?

Why?

Why?

As it was the rest of the table joined in and laughed and my huge red face was ignored. But as I walked away from the table one woman nudged the woman beside her and said, "Sound of Music? See I told you he was gay!'

I knew I should have just dropped it in front of him and said, "You, big up yerself fella."

I have now retired from singing. But I am available for Panto in December.

Who needs neighbours?

The solitary painter working in the house next door assures me he will be finished in the next week or so. He's been the only person working next door that hasn't made me want to commit murder. He's an affable sort of chap, full of pleasantries and cheery hello's or to be exact what about ye's. We converse most mornings as I smoke my breakfast on the doorstep and he has his mid morning cup of milky tea. It's the normal run of the mill small talk, the joy of the Irish summer, sport, the economy, and so on. There was an odd moment though last week when we drifted onto the worsening situation in Zimbabwe. As neither of us really knew what we were talking about we both just ended up standing there shaking our heads muttering about what a scoundrel Mugabe is.

"Yup he's a bud un" says he and then takes a big gulp of tea from his, "Worlds best grandad" mug (cracked).

I sucked on my smoke and replied, "Yup, a bad un for sure."

Then there was silence followed by, "Probably rain again soon."

He sucked on his smoke and replied, "Yup, it'll rain all right."

I'll miss our chats.

In fact I'll be devastated when he goes. Not just because of our dazzling and illuminating repartee, I'm not that starved of conversation but because it will soon mean that the house will be available for rent. This fills me full of terror.

"crazy" students I hate students
fuck off and get a job.

That property has been empty for a very long time. The last tenants left, I assume though I never actually saw them leave, about four years ago. They were odd. You only ever caught partial glimpses of them, a leg as they scuttled into the house, a forehead as they peered out from behind the curtains. You knew they were there but you never got to see them in their entirety, much like the monster from Cloverfield. But without the head ripping and terrorising of Manhattan. That is until the night that the young woman who lived next door found her way into my house. That night she was every bit like the monster from Cloverfield.

I shared the house with my cousin back then. An odd boy for sure but quiet with it, so in many ways he was the perfect person to share with. He didn't bother much with the ladies or rather they didn't bother much with him. So when one literally fell on to his lap in the middle of the night who was he to look a gift horse monster in the mouth?! So the cousin and Ms Cloverfield got it on, as the kids say. This led to much awkwardness and more scuttling over the next few weeks and months as they tried to avoid each other and Mr Cloverfield obviously.

But since then the house has been gloriously empty. But not for much longer. Soon it will be filled, most likely with students. Oh mother of fuck I hope it's not students. But the large extension that now blocks the sunlight from my kitchen says it probably will be. I'd love it just to stay empty but unless I rent it as well as this place that ain't gonna happen.

Like I say I really don't want students living next door to me, especially first year students with their new found freedom and their college grants and loans burning holes in their corduroy pockets. Do students till wear corduroy? I don't know either, or care. Yes first year students from the country would be the worst possible result. No "off" button you see. Everything is conducted at full volume at all times. Why speak when you can shout? Why close the door when you can slam it? Why have a couple of friends round for some drinks when you can invite the whole of your university year group round instead? Why listen to decent music when you can shout/sing along to the Gambler by Kenny Rogers? Oh fuck, I'm frightened.

More Children of the Corn than Dawsons Creek, if you know what I mean

If I could decide you lived next door I would choose, deaf old people. But it's gonna be students. I'd prefer religious students, Buddhist, Christian or Muslim any really, as opposed to students who are religiously annoying. You see there would be no wild parties, lots of early nights, no drinking, no wild sex or even un-wild sex with which to torment me at 3 in the morning, no knocking at the door at 4am by people looking for "Seanies" house, no stealing my bin, no empty beer cans in my backyard, no bodies in my backyard. Oh yes, religious students are the way to go. And as a bonus the sound of their late night praying and chanting etc would be the perfect way to get to sleep. Sure there would be the occasional attempt to convert me but I'd rather that than the hedonistic hell that could be living there.

You can call me a grumpy old bastard if you want, I don't care.

