I used to be a very gassy child......

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RTE are looking for amateur cooker jockeys, cooks, chefs, and others who cant cut it as waiters, I'm only joking, to take part in their new TV show, "Recipe for Success". They are looking for unique and interesting signature dishes that could be packages and sold to the masses, I assume by the good people at Supervalu.

When I was a vegetarian, a dark and strange time in my life, I used to have my own signature dish, "Peasy Beans". That's right peas and beans heated to within an inch of their lives and spooned on top of toasted bread. Classy boy. I doubt this is what they are looking for. I had "Peasy Beans almost everyday. This was a very gassy time in my life as well.

If you can create and cook something more exciting than "Peasy Beans" then you should give it a go. If you really want to try something new then, go on, treat the family to some "Peasy Beans" this weekend.

MMMMMMMMMMMM gassy.

It's rude to stare!

me and Steve....

Most guests like to take their seats with the minimum of fuss - conversation suspended, laughter suppressed for a brief moment, mobile phones silenced. It is just good practice and demonstrates a respect for other guests.

I say most because not all guests are so considerate. Some people live in their own bubble, metaphorically speaking of course. Although that said the idea of containing a few of them in a soundproof container is very appealing. Something like the Superman vortex thingy would be cool. For some guests the sight of people eating quietly and conversing at a moderate level seems to be nothing more than a spur to them. Much like the "Silence" sign at the library makes you wanna scream The Ace of Spades at full tilt with air guitar actions thrown in for good measure.

I detest people walking through the restaurant shouting into their phones. It's boorishness at it's worst. I know sometimes it cant be helped but listening to you tell the babysitter you have arrived in the restaurant is such a frightful fucking pain in the arse when people are trying to chow down on their linguini. Some people seem to want to announce to the rest of the restaurant that they have arrived. Their wild hand gestures, coat flinging, and too loud by half laughing just screams, "LOOK AT ME AREN'T I JUST BLOODY LOVELY!"

Attention seeking a-holes.

And then there are those who by their very presence alone cause a stir. Local celebrities tend to cause a stir (and not much more than a stir either), not that we are over flowing with celebrities in this part of the world. Heads will turn and the volume of chatter will rise as the star of local news takes their seat. Necks will stretch and crane as the great unwashed strain to see what Frank the Weatherman orders for his din dins.

"Look Brian he's having soup!"

"Soup?"

"Oh I'm gonna have the soup too."

"Soup eh. Who'd a thought it, soup? Just like we eat. Huh."

Oh yes there can be quite a stir when someone off the telly shows up. But it's nothing in comparison to the stir nay chaos that can be caused by the arrival of a "proper" celebrity. A proper celebrity being a soap opera star, a contestant from a reality TV show or a famous footballer. Forget about it if you cured a disease or wrote a book. I mean the first sight of an Eastender or a former Big Brother contestant can cause mild hysteria and borderline panic amongst the the normally reserved dining public. They'd shit on Frank the Weatherman to get to see Big Mo up close and personal. Yes we are that starved of celebrity here in Northern Ireland. For fuck sake our terrorists pass for celebrities here!

But you don't have to be a celebrity or even a weatherman to cause a stir in a restaurant. Beautiful people can cause a ripple of interest too just as those ripe fruit who have fallen from the ugly tree can. I mean you'd put the fork down if a John Merrick-a-like strolled past you on his way to the table in the dark part of the restaurant. It doesn't take much to cause a stir in a restaurant.

And then there was Steve. Not his real name. Steve caused both a stir and a hubbub and maybe even a ripple too when he ventured into the restaurant last Saturday on his own. He certainly caused many heads to turn. For you see Steve is huge. Steve is a very huge man. Huge in every respect. Tall like a basketball player and broad like a house, maybe a row of houses. Steve cares not that the world watches him as he, very slowly, walks past. His slow precise movement is reminiscent of a Diplodocus.

He is an impressive sight to behold. His presence is awesome. He is such an awesome sight he needs his own theme tune, probably something with a tuba. People stopped mid chew, forks were left hanging, wine was set down as to a one everybody in the restaurant took in the majesty that was this leviathan. I was shuffling slowly behind him with what seemed like a tiny menu. My own gargantuan frame looked almost waif like against this man mountain. Almost. Our relationship was akin to moon and Earth. I couldn't seat him where he was booked. No normal sized table for one would do for Steve. I orbited past him and switched him to a table for four.

He was out of breath and unable to speak for a moment. I waited with baited breath. The restaurant waited with baited breath. The chair creaked. Out of his pocket he produced three coloured tablets, I was thinking magic beans, and between pants and wiping the sweat away he asked for some water. I rushed to get him his water. I told him I would return to take his order when he was ready. Steve didn't need to look at the menu. This wasn't Steve's first time.

"Caesar [pant pant] salad.....large [pant pant]"

"Certainly sir and for your main course?"

"No main course......just salad. I'll have some cakes after."

That's right, cakes with an s. Legend. Big Steve didn't care. Big Steve knew everybody was watching him but Steve didn't care. He pulled out a book and read quietly to himself.

Steve, eater of salads and causer of stirs and indeed hubbubs. Nice.

The not so beautiful game....

I didn't exactly skip into work on Wednesday evening but I was in a fairly happy mood if a little tired. I had been off for two days and I always feel a slight tinge of trepidation upon returning to work. You never know what "fantastic" idea they have come up with in my absence. I don't handle change well and am a firm believer of leavings things alone.

I mean I freaked out the day one of them moved the container of tea bags. It was fine where it was. Proper mental episode involving banging, thumping, swearing and indeed huffing. And there was plot loss maximus the day I came back to work to discover a small mutiny was taking place. The management didn't like the booking system, my booking system and had got the rest of my co-workers all agitated into believing that it needed changed. It didn't need changed, they just needed to spend some time learning it. Change my system? Over my cold dead fat body.

Believe me I am an absolute fucking joy to work with. Was the the sound of egg shells?

this has one use....
....and one use alone
k?

But I threw a fit this evening, I threw a fit and then some. I was completing my pre shift checklist. By completing I mean I was ticking all the boxes. Did I actually water the plants and check the fridge for extra condiments? I couldn't possibly say. But I do like to ensure the toilets are shit ship shape and ready for action. I mean you don't want to find a floater or worse in the stalls half way through your meal. No one wants that.