Manuel needs his sleep.

Is your child a future waiter?

Government research released this week points to the five indicators that could show if your child will turn into a teenage thug. These being,

1. Temperament
2. Maltreatment
3. Parents with low IQ
4. Poverty
5. ADHD

Add in a penchant for smoking dope and you also have the five indicators that your child will become a chef. Fuck it , you know I'm only joking with you guys. I love chefs, I really do. Some of my best friends are chefs.

Honest.

But more importantly how can you spot if your child will turn out to be waiter? Well, listed below are the five indicators your child is on the path to waiterhood.

you want change?

1.Table setting. Most "normal" children have to be forced to set the table for dinner. They scream and shout and huff at this most basic of chores. But if you find that the dinner table has been set, and with flair and class, then watch out junior is a budding waiter. This also manifests itself in odd tea parties were the child doesn't sit at the table but rather circles it pouring imaginary wine for various teddy bears and confused play chums. Quite often they refuse to let their friends leave until they have been tipped. You may need to step in at this point.

2.Sarcasm/Snooty Attitude. Does junior meet every meal with a certain reserved attitude? Do they constantly make remarks about how their friends mother makes better spaghetti hoops? Does your little darling review every meal with pointers as to what you could do better next time? Maybe they talk abut the others at the table, making remarks about how they are dressed or how they eat with their mouth open. That's a waiter for sure. And it's not just at dinner time. They probably listen intently to your little stories but roll their eyes as they walk away muttering about how very dull you are. I don't say these things to be cruel, these are just the hard facts.

3.Money on the brain. Does the child expect tipped after every chore? Do they refuse to get out of bed, let alone make it, for anything less than 20%. That's a waiter and no mistake. And when you do reward them with some money do they grin fuck you? "Oh thank you mummy, you shouldn't have!" But then you over hear them later round the back of the house complaining about how you always "stiff" them on their pocket money. Coins are inconsequential to your little special darling, it's the notes they want and nothing else.

4.Irrational dislike of whoever cooks in your house. Cats and dogs, waiters and chefs. There is of course no real reason for this dislike but they will consider them self to be better than you if you are the one that does the cooking, muttering about "it's not how it was made it was how it was served."

5.OCD. All waiters have OCD. From precise time keeping to ensuring the table is set immaculately with all cutlery running parallel and at the correct angle the list of things that must be EXACT is almost endless. And as soon as you think you have master/indulged all their little foibles they will invent new rules. The slightest thing wrong, like dinner not being ready at the precise time you quoted, will send them into a huff that only money can extract them from.

Once on the path to waiterhood there is very little you can do to stop them. You can only guide them. Try and steer them to the high end work, one slippy mistake and they are in Pizza Hut serving Cheesy Feasts to students. And no one wants that for their kids do they?

I do the jokes, you do the tipping.......

Three Croats and an African American Dwarf walk into a restaurant. Not a joke really happened, lovely people.

It was a funny night like that.

Wasn't all funny though.....

of fury......

"So now then young man you'd like us to pay the bill then I suppose." I fucking detest being called "young man" by people who are no more than 5 years older than me. I swear I thought he was going to ruffle my hair.

The ass.

"Indeed sir that would be the plan." I was weary with this guy. He had been metaphorically ruffling my hair all night. The jokes and puns were endless, the constant chatter about nothing and the questions, so many questions. In fact he stole my whole act.

"Well here's my card..." and he handed me his card and then pulled it back before I could get it. "...unless you want to give it to us for free, seeing as we are palls and all. Eh?"

Oh sweet mother of Gordon Ramsay was there no off switch for this guy? Does he fill every hour of every day with one liners and "witty" retorts. I wanted to snap the fucking card from his fucking hand but thankfully his wife did it for me.

"There you are, sorry about him..." she sounded genuine. I felt sorry for her. I bet she has to resist the urge to smother him with a pillow late at night. I bet their sex is filled with the same jokes. I'm sure he has to stop mid thrust just to let out a "fantastic" joke.

As I sped away with the credit card I could hear him defending himself, 'I was only joking with the lad, he knows that."