So in I popped to complete the paranoid half hourly toilet check. Stalls were fine, stocked and clean. The mirrors were free from spit, curious stains, and worse. Hand soaps, fine. Hand dryer functioning as required, in other words it still takes 20 minutes to dry your slightly damp hands. Urinal not overflowing.

But wait, what's this?

What the fuckity fuck is this in the urinal?

Is that what I think it is?

Is that a football and nets? GET ME A MANAGER!

Now I appreciate humour as much as the next person. I enjoy jokes and games and have been known to let myself go from time to time. Why only last month I watched the latest Harold and Kumar movie. And who doesn't enjoy a dirty limerick or two? Eh? Who?

But bugger me is there really a need for urinal games the object of which is to score goals using your piss? And is the toilet of a restaurant really the best place for such an endeavor? And unless your company is directly involved with urinals, the production of urinals, the cleaning of said troughs, or whatever do you really want your company name being pissed on? Andrex aside I'd venture the answer would be no. But the good and clearly mental people at JJB Sports seem to think it's a good idea. I mean how did that marketing meeting go?

"What we need lads is a pish related game. That'll put us right on top of the sports outlets tree. Take that Foot Locker."

I mean you'd have to be tripping to think it's a winner. No manger would entertain me. I was told to "wind my neck in." Wind my neck in is it? Oh we shall just fucking see about that. This ain't over, not by a long way. Pissing games? What next cock wrestling and wine nights?

I was confident though my customers wouldn't get involved in such poppycock (pun intended, obviously). But I was wrong. I went to check the toilets at 8.30pm to discover two of my Swedish gents, both well into their forties, from one of tables getting stuck in to a game of pissing football. There they were, willies out, pish flowing trying to score more goals than the other.

I sighed.

The progression from ape to man is now over and in fact we are now reversing all our evolutionary gains. Still it has to be said their game was marginally better than Liverpool's match. Less pissy too.

*********

From The Khmer Rouge Strippergram - Hostile Planet Guide to New Hampshire. Very funny stuff.

From Raging Server - Roundtable, as someone once said, "It hasn't gone away you know."

The death of a very rare species.....

I was casting my eye round the restaurant on Saturday night, ensuring all was well and there were no shenanigans afoot (Saturday night is prime time for shenanigans and shenanigans cousin, tomfoolery. I have no time for either on a Saturday night), when I noticed a peculiar phenomenon. It shocked me at first, I'm easily shocked it has to be said.

As I scanned the dining room I noticed all the men had one of three basic haircuts - bald/going bald, spice boy, and old man side shade. There was one obvious category missing, one huge important category not represented. I speak of course about curly. There were no curly bops. Not a hint of them. Not one perfectly curly man hair was to be seen, except that is on table 18. But that was just a fat lad with his very unmanscaped chest hair protruding from his shirt.

be brave bouncy brother
be brave.....

And the more I thought about it the more I realised that I haven't seen a decent head of curly man hair in ages, maybe even years. I asked the others if they knew any men with curly hair. Not one of them knew a man with a proud curly head of man hair. This cant be right I thought. Where are all the curly men? I mean there were three boys in my class at school with curly hair and that doesn't even count the guy who got a perm. Fuck he got it rough for a while, a very long while. I mean you just wouldn't do it would you? I still wonder if he was going through some sort of breakdown at the time. It's not normal for 15 year old teenage boys to get perms.

But where have all the curly bops gone? There was a resurgence of the Wafro after Napoleon Dynamite but this didn't last for long. And really the world doesn't need anymore white men pretending they are black, Robert Downey Jr aside.

Have they all succumbed to the pressure of modern styling? GHD, those enemies of curly hair, now produce a straightening iron for men. Now, why men need a device all of their own I'm not sure. Does the mens version come with little footballs on it and go faster stripes? But are the curly haired chaps afraid to come out in the open? Do they hide their lush bouncy hair under beenie hats and what have you? Do they worry about public/pubic ridicule? Or has Will Ferrell just ruined it for everyone?

I have no answer to these questions but unless someone answers them soon and deals with this crisis in the sphere of male grooming then the world will lose it's remaining curly bops within 12 to 18 months. Be brave curly men, be brave and step out with confidence. Let your hair bounce the way nature intended it. Worry not about the shorned masses with their non-hair style. You're unique and special, not like the slow lad from school who ate his crayons, but rather in a Taj Mahal kind of way. We miss you and we need you, so come back out and wear your unmanageable hair with pride!

So when did you last see an impressive head of curly man hair?

Eh?

When?

A wedge like a salami and a brain like a pea....

It wasn't just Grandpa Charlie that was guilty of speaking without first engaging his cranium maximus at the weekend, there was this old duffer too....

"That was just lovely" says he as I bring him his bill. He was an affable enough sort of chap, decent line in customer to waiter patter - wine, the rising price of beef, and weirdly enough the new iPhone which he clutched throughout the meal. I crave all three so I was right in tune with his line of thought. He and his extended family were easy to serve if a little boisterous for my liking. What ever happened to slow, lazy Sunday afternoons?

like that
but money....

"Now lets see the damage then shall we" he says as he unfurls the little receipt. He fakes a look of horror. I responded with suitable amateur dramatics. If I had a pound for every time I have to do that I'd be minted. But I don't so I'm not. Bad acting completed he stood up to pay me away from the table. Men of a certain age prefer to handle such monetary affairs away from women and small children. No seriously they really do. It's so they can stiff the waiter in private but mainly because they like acting the big fella. I knew it was coming, or not as the case may be, the stiffing that is. I can always tell when I'm about to be shafted, my ass twitches a bit and pockets rattle a little.

He produced a fat roll of crisp notes and counted them out very precisely. Then he looked up and turned to me and said, and remember waiters don't lie,

"Now then young sir, you must be too old to be expecting a tip eh?" The sneaky fucker said it low but firmly so that no one else would hear him but me.

"Excuse me sir?" I heard him alright I just wanted him to say it again incase I was dreaming or stuck in some sort of bizarro drug induced nightmare where people ask ridiculous questions, like The Weakest Link.

"You must be too old to be expecting tips from people. That's for the young 'uns" he says as he stuffs his fat roll, honestly it was like a salami, back into the pocket from whence it came. Funny that, I thought, it was only but a moment ago he was calling me "young man". Which is it you tight fisted old goat?

"Sir, tipping is entirely at your discretion." I wore a look of barely concealed anger and constrained dislike. Much like Anne Robinson. I mean how did he expect me to take it? Eh?

"It is indeed and I only tip youngsters who need a little extra pocket money. Old pros like you don't need any extra." He even winked when he said it. Winker.

Yes "old pros" like me are rolling in it. I take a champagne bath most evenings and eat caviar and fois gras like most people eat toast and jam. It's a Kings life for us "old pros". I mean I only turn up to work when it suits me, I'd rather be playing quoits on the deck of my weekend schooner. He shook my hand, told me I'd done a great job and then turned to rejoin his table.

Fuck.

You.

Not only had he stiffed me, which I can live with, he was justifying it to my face. Which was a new one, even on an old pro like me. So just to clarify, there are no waiters that are too old, too young, too rich, too skint, too fat, too thin, too comfortable, too busy, too hungry to accept a tip. If you want to tip then tip, if not then keep you cash in your pocket and shut the fuck up. I need not listen to your ball achingly poor excuses for not tipping.

Tipping is indeed discretionary and so is letting you and your family into the restaurant on Sunday afternoon without a booking. Or I'll let the non-drinking vegan new start deal with you the next time. Ha!

Old pro my ass.........

Dueling waiters......

It was a "funny" old weekend. Whilst some people barely spoke a word some some people clearly have no idea when to shut the fuck up. I mean we all like a bit of chat and what have you, personally I can wax lyrical about all sorts of stuff and things but I like to think I know when to give it a rest. But some people seem to be missing the part of the brain that controls the flow of words from thoughts to speech. It's very unnerving and more than a little bit ear slicingly annoying.

it's Sunday for fuck sake......

In the shut the fuck up corner there was an old man, quel surprise. Now don't get me wrong I like old men, not in a cuddle up to them late at night sort of way, but rather in a I hope to be one some day kind of affection. Despite it being ten past twelve on a Sunday afternoon he was Mr Wide Awake and ready for action. Probably been up for hours. Whilst I was still lamenting the fact that I was actually up and yearned for the comfort of my still warm bed he was in full flow.

"So young man, how are you today? Beautiful day so far. You been watching the Olympics? Fantastic stuff isn't it? Did think they'd pull it off you know. But they did, they pulled it off. Proved me wrong, that's right proved me wrong. Lunch then is it? Lovely. Ah yes Sunday lunch. Fantastic." And he said it just like that, no stopping for answers, no stopping for air. He was like a Gatling machine gun.

Mother of all that is right in the world what the fuckity fuck fuck was this? Do old men take coke now? Is that what was going on? Had he spooned a couple of grams over his cornflakes instead of sugar? It was all too much too early for my liking. My plan to palm him of to the other waiter was a non-starter as her first table had that other Sunday morning nightmare, kids, on board. And given the choice I'll take a cracked up old man over murderous looking rug rats with neo-nazi haircuts and mischievous looks. Actually mischievous is the wrong word, it makes them sound like fun little imps when they were far more Machiavellian than that.

Grandpa Charlie wasn't on the coke. He was just an old man with a spring in his step and a lust for life. Oh how I resented his lust for life on a sunday afternoon when I felt grim and full of begrudgery. But I really didn't need his minute by minute commentary on everything that was going on.

"Hey up, lots of kids over there. Three boys is it? Three boys and a girl. Ah that's nice for them. And that couple there by the window, they must be young lovers don't you think? Married at all are they? Probably not. It's the way of the world though now isn't it? No odds to me, I say no odds to me just as long as they are happy. It's all each of us wants isn't it? Just to be happy. Yes I'll have the roast beef."

COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE I NEED MORE COFFEE. Doubled at that.

And it wasn't just when I was actually at his table either. I watched him as he ate, he never said a word. But it was like something in him was triggered if one of us walked within two tables of where he was.

"Lovely. Lovely. Oh that's just great. Great food. Compliments to the chef. Yes tell him I said it's great. Keep up the good work. Did you see that car outside? Big car, very expensive looking. Lot's of money. Not worrying about paying the rent those folks. Oh you're with somebody else. Fair enough."

It went on like that ad nauseam. But I was three double espresso in by now and was feeling up for the challenge. I was gonna try and beat him at his own game. The others watched with baited breath.

"So did you enjoy that? Eh did you? Great beef that isn't it? Locally reared...."

Damn it, I was only getting warmed up when he got in with...

"Cant beat the locally reared stuff. Best farmers in the world here. Irish beef isn't it? Eh great stuff that. I used to...."

I hit back before he could finish...

"Aye great stuff that. The pork is good too. You should try that next week. All locally reared pigs too. You want a pudding then eh? Great puddings here. All fresh made this morning they come with..."

"Ach I love a good pudding...." Bastard he snipped in before I could list them one by one, he was clearly well schooled at his art.

This was like dueling banjos but without the threat of rape and with less genetic freakery going on. (Debatable - LMM) It was a battle for the last word. He had his old man lust for life I had (comparative) youth and espresso on my side.

"...my old mother, may she rest in God's peace (queue sad face), made a great apple tart. No apple tart here though eh. I say no apple tart. Ah but you have Pav-a-lova. (as old people like to call it) Lovely I'll have that with cream. No ice cream. No cream. Yes cream. And coffee. With milk. No cream. No milk. Yes milk with the coffee."

I was beaten. So many words.

"Pavlova it is then?"

"Yup pavlova and coffee. Oh and would you look at that another one of those big cars. Lot's of people with lots of money......"

He was off again. I didn't stay to listen. He paid the bill about a half hour later and as he left I was determined to get the last word.

Childish? Yes.

Did that stop me? No.

He came towards me at the door. "Well goodbye then for now. God willing I'll be back next week. Thanks for lunch. Lovely lunch. Great stuff. Pay the chef my compliments. Great lad he is, I say great lad he is. Bye bye for now."

But before he could get out the door I countered with, "You take it easy now young Sir. Enjoy the rest of the day."