The lad?

The lad?

Oh I'm the lad?

I'll give you some lad. What does that even mean?

I returned to the table to process his card and managed to engage the other guests, who obviously had been unable to get a word in what with Jeffery Jokes at the table, in some light banter. This was mainly to prevent out host cracking yet another. It was only really a delaying tactic, I knew that.

"So thanks folks, I hope you enjoyed everything tonight."

They all spoke at once with lots of "thanks you's" and that sort of thing. I turned to leave...

"Now young lad..." he was heading the wrong way down fork stabber alley if he persisted with this "lad" malarky. "...you've forgotten something haven't you?"

Shit, did I still have his credit card. I've done that before. Nope, he had it in his hand.

"I don't think so sir." I was confused. I looked at the table, I looked at my hands. I couldn't think what he was on about. I realised he was off again on one of his tall tales/jokes. I mean you should have heard the story about the chicken and his car and being lost in Fermanagh. Actually that was the whole story

"Eh, what have you forgotten eh eh come on now?"

"I cant think at all sir, maybe I was supposed to get you a taxi?" Please let that be it.

"No sure I've the car, I told you that." Yes, in detail I thought.

"Jeffery, stop messing him about he's work to do." I loved his wife, patience of Job.

"Your tip!" He exclaimed.

"Ah right thank you sir."

"Which hand?" He held out his two hand, clenched in fists.

"Excuse me?"

"Which hand, one has a good tip the other an okay tip, so which hand?"

Which hand? Which fucking hand? Was this guy for real? I haven't played that since I was eight and my granny was giving me sweets. Nope, no fucking way. Not a fucking chance. Uh huh, no, no, no, no. This isn't Deal or No fucking Deal and he hasn't got a million in one of his tightly clenched paws. I'm not fucking playing. It was roughly about this time that I could feel the vein in my next popping out. Stabbing time was upon us.

"Ah no sir, you just leave whatever you feel is fair." I turned to walk away. Maybe I should roll over and let him tickle my tummy too.

"Ah now come on which hand....?"

"JEFFERY! Now stop it." Said his wife in a very firm manner. She was as mortified as I was.

"Here waiter.." I turned back round to see Mrs Jeffery trying to wrestle the money from Jeffery Jokes' hand. He wasn't gonna give it up without a fight. This was humiliating. Mainly for him but me too.

She eventually bettered him and I got my tip, which was generous but not worth the grief. I made my exit as quick as I could. But alas for Mrs Jeffery, no such exit for her, unless of course she considers the other uses for heavy pillows.

Which hand? Which fist, more like, do you want upside your head?

The Independent, friend of the waiter!

Despite all the current woes in the world - economic melt down, crisis in Africa, those crazy Iranians, not to mention the even crazier Iraqi kerfuffle the hallowed and blessed Independent newspaper yesterday lead with,

"Revealed: How the restaurant chains pocket your tips."

oi, step away from the tips motherfucker......

They'll not be getting mine let me tell you! I've covered this a few times before. It's well worth a read even if it makes the blood boil. Well done to Martin Hickman, Simon Usborne, and Andrew Grice for a great bit of work. Free drinks all round.

And big slices of boo and hiss and go fuck yourselves to Carluccio's, Café Rouge, Chez Gerard, Strada, Pizza Express, and Café Uno for screwing with what shouldn't be screwed with and taking what's not theirs.

Read the full article here

Past stuff from WDF can be found here and here

First sign of Roy Walker and I'm out of here....

Tony Naylor had a piece on Word of Mouth a few weeks ago about how the surroundings of a restaurant can effect the enjoyment of your dining experience. His own particular bugbear being a place that was somewhat too Tory for his liking,

"An otherwise fine place to waste a few hours - all right pub food, unhurried atmosphere, stunning views - the idea of eating in somewhere that has nailed its colours so prominently to the blue mast left this socialist with serious ideological indigestion."