And with that the door closed before he could respond. And I turned and walked away having secured the smallest of victories. Until....

"Young? Ha ha ha very good. Bye now." There he was with his head through the door laughing.

Legend......

Relief.....

More arse relief for those who have a problem in that department comes in the form of these handy wipes from the very politely named, chefsbum.co.uk. Believe me I hesitated for a moment before I clicked the link.

The bumpf on their site says,

"Don't Suffer In Silence... Heat rash and prickly heat is one of the most common problems in hot, humid work environments. For kitchen staff standing over a hot plate or oven all day the rash can manifest itself in those most personal areas, sweat ducts become plugged, causing red papules, or bumps, to appear on the skin causing a very uncomfortable condition known in the trade as Chef's Bum (no it's not, it's chef's arse and that's that - Manuel), which if left untreated can become complicated by a subsequent infection."

Nice! Suffer in silence? Chance would be a fine thing. The shower dodging cooker monkeys never shut up about it. Still, I've ordered some for the chefs at work. It pays to keep on their good side. Wonder if it works on their mouths too, mmmmm nothing could wipe those particular orifices clean.

pain relief for chefs...
still no relief from chefs though

All praise and salutations go to Slouchpod for the info.

With apologies to Engelbert Humperdinck...

It's good to be passionate about something. It's good to care about something. I mean we need passionate people in the world to care about old buildings, and dogs, and the rights of the downtrodden indigenous peoples of the Brazilian rain forest.

Passion is a good thing.

Obsession is another thing altogether.

And obsession can easily turn into fetishism. Oh yes it can.

Those people who get their kicks by being kicked in the balls by a woman dressed only in high heels or enjoy a sunday evening dressed up as a toddler and have their partner spank them for messing themselves, they scare me. I mean really scare me. I consider myself to be fairly open minded but if your nighttime routine requires the use of a safety word and an antiseptic gel then I think you need to seek professional help.



I had one of those sorts in for dinner on Thursday night. His particular passion/fetishism?

Pee.

That's right pee.

Sorry not pee, I mean peas.

Wouldn't shut the fuckity fuck up about peas.

"And what are this evenings vegetables?" he asked in a perfectly normal way.

"Broccoli, cauliflower, carrots and courgette sir, all finished with basil aioli." I replied not for a moment knowing what was to follow.

"No peas?"

"Alas sir, there are no peas this evening." I am the master of fake empathy.

"MMMMMMM..." he said in a rather thoughtful way in the direction of his wife"......no peas Margaret."

"No peas Brian." She replied looking quite taken aback. I stood there and said nothing. I wanted to give them a moment to let this most momentous of news sink in.

"Well what you want to do then Brian?" asked Margaret

Brian paused for a moment before answering, "I appreciate you have no peas on the menu this evening but do you have any peas in the kitchen at all?"

Oh holy fuckarama, we have a live one here.

"Eh, I doubt it sir or they would be on the menu this evening."

"Could you maybe check?" he asked. They were both staring at me, not looking but staring. Really, they were creeping me the fuck out. I did go and ask chef and he replied...

"Are there fucking peas on the menu?"

"No chef."

"So why would you ask me if I have fucking peas in the kitchen?"

"I dunno chef."

"Does that answer your question?"

"Yes chef." Cunt.

"I'm sorry folks we have no peas this evening. Chef sends his apologies but does recommend tonight's selection of vegetables."

"Yes, but no peas."

"No peas."

"Have you any runner beans or fine beans?" Asked Margaret. This was getting very silly and I needed to put a stop to it before they went through the whole pea/bean family.

"The only vegetables we have this evening are the ones I have already listed. Would you like a portion of them? They are rather lovely?" Never in the history of waiting had one waiter tried so hard to sell a fucking poxy portion of fucking vegetables.

"We really wanted some peas."

"I gathered that sir." By now I had a backlog building all round the restaurant. I could feel eyes burrowing into my back.

"We really love peas."

Now what the fuck do you say to that? I mean how do you respond to such a ludicrous statement. I had a vision of their house - pea ornaments, pea tea towels, pea coloured carpet. I bet they call each other sweet pea during intimate moments.

"I don't know what to do." Said Brian. You could maybe just maybe catch a fucking grip to yourself.

"Shall we just get the veg?" Asked Margaret

"I don't know if I fancy it."

"Folks..." I was getting very irritated "...shall I just pop back in a moment?"

"No, no we'll order now."

"So what would you like?"

"Not sure, what's in the veg selection again?"

I had enough of this, "Folks I'm really rather busy, peas release me let me go"

So they ordered the mushrooms and onions instead.

Hello my name is Manuel and I'm a recovering Goth....

I was just thinking the other day about how Little Miss Manuel and I always have a good time when we go out to eat. We don't always have great meals but we always have a good laugh and a sparklingly entertaining time.

It's always been like that with LMM. Wasn't always like that with my previous relationships, although relationships is probably stretching it a bit. I remember with horror the first time I took a girl out for dinner. And she was a girl and I was a boy, a boy with one thing on my mind, obviously. Oh look I'm going red as I type this, how nice.

Sit back and cringe with me.

I'm sooooo fucking happy...
...no seriously

Her name was Linda and I worshipped her. I worshipped any girl that showed any interest in me. Hell I fell in love if they even spoke to me. I was an awkward teenager, unlike the striking lump of unflappable confidence I am now of course. Ahem.

I was also a Goth. Awkwardness and Gothness go together like ice cram and more ice cream. You can hide your awkwardness in your dark and brooding persona. I tried to be brooding but just looked huffy mostly. Linda was the polar opposite of a Goth. She was loud and colourful and didn't give a fiddlers fuck what people thought of her, other than her father that is. She made me hide under a motorway underpass one night as her dad was coming home early and wouldn't approve of his number one child going out with an extra from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

After about a year of fumbling and many near misses I finally got my shit, and 12 inch quiff, together to ask her out. She said yes, I ran home and played The Cure. What else was a teenage Goth to do? My emotions were conflicted - in one corner you had the overwhelming joy that a girl had said yes and in the other you had my brooding Gothness which instinctively rejected such happiness because, "what was the point when we are all just gonna die."

Wow they really were my happiest days.