A sentiment we can all agree with I'm sure. Another friend of mine detests some of the finer Belfast restaurants due to them having a "middle class, Presbyterian, Daily Mail" feel to them. Ironic, seeing as he is both middle class and Presbyterian. But I know what he means. He is happiest when eating stew in an empty pub with only a few old men and the background noise of the horse racing and their crumpling betting slips to keep him from sleeping.

wrong, wrong, wrong......

Personally I cant stand restaurants with prints by Matisse and Van Gough and that lot. Nothing wrong with the paintings per se but I prefer something original hanging on the walls. There is something cheap and obviously lacking in originality about it too. I detest black crockery, hell I'll walk out if you serve me food on anything where the main colour isn't white. We used to serve cheese on the most hideous salmon pink plates. They all ended up in the bin over a period of three months. Just kept being dropped, dunno how. [Cough cough] I wish I had been there that day when the big executive at the plate making company said, "Pastel! The world needs pastel coloured crockery!" No it fucking doesn't.

I also despair at menus that come with photos and personal "messages" from the chef. Yeah yeah you really hope "I have a lovely time and blah blah blah". I sort of take that for granted. Restaurants with signed pictures of C-list celebrities who have eaten there adorning the wall makes me recoil in horror, this includes anyone who has hosted a quiz show. I mean if you have a signed picture of Bogie eating a steak and eggs from your breakfast menu then I'm impressed. Matthew Kelly and that one off Big Brother 2 really don't count.

Menus with more than two pages, menus with spelling mistakes, menus in huge brown leather holders are all just wrong, wrong, wrong and put the fear of Gordon Ramsay in me. I can block out most other guests except for the obvious, such as guests in golf type jumpers and if there is even a hint of air kissing I'm a goner. I run away from restaurants with formerly contemporary paint jobs but that can only be described now as "dirty protest" brown. I like to eat in light airy places with little unique bits here and there, velvet rarely does that or brown of any kind.

Apart from that I'm fairly relaxed where ever I go...

But what about you? Does the sight of brown leather seats set your heart racing with anticipation? Do you long to pour over 7 page menus? Do you mind that the restaurant is full off middle aged men in golf jumpers or suits? Could you eat in a restaurant if you knew Adam Sandler was there? [Shudder] Do you recoil at the first sight of the gingham table cloths? Does any of it matter to you or is it just about the meal?

Toothp(r)ick

"Waiter!"

I was being summonsed by a very large very sweaty very unattractive man. Being wrapped, as he was, in a couple of thousands pounds worth of Armani cut cloth really didn't distract from the hideousness of this behemoth. More walrus than man.

"Waiter..." If he had been able to turn his gargantuan frame to the left he would have seen that I was coming. But instead he just sat there with one chubby fat arm in the air and the other gripping the table.

It took all his effort and strength to lift his tree sized arm to attract my attention and as he dropped it there was an audible sigh of relief not just from himself but from the other unfortunate guests sitting near him. He was very sweaty, I cannot stress this enough.

He really didn't need to lift his arm to attract my attention, it was hard to keep your eyes off him. Car crash dining at it's best, two starters of mussels and garlic bread, main course of steak cooked rare with two types of potatoes, vegetables and onion rings. You could see the heart attack winding it's way through his body. I was even considering how the ambulance crew would get him out, would they have to use a crane, would they have to punch a hole in the wall? But that was for another day, another day soon no doubt.

"Waiter...waiter I need a toothpick uuuurrrrgghhh" It was all very Jabba The Hut meets pervy phone call guy. You need a stomach pump followed by a few well placed staples big fella.

"Certainly sir and shall I bring you the sweet list as well.... or maybe just one wafer thin mint?" Okay maybe not the last bit but I was sorely fucking tempted.

"Yes...yes bring the list but hurry with the tooth pick." He was currently jabbing at the side of cow wedged somewhere in the hot, dark, moist, recesses of his mouth with a fork. I decided to leave it.

"Straight away sir!'

I returned forthwith carrying the sweet menu and a little plate with a few toothpicks on it. I cracked my usual toothpick related joke,

"Take your pick sir, any one at all." Comedy genius.

"What..." he snapped "...oh yes very good." I handed him the sweet menu but he took no notice and immediately began pulling at the wrapper of a toothpick. His need was great. I tidied his table up and poured him some more wine, Australian Shiraz, not the dearest but certainly one of the better bottles. I was all set to leave when he lifted his tree/arm to stop me.

"I'll have....uurrrrghhh...." He was gouging and prodding away with the toothpick whilst trying to speak. The noise of his groaning and gouging was reminiscent of something much more masturbatory. This was not cool, not cool at all. There were very unseemly pools of red wine and food suspended together in saliva on the corners of his mouth. Good grief it was horrific. But nothing was going to stop him ordering sweet, certainly not the fact that he was trying to dislodge half a steak from the dark hole that was his mouth at the same time.

"I'll have....uuurrrggghh.....eh....." [dig, gouge, poke, spit] "....cake...."

"Cake sir?"

"Yeah....oooohhhh.....uuuurrrrgghhh......aaaaaahhhhhh....cake yeah.....cheese.....cheesecake.....uuuurrrgghh"

"Cheesecake it is then sir." I didn't have the stomach to ask him if he wanted coffee. The sweat from his upper lip was heading towards the food and wine spit on the side of his mouth, I didn't want to be there to witness the final coming together of liquid evil. I was set to beat a hasty retreat when he grabbed my arm,

" OOOOOOOOHHHHH UUUUURRRGGGGHH GOT IT!" I thought he had climaxed such was his relief! And with that he produced the toothpick from his mouth with a very impressive piece of locally reared sirloin on it. His hands were wet both with sweat and the contents of his mouth. I swear there was steam rising from them. He sat there with the heavey laden toothpick in his hand admiring what he had removed.

"Shall I wrap it for you sir?" I couldn't resist.

"No but you can take it away." And with that the sweaty, panting bastard stuffed the bloody thing into my hand. I immediately dropped it onto the ground.

"What's wrong with you man?!" He roared as we both stared at the ground at the offending toothpick.

"Sir, it's been..." I didn't want to say it's been somewhere that I don't want to come into contact with, ie his big, fat, filthy, sweaty, warm, moist, damp, pie hole! FUCK THAT!

"Sir, it's been in your mouth. That's what the little plate is for." But he didn't care and instead asked for a coffee and directions to the bathroom.

I left the table, he left the table, the offending toothpick remained under the table for some time after.

What the fuckity fuck is wrong with people? Looky here if it's been in your mouth it ain't going on my hand, comprende? That's what the little plate is for.

Trust me, I'm a waiter...

I'm currently munching (see what I did there?) my way through Jay Rayner's terrific read, "The Man Who Ate The World, In Search of the Perfect Dinner". I thoroughly recommend it for anyone who has even but a passing interest in food, fine restaurants or good writing. Rayner literally travels the world eating in the finest restaurants such as Restaurant Alain Ducasse in Paris and Per Se in New York.

It's funny, you only have to read the section on Vegas to see that. And whilst you will shout out loud at the prices people will pay for fine food and wine you will no doubt wonder what it would be like to pop some poached oysters with caviar into your nosebag and chow down with gay abandonment. I'm sure it's just bloody divine. The book exposes a world of cuisine so far above what I do on a daily basis that it may very well be on the moon. There isn't a section on Belfast funnily enough.

It wets the appetite. It makes me want more of what I had when I went to Claridges. I make a solemn vow right here and now to do just that, get more. Once a year from here on in I will make a pilgrimage to these holy sites of gastronomy. I will eat beans for the rest of the year if I have to, but by fuckity I shall go.

If I had one complaint about the book it would be that there aren't enough waiters in it. You can never have enough waiters in my opinion. But there was one little passage that made me snort with laughter. Rayner was dining in Guy Savoy's paris restaurant when the waiter was trying to convince him to have the pea salad.

"Our waiter, Hubert, had made such a meal of selling the pea thing to us I wanted to choose something else to eat just to spite him. I mean how good could a pea get? It didn't even have a pulse.
'Every pea in this pea salad is sliced in half,' Hubert said in a conspiratorial whisper. 'Every pea.'
Pause.
'In half.'
'And do you want to know why they slice every pea in half?'
He leaned closer into Maureen as if limbering up to put his hand down the front of her dress. Now he dropped his voice to an even more breathy whisper. 'Double the pleasure'......."