I booked a restaurant, Capers pizzeria on Shaftesbury Square. I knew about such things as I was a fledgling waiter at the time. This impressed her. It boded well for me that she was impressed easily. I got showered, a big enough deal for a teenage boy, and selected my favourite black shirt and favourite black army combats with matching boots. My hair was erect and pointy, as I intended it to be. The late summer sun was shining bright and hot, well we cant have everything, as I headed off to meet her. I was a good twenty minutes early. I didn't even smoke then so I just stood there with my heart racing like a humming bird on coke.

She arrived in a whirl of colour and noise and this unsettled me. I was stuttering and as red as my lipstick from the previous evening. She looked great, but then she always did. I wasn't the only one to notice, the charming 22 year old waiter noticed too. The fucker. He brought our cokes, and winked at Linda as he set them on the table. I was a mess, I was in over my head and I knew it.

We, or rather she, chatted about stuff and things. She was just back from holiday and she told me everything that happened, including the boys she met. ARRRRRRRRGGGGGHH! It was hard enough to contend with charming 22 year old waiters who were in the same building let alone boys in another country. She went on and on flitting from one story to the next without taking a breath. This was sort of good as I had fuck all to add to the conversation.

Our food arrived, pizza for her and Spaghetti Bolognese for me. What a fucking mistake that was. Mine was dumped in front of me by yer man whilst Linda's was lovingly set in front of her with flair and charming oozing from his pores. He held her shoulder as he checked if we needed anything else. Aye, five minutes peace from you chummy.

We ate, or rather she ate, and I threw spag bol over my chin and shirt. This was a nightmare, a wide awake nightmare. It was noticed too, not by Linda who was still yammering on about this and that and about she got offered a job in Ibiza as a club rep, but by yer man who offered to get me extra napkins. I knew what he was at. Why did I choose the spag bol? Why? Why? Why? Spag bol is not a first date food unless you are James Bond or an Italian, obviously.

It was so hot in the restaurant that I was sweating like a Goth in a disco, which was causing the hairspray that held my 12 inch quiff in place to melt. My hair was all I had, it was the only interesting thing about me. My whole teenage life was invested in that haircut. If it failed then all hope was lost. Just ask yer man Samson, hair is important.

I couldn't get the bloody food in my mouth. The waiter was hitting on the girl I had worshipped from afar and not so afar. My chin was burnt and covered in sticky red goo. My hair was wilting in the heat. And Linda had finally run out of conversation. Not cool, not cool at all.

And then it got worse. Was that possible? Well lets see....

The room seemed to be getting hotter as my teenage life was falling apart. The hairspray continued to melt as I continued to sweat. A diabolical mixture of hairspray and sweat was now trickling down my face. I kept dabbing at it with my paper napkin but soon I was out of those. Sleazy the waiter arrived back to clear our plates and sleaze some more at the girl who was clearly never going to be my girlfriend. I took this opportunity to wipe the crap from my face but instead I made things worse. I couldn't see now, the sweat, hairspray, and tomato sauce had come together to form something akin to acid. As I reached out for another napkin I knocked my glass of coke across the table and over Linda. Of course I did, it was the missing ingredient in this nightmare.

She shrieked.

Sleazy the waiter swore.

And I went red.

I recovered my sight to find sleazy the waiter dabbing carefully at Linda's wet top. The absolute fucker. We got the bill, paid, and I walked her round to get the bus home, it wasn't even the last bus home.

When I got home I played The Cure's "Disintegration" for about 4 hours. I swore by the hair of Fat Robert Smith that I wouldn't take a girl out for dinner again. And I didn't for about four years.

First dinner dates eh, yours couldn't have been worse than that could they?

Three vicars walk into a restaurant...

People sometimes ask me if all my stories are true. The impertinence of it. Pfft!

"Manuel....", they ask with their curious little faces contorted with wonder and cynicism, "....are all your stories true?"

Honestly that's what they say, although sometimes they call me a lying/exaggerating bastard.

Family eh?

Who needs them?

Fr. Manuel says
"Believe!'

If you have ever worked with the great unwashed pool of genetic freaks that is the general public then you know, like I do, that anything is possible.

ANYTHING!

And if you work in a restaurant then the chances of something unbelievable happening are doubled nay trebled even. Things like this......

It was Thursday night and all was well in my world. My world stretching from table 2 to table 27 that is. I control very little of what goes on outside of that. The new waiter was on so I was basically covering the lot. She did a great job despite her lack of experience, well nothing went on fire and her tips were great. Which is the best you can hope for with new people.

We were silly busy early on but by half eight things had settle down to an acceptable level of work requiring me to only mildly sweat. I had been gushing like a fatman in a cake shop before that.

Attractive?

I'd say not.

Our remaining reservations had arrived and all were busy eating or ordering except table four who were stuck between the lamb or the pork. I wouldn't mind but it had been going on for the best part of half an hour. I mean how do these people make it through a day? Getting dressed must by like doing a multiple choice physics exam for these guys. They finally ordered, they went for the fish. Didn't see that coming.

As I stood back to check were we were at with our tables in strode three men of god. They wanted a "quick bite". Yeah yeah padre, I've heard that line before. But I got them a table and a surprising first round of Guinness. I served them their pints and as they lifted them in unison and clinked their glasses together the music system changed songs from some dull Jack Johnson-esque type wet pish to, and remember I'm not making this up, AC/DC's "Highway To Hell".

Fucking awesome timing I thought.

I love our music system, even if it plays Jack Johnson from time to time.

Hic....

My boss, The Glorious Leader, seems to think it's okay to get his waiters half tanked and then send them out to work. I think he is recording us for one of those funniest home video type shite programmes. Either that or he has badly estimated our capacity to take large amounts of wine in quick succession. We had had wine tasting before shift this afternoon. I cant cope. Don't get me wrong your worst day tasting wine is still marginally better than your best day waiting tables but still it's tougher than you'd think.

Will anybody fall for that? Is there any sympathy?

Now I know that you aren't meant to guzzle it like you have just completed a marathon, but when someone hands you a very expensive bottle of red you tend to get a bit greedy. I wasn't sure as to it's qualities so I just had to reach for another snifter. One has to be sure. Ahem, I'm all about the customer satisfaction you know.