Fantastic stuff.

Buy it here

Jay Raynor writes about food for the Guardian & Observer and online at Word of Mouth.

It should be pointed out though that my own attempt at a book is subtitled, "In search of the perfect guest."
This is coincidence and I can prove it.

Wrong Wrong Wrong....

This has nothing to so with the never ending delight that is working in a restaurant. But it has everything to do with some people being so full of shit they make me vomit on my own shoes in revulsion. And I really like my shoes.

Vomit inducing self serving waste of skin number one is Tory MP, David Davis. So concerned was he about the government's recently passed motion to extend the limit to the period terrorism suspects can be detained without charge (from 28 to 42 days) that he resigned as an MP. This forced a by-election which he stood in. He did this, apparently, to force a wider debate about civil liberties and to give the "ordinary" people an opportunity to have their say.

He of course won the by-election. He was never likely to lose. None of the other major parties put candidates up against him. He described his victory in his usual hyperbolic manner as being "stunning". Eh I'm not sure stunning best describes it as he was up against The Greens, The Monster Raving Loony Party, David "Son of God" Icke and the Church of the Militant Elvis Party amongst other political notables.

Here's the blurb from his ever so humble website, "David Davis For Freedom".

"42 days imprisonment - without knowing the charges you face - is a draconian measure that both undermines our fundamental freedoms, and jeopardises our security. But the issue runs far deeper. Whether it is talking tough on terror, the rise of the database state or the growth of a surveillance society, the size, role and reach of government is now out of control. This government increasingly treats our fundamental freedoms with disdain. I believe it is time to take a stand."

All sounds very well meaning doesn't it? A politician with principles say some. Others say he is brave and others again said it was a powerful thing to do.

Phooey to that. Phooey to that with bells on. Now don't get me wrong I'm completely against 42 day detention. They tried that here with internment and it failed, it failed it the most bloodiest of ways. There is never justification for locking people up for so long without charge. Never.

Mr Davis says 42 days is wrong. Mr Davis says its' a "draconian" measure. Mr Davis says it flies in the face of the Magna Carta. He claims he is The defender of Civil Liberties.

He is a fucking hypocrite.

He voted FOR 28 days detention.

He voted FOR ID cards which he now says is intrusive.

He voted AGAINST the repealing of Section 28.

He voted AGAINST the equalisation of the age of consent for gays.

and the coup de grâce?

He is a huge great big fan of the death penalty. And if there was ever a greater assault on civil liberties than the death penalty then I've never seen it. The death penalty is wrong in all circumstances. No discussion, no debate, no "but what if" or any of that it's wrong.

Mr Davis is a self serving egotist. And a hypocrite to boot.

Next merchant of hyperbole, a man so despised by "ordinary" football fans, is Sepp Blatter head of FIFA. He said footballers were working under the yoke of "modern slavery". Footballers like Manchester United's Ronaldo. Ronnie the poor lamb wants to leave United and go play for Real Madrid. But having signed a contract Man United are very unlikely to let him go. They will in the end for something akin to the debt of a small African nation. How's that for hyperbole?

So lets who is really the slave....

In one corner you have Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro who earns £120,000 a week. That doesn't include sponsorship deals obviously. He lives in a lovely house. He drives a lovely car and has lots of lovely dinners no doubt.

And in the other corner you have Mende Nazer who was a former modern day slave. She was just 12 years old when she was snatched from her family by slave traders in the middle of the night. She was made to do domestic chores in her "owners" home. In an interview she said...

"...worked from first thing in the morning until late at night, washing, cleaning and ironing, without any pay or days off, sleeping in a locked shed in the garden."

Take your pick. Sepp Blatter you are an arse, an idiot, slime of the greasiest sort.

It's not just me....

Guest Post today from Maxi Cane who despite being a restaurant manger seems to be quite an okay chap.