I knew I had over done it when I couldn't complete a fairly straight forward sentence, "Mmmmmm hints of plumps and snoranges and maybe......what? What you laughing at?" I was going for plums and oranges apparently. Still I was as sober as Moses in comparison to our Young Clark Kent. He was talking like a washing machine after 25 minutes. And he was loud too. The boss was trying to give us the back story to each of the wines - the wine maker, the terrain, label explanation and what have you when young superman shouted,

"JAMMY, IT'S REALLY JAMMY. JAM JAM JAM JAM."

It was indeed quite a jammy wine but he was very vociferous about it, a little too vociferous. The room burst into fits of laughter and all control was lost. It was like a night out by this point, all we need now was some music, a smoking area, and probably a burger or two (or jam sandwich). Calm and decorum was returned when young superman excused himself to go to the bathroom. Booze really is his kryptonite.

I excused myself before the end so I could get the restaurant open for dinner. I also necked two espressos and a pint of water. Didn't really help. I still greeted the first table like long lost friends and had lost the ability to control my volume.

"OH HOW YOU DOING? TABLE FOR TWO IS IT?" I shouted at the rather bemused couple. It was all I could do not to rub my hand down the lady's face and tell her she was my best friend ever.

I do that when I'm drunk.

I regained composure after a a while and then got a headache. By the end of the night I was swearing to all the super best friends, god, allah, buddha, Larry David that I would never ever drink so much during wine tasting again.

Nonsense of course. Roll on January and our next change!

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

For what it's worth the highlights were,

The Woodstock Cabernet Sauvignon 2004. From the moment you open this bottle you know it's a winner, your nose is immediately aware of it's berry and herb like tones. It's dark and rich in colour and a joy to taste. Forget the cheese, snap a bar of good chocolate and settle in for an enjoyable wet summer night.

Pascal Bouchard Chablis. I haven't enjoyed Chablis in years preferring instead the new Rieslings and of course my new discovery Txacloi but this is just superb. It has a wonderful hint of cinnamon and has a mineral like background. I also found an almost creamy taste to it too. Great with seafood. But not jam sandwiches of course, unless you are superman of course.

Date Rape Face and E-FIT Boy

Friday was chocker block with weekend warriors, office parties, and easily excited tourists. (Ditty's biscuits and Cafe Cremes were a big hit this weekend) There wasn't a seat to be had. If your name wasn't down you weren't getting in. Not that such formalities deter some people from trying.

God loves a trier.

Not me though, pains in the ass if you ask me.


Some people like the two alpha males that cluttered up my foyer for far too long on Friday night. They wore expensive suits and overpowering cologne (at as guess I'd say it was 'Desperation for Men' by Calvin Klein, saying that it could have been cat piss) and had the faces of those men you see on FBI E-FIT's. Well one of them did, the other wore the mask of a date rapist. Harsh but accurate.

"Hi man..." opened the date rapist as if we were in the same club or something.

"...we need a table for two man, you got a nice table for two for us?" He must have had a cold or something as he was sniffing a lot and wiping his nose, poor fella. His friend must have caught the same cold from him too.

"Yeah sorry, man, we are fully booked this evening" Sorry? I wasn't sorry at all but one must make it look good.

"Nothing at all?" Asked E-FIT boy and followed with, "C'mon man, there's only two of us."

I showed them the booking sheet. "Sorry guys we are full to the door tonight and there's more coming in later."

They both stared at it as if they knew what they were looking at. I took a step back to hint that we were done with the discussion. E-FIT boy wasn't done though.

"Awh man, you gotta have something for us. I mean we will be really quick." I've fallen for that line before and I know that once they are seated all their promises about being quick go out the window.

"No, sorry gents, like I say we are fully booked this evening." I suggested a few other restaurants they could try and turned to go. Like I say it was a busy night and I really didn't have time to be standing at the door with these two gym slaves.

"Listen listen maaan...." said date rape face, he was getting desperate. "....we'll tip you really well. Eh eh."

Damn sure they would, if they got a table that is, which they weren't. Now this pissed me off. I take my tips when I do a good job. I didn't like the inference that I could be bought and that I was in someway holding out on them. I mean what does FULLY BOOKED mean to you? Does it leave room for discussion or ambiguity? My heckles were up.

"Gents, like I have said numerous times, we are fully booked. FULLY. BOOKED. That means there are no tables available. Okay?"

"Give him some money now" said E-FIT boy 'whispering' into his friend's ear.

I sighed.

But date rape face did indeed pull out a bulging money clip and pull some notes from it. I turned to walk. Fuck this for a game soldiers.

"NO here man, take this." He tried to palm me off and with a sleazy wink thrown in for good measure. Clearly fancies himself as an Ocean Eleven character or something.

"NO. Gents, you AREN'T getting a table. Now please put that away." I had to fight my natural waiter instincts. But like a junkie who has just quit the bad stuff I said no. Hardest thing I've ever done.

"Just take the money and have another look, please...what's your name?" Oh he wanted to be my friend now.

The fuck if I was telling him my name. But for one moment I did consider taking his money, looking and then telling them we still have no tables but thought better of it in the end.

"Guys, that's just offensive. Now please step away from the door" my arm helpfully pointing the correct direction for them. It was raining too, which was a nice touch.

They were not best pleased.

"Fuck sake" muttered date rape face.

"Should have given him the money earlier" added E-FIT boy.

"Hey man...." I shouted as they went out the door

"Yeah?" said Date rape face with a hopeful glint in his eye.

"...you got something, you know, just under your nose..." and I wiped at my nose. He looked gutted.

Manuel cant be bought, well not by alphas with coke problems anyway.

Yes, yes I know it's juvenile but....

Ditty's Irish oatmeal biscuits are the perfect accompaniment to good Irish cheeses and are served in all the best restaurants, and some rubbish ones too.

They are also a never ending source of amusement for waiters who really should know better. Take tonight for example.

"Now madam, your cheeseboard" said the charming and jovial waiter as he set down a beautiful looking board of cheese, grapes and the aforementioned oatmeal biscuits.

"Oh are these my Ditty's?" asked the very lovely American lady.

"They certainly are." Replied the waiter sidestepping the obvious joke.