Lets all share his pain...

maxi cane...

"Way back when I started this I swore to myself that I would never write about the sickening behaviour of the customers that visit the restaurant that I manage simply because I know that other managers of other restaurants have to deal with fuckers much worse than the ones I get.

However...

....it seems that, in the last month in particular, the kinds of lowlifes that I get have evolved into a more pathetic breed. It never ceases to amaze me the lengths that people will go to in order to get a discount on their bill. Don't get me wrong, I'm good at my job, so if there is a complaint that is justified, it will be dealt with in a more than satisfactory manner. On the other side, if I rumble you and your bullshit, I'll not only call you on it but I will make an example of you. People think that a manager should grovel in the situation of an unsatisfied customer.

Bollocks.

That's the kind of thinking that has you lot spoiled in the first place. Which is why people don't know how to react when a maverick like myself arrives on the scene to show them how they can't get whatever they want just by making up some shitty complaint. This installment of asshole's guide is dedicated to the worst and most overblown fake and unjustified complaints I have ever received. They are all true, they all happened. It's obvious that I sometimes make stuff up for shits and giggles, but trust me, these all happened.

Ever heard anyone use an allergy to get what they want? Neither had I, until recently. Hark, an actual conversation between me (a normal person) and a grown adult who obviously doesn't like the word no.

Me: Hi, table for three?

Customer: Yes, please.

Me: Here, I have this table, you're in luck. It's my last one. (Opposite the main entrance to the restaurant.)

Customer: Oh, can I have a different one?

Me: You can have a different table, but you will have to wait maybe thirty minutes. This is my last table.

Customer: That's fine, it's just that I'm allergic to drafts.

Me: You're allergic to cold air?

Customer: I just don't want that table.

Me: (Having lost all respect instantly for this person.) Fine, take a seat at the bar.

Incidentally, the same woman asked the staff later on in the evening to have to air conditioning turned on because she was too hot. Correct me if I'm wrong, (and I never am) but air conditioning is, in fact a POXY FUCKING DRAFT. Bint.

I'm a restaurant manager, not a wine connoisseur. I do know the difference between what's hot and what's not in the world of vino. Even the most ignorant to wine could have seen this next fucker coming.
Me: How was everything for you this evening?

Customer: Everything was fine, except for the wine.

Me: Really? What was the problem with the wine?

Customer: It was corked.

Me: I don't think it was. That's pretty impossible actually.

Customer: You haven't even tried the wine.

Me: Well, first of all, you finished the entire bottle, so there's nothing for me to try. And second of all, in order for a wine to be corked, there needs to be a cork involved, your wine came from a screw top bottle.

Customer: Oh.

Me: So how was everything this evening?

Customer: Great, thanks. Case closed, I rule.

A hair in the food of a customer is enough to make any manager crawl on hands and knees to make sure the customer not only won't sue, but will return to the restaurant. Which is what I was about to until....

Customer: Excuse me, there's a hair in my food.

Me: Oh, I'm so sorry, this shouldn't have happened. Let me...

Customer: What's wrong?

Me: (Looking at the hair.) I don't know how to put this, so I'll just say it.

Customer: What?

Me: This colour does not match the hair of any of my staff.

Customer: How can you be so sure?

Me: (Holding the white hair up to the head of my albino customer) It's just a hunch.

In similar instances, people have tried to complain that they have found bones in their chicken, scales on their fish, and skins on their jacket potatoes. I shit you not. That will pretty much do it for now. I feel a lot better having vented all of that into the world. Who knows, maybe one day people will stop acting like knob cheese and just behave like adults. I won't hold my breath though. Tomorrow is another day full of diabetics ordering chocolate fudge cake, celiacs who can eat bread if the crust is cut off and people who are allergic to onions in their salads, but not in their onion rings."

Maxi Cane.

See told you it wasn't just me.....

Coke, diet coke......