Lifting one of the biscuits and turning to her husband she asked, "Hey Brian, do you wanna bite of my Ditty's?"

It was all the waiter could do not to burst out laughing right there and then......

Sleazy men and other problems.....

Men, eh, what can you say about them that hasn't already been said? Some really are just class acts and some are utter pond life. Take two incidents today for example....

greasy.......

I was enjoying the brief break in mother natures hostilities, in other words it wasn't raining, and living la vida loca. Okay I was having a coffee, but I was having it outside. This is as close as it gets to continental living in Belfast. The wee lad bedecked in a charming shell suit by Nike and black shoes ensemble and drinking White Lightening Cider from the bottle was slightly ruining the ambience but I decided to blot him out. Instead I imagined a tree. Then then there were three other trees and the tree started swearing and spitting so much so that I really couldn't pretend they were trees anymore.

Thankfully they moved on, only to be replaced by a Big Issue seller with big sad eyes wearing sandals and socks (which creeps me out) and a drunk Scottish man looking for money,

"Ne money fer meh? Eh laddie, ne money fer meh?"

I wasn't in a giving mood so off they trundled to harass a very confused looking Japanese couple, "Welcome to Belfast!" I thought. And to think we applied to be the European City of Culture.

But they aren't the point of todays post.

So I just sat there waiting for Little Miss Manuel to arrive and watched the citizens of Belfast dander by. A young man in his twenties sat at the next table to mine, he had a coffee and a dancing look in his eyes. He was a bit too jittery for my liking so I moved slightly so I could keep and eye on him. I pretended to be using my phone just incase he wanted to engage me in small talk. Manuel doesn't small talk for anything less than 15%.

At that I noticed a young woman walking towards us talking on her phone. I thought nothing off it and carried on with my mobile phone fiddling. But chummy beside me spotted her too, he spotted her and was helping himself to a big long horny look. She notice his leering face too. And as she got to where we where sitting she slowed down and into her phone shouted,

"....no hold on ma, SOME FUCKING PERV IS STARING RIGHT AT MY FUCKING TITS!"

And walked on. Hurrah for her!

Yer man nudges me whilst laughing like a fucking psycho. I went red. Me who hadn't done a fucking thing! I went red! everyone turns round including the Big Issues Seller and the drunk bum and thinks that I was the perv!

"Fucking cheers a-hole!" I says to yer man and up he gets and wanders off laughing like he's on crack. Which he very well may have been.

Fucking cracked up sleaze bag.

There was more sleazerie at work as well. I seated two Frenchmen, youngish, probably in their late 20's. They seemed nice enough. What can you tell in 30 seconds?

"Gents can I get you a drink?"

"Is you our way-ter?" asks the beardy one.

"Excuse me?"

"Vill you be serving us to-nyight?"

"Yes, is that okay?" I said, not that I gave a fiddlers fuck if it wasn't. They were in my section, so I was their waiter.

"Why cant she take ooooour ordyer?" ask the non-beardy but clearly horny one.

The two of them giggled like idiots and leered at my new work chum with very long sleazy gazes.

"She's nice eh?" says the beardy one and made gropy breast gestures with his hand. This cracked his chum up no end and then they both did it.

Now what was I to do?!

I lifted their menus and sent them on their way. They laughed like drunken sailors all they way out of the restaurant.

Fuck that, Pierre-verts.

Waiter, comedian, marriage counsellor.....

So there I was at work one Tuesday evening a year or two ago. It had been a fairly happy little evening so far with little or nothing to report. The customers were cooperative and pleasant and I was in surprisingly good form. I was skipping around the restaurant like that little girl at the end of Little House on the Prairie, my imaginary hair flopping about as I weaved my way through the tables delivering joy and happiness (steak and champ actually) to all who wanted it. The birds were tweeting and the chefs were laughing.

All was well.

It felt good to be alive.

This is of course a far cry from my usual feelings of begrudgery and cynicism and the constant desire to run amok with a blunt instrument had itself been blunted.

not in my restaurant you don't

A new table arrived. A seemingly delightful couple, probably both in their mid to late forties. New people thought I, how tremendous. I practically hugged them such was my excitement. I was starting to creep myself out and wondered if my pre shift espresso had been spiked with something.

"You're not booked? Oh don't worry, come on ahead this way" and I lead them to a lovely table I wouldn't normally give to unreserved tables of two. Christ I sometimes barely use actual words to unreserved tables.

"Hey can I get you guys some drinks?" said the, worryingly, peppy Manuel.

"Vadka, large and coke. Nat skinny coke, ordinary coke" said the lovely chap from behind his menu.

"Ah'll order me own then" says the lovely lady peering over the top of her menu at where her dining companions eyes would be if she could see them through the menu.

"You do dat der" he responded without taking his eyes off the menu.

"Pine af harp" she barked.

These two were ruining my Tuesday. But I headed to the bar to get their vadka and pint of harp without commenting. Maybe they needed a moment to let whatever was annoying them dissipate.

I delivered their drinks with ordinary coke as requested and checked to see if they were ready to order. Their menus were flat on the table but there was still no cross table communication. She was hammering out a text message on her mobile phone, something told me it didn't read, "Out 4 dnr, havn a gr8 time. C u sn. xo." Probably more like, "He's a bstrd"

"Aye just two schteaks, well done like awnd chips, no sauce." I wrote down this challenging order and then turned to the woman and asked her what she wanted. I couldn't resist.

"What?" she snapped. She looked at me as if I was a total moron. Distracting her from her texting appeared to have been a mistake. She returned to it after giving me a very dirty look.

I sent her a text in my mind, "FU"

"NO, here mate, dat's fer the two af us like, I couldn't eat two ofvem." interjected yer man.

"Yes sir, just a little joke." I wasn't sure if they just didn't get it or just weren't in the mood for my witty(?) repartee.

I placed their order and asked the chefs to get it done asap as I didn't want these munters hanging around the restaurant all night with their stinking attitude ruining my Tuesday buzz. I headed off to check my other tables but my buzz was indeed lower than before. My skip from earlier was becoming a dander. But before I could even set off yer man was right behind me with his empty vadka glass.