This is a wacky time of the year to be working in a restaurant. Actually it's a wacky time of the year full stop. Not like the old days all the same but there is still a certain something in the air. Smells like....smells like culture. Culture in this town is a very messy thing. Best avoided at all times I find. But our unique culture means that the town is empty and so are the restaurants. Still there was enough to keep me busy, especially with my trusty stabbing fork.

he has a bm.....
x

The first challenge of the evening came in the shape of two young businessmen. You know the type, pin stripped suit, blue shirt, pink tie, "hilarious" cufflinks (tonight's being The Simpson's on weenie number one and pint glasses on weenie number 2) all topped off with the obligatory spice boy haircuts. It didn't get off to a good start when weenie number one cracked a joke about the place being quiet. It was ten minutes after we opened and it was lashing down outside. Hardly likely to be a high point in the day. So I pissed directly on his chips, not literally of course that really would get me sacked, by checking the, empty, booking sheets and taking my time about it. I showed them to a table.

I didn't like the smug smart arsed way he joked about us being quiet. It got my back right up. I asked them if they wanted a drink.

"No, no I can't drink tonight. Driving. I'll just have a coke, a diet coke." And with that he tapped his BMW car keys and winked at me. Dodgy wink and BMW car keys aside when did coke, diet coke get removed from the drinks list? And what's with the Bond James Bond way of asking for a fucking diet cola. Weenie number one was annoying me. Weenie number two just asked for a sparkling water without the need to wink at me or show me that he had a flash motor.

I gave them sometime to peruse the menu returning to their table ten minutes later. The menus were closed and set to the side, standard "we're ready to order" signal. Except they weren't.

"Oh no sorry man, we were just talking there. Work, doesn't end at five for us."

Man? Did he just call me man? Get the fuck outta here! I wasn't sure if he was trying to be down with working class or just a knob end. I veered towards the latter.

"Riiiiiiiiiight." I said. "Yeah work only starts at five for me. You take your time there .....man."

And off I wandered. This guy fancied himself for a Belfast, "Patrick Bateman". More American Idiot than American Psycho. But after a bit I returned to the table. I knew they were ready this time by the return of the annoying wink. Winker.

Steaks, what else, were ordered. Weenie number 2 had been quiet and up until now had failed to register on the list of people to get it in the back with the stabbing fork. Weenie number 1 occupied the first five places. But with one simple request he managed to go straight in at number 2.

"Man..." Man again? Are you fucking kidding me? "...can I get the fat cut off my steak and instead of putting the sauce over it can you put the sauce on first and then put the steak on top of it and I'm not joking about the fat I'll send it back if there is any on it.....man."

I sort of stood there for a moment considering what weenie number 2 had said. It wasn't the request per se, although it did sound more than a little like weenie number 2 is no stranger to the world of OCD, but rather it was the way he said it. It was an order, not an order in the way most people order their food but rather in the way an army major bosses their subordinates. For a moment I considered lifting their menus and telling them to get the hell out. No explanation, no fuss, just get the fuck outta dodge.

But I didn't.

I just left the table but not before weenie number 1 explained that weenie number 2 was getting married in a few weeks and had to "look trim for the photos." Well isn't someone about to make the greatest fucking mistake of her life?!

The food was served and as requested with the fat cut off and sauce underneath. I checked on them half way through to make sure everything was cool for them and to see if they needed more drinks.

"Drinks? Man are you trying to get us drunk, we're driving tonight, just some water please." And again the odious little bollocks tapped his car keys. Sweet suffering Christ this guy was inches from getting beaten to a merry and bloody pulp.

"Yeah I get it, your driving. I'll get the water, dude." I said with more than a hint of sarcasm and rage. Hell if he was calling me man I was gonna call him dude.

They finished up and refused the offer of puddings, "Man, I've already been measured for my suit."

SHUT

THE

FUCK

UP

AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHH!!

I brought the bill.

"Man..." weenie number 2 had his wallet out and handed me his card. "....take this will you."

It was a Halifax Switch Card, for an "Easycash" account which is like on the lowest level of bank accounts available. Tremendous. Just as I suspected, mutton dressed as lamb or rather Millhouse's dressed as Patrick Bateman's. I bet there is nothing in their freezers but mini-twister ice lollies and a half bag of frozen peas.

Man.....