"Gi us a nuver one of those, mate." He was doing that really annoying shaky glass thing that people do when they want another drink. Must see if that works in the supermarket, you know walk in with an empty tin of beans, shake it whilst making a stupid face and see if someone brings me a new one. Bet they fucking don't.

"Certainly, mate. I'll bring it down for you in a moment."

"Schweet" says he and off he heads for a smoke.

"I'm not your fucking mate, mate" thought I but never actually said, obviously. I left the drink on their table but before I could even lift my hand from the glass yer woman, clearly annoyed at the lack of more booze for her asks,

"Did he nat get me one?"

"Eh no but..." I was about to ask her if she wanted another pint.

"...the fat fucking prick." Oh crikey mummy.

"Don't worry I'll get you another now." I said trying to calm her down.

Her fine collection of Elizabeth Duke "gold" jewelry was rattling like a train as she hit the text messaging again. He wasn't back by the time I delivered her second drink. But we - customers, chefs, people in other buildings, all knew when he was back.

"WHY THE fuck DIDN'T YOU GET ME ANUVER PINT YI FAT prick." She thankfully managed a bit of audio control on the swear words. Which is nice.

Happy Tuesday was now over. Done. Gone. History. I knew it couldn't last. A battle raged between them, all verbal I should add. There was pointing of yellow fingers (him) and rattling of golden arms (her). Oh this wasn't fucking cool, not cool at all.

Their behaviour was garnering a few worrying looks from the other guests. If people wanted this sort of entertainment over dinner they only have to put on their favourite soap opera, they tend to not want it when they are out.

Someone needed to step in. Guess who?

I normally have no problem with telling people to lower their voice and what have you but these two didn't look like the cared about the social niceties of dining out. I feared for my pretty face.

"Sorry folks, can I ask you to keep your voices down please. You are disturbing the other guests." There was fear in my voice. Customers can smell fear, much like dogs.

"What?..." Says yer man, "I could nae give fuck. Anyways it's nat me it's her."

"Sir, it's both of you and like I say it is disturbing the other guests." I really didn't want to get into a debate about it.

"Who d'fuck youse talking to?" Please be talking to him, please be talking to him, please be talking to him.

No, she was talking to me.

"Where d'fucks out food? Telling us to be quiet and you haven't even served our fucking schteaks yet. Cheeky...."

"Aye dats right, where is ar food?"

They smiled at each other big yellowy brown smiles. She put her phone away, he put his phone away, they took big gulps of booze. Harmony for the first time.

I slowly backed away. This was a result, not what I expected, but a result all the same. Focus you ire on me if you must, but just stop shouting.

And they did. There was no more shouting, just dirty looks for me and some of the other tables and the moment they finished they left. He threw some money on the table and they two of them walked out together all smug looking as if everybody else was mental.

I'm like a marriage counsellor sometimes........

"Ask not what your waiter can do for you...

...ask what you can do for your waiter"

"Ich bin ein Waiter"

Here's some things you can do for your waiter now that you ask......

Book in advance. Waiters cant handle surprises, surprises like you and your five friends twenty minutes before closing. In this era of wondrous communication you really have no excuse.

Turn up on time. See above, communication, surprises blah blah blah. Also if you arrive late the waiter WILL use it against you all night. "Waiter my steak is overcooked." Yup and you were late so we're even.

Have some inkling where you are. I mean does it look like we do pizza and burgers? The moment you call the waiter over and ask for a quarter pounder with extra cheese and a side of onion rings you are signing you own death warrant. Ok maybe not death warrant but the waiter will give up on you at this point and that means your night out becomes a whole new and very different experience. Google your restaurant before stepping out.

Read the menu. Please read the menu. If there is a dish served in a wonderfully spicy chilli sauce then you should go ahead and assume that the dish is intended to be a spicy one and any attempt to remove the chilli element will render the dish dull. If you don't like plum chutney or if nuts make you die then my advice is don't bloody order the meal with those things in there. Chef does the cooking, you do the eating. Lets leave it like that shall we? Oh and if you don't see it, don't order it.

Trust the waiter. He knows stuff and things. Stuff and things like what goes best with noodles. Mashed potato doesn't go with noodles. If he makes a face like he is chewing on a shit covered shoe then he is trying to tell you something, maybe the fish pie isn't up to it today. The waiter isn't out to screw you over, quite the opposite, he wants to love you, he wants to make you happy. So tear down your walls of suspicion and cynicism and let the waiter help you.

Tell the waiter. Don't keep secrets from your waiter. We don't like secrets or surprises or ambushes either whilst we are at it. With that in mind when the waiter asks, and a good waiter will and I'm sure a few bad ones too, "Hey is everything good for you guys folks?" you need to respond truthfully. Saving it to the end and acting the martyr doesn't help me to help you. And clearing your plate and then whinging you didn't like it doesn't work with me anymore. It did when I was a wittle waiter, but I'm older now (and bigger) and I don't fall for such nonsense anymore. So come on, don't be shy, just spit it out. Not literally of course.

Have some decorum. Honestly I shouldn't have to go over this at your age, your mummy and daddy should have done all those years ago. Eat with you mouth closed, please, please for the love of the little guy in the manger please close it up. I saw the food arrive on the lovely lorry. I saw the chefs cut it, craft it, cook it and plate it. I served it. I have followed the process as much as I want to, the rest is up to you and it's a one player game. SO SHUT IT! Burping, farting, picking, and scratching anything below the waste line is inappropriate in your own front room so don't do it in my dining room. And no track suits are not considered proper dining attire, especially the hideous velour numbers that seem to a la mode these days.

Keep it in perspective. So the tuna was overcooked and our spuds are harder than Tony Soprano. First thing to do is breathe. Flying off the handle, no matter how serious and legitimate your complaint may be, will get you no where. I know it's difficult but you must resist the urge to start swearing and shouting. If you take this route you can expect to meet resistance all the way, and you will leave unhappy. Your waiter is your best hope of having the situation redeemed. So don't be blaming us or getting shirty. I'll happily forgo your tip if it means I get to fuck you over. Seriously drop the anguished, 'I'm just about to cry' look. There's no need for partners and dining guests to hold your hand through the, supposed, pain of it all.

Be in your seat. If I bring your food out and you ain't there I'm just gonna bloody leave it. If it goes cold that's your look out. You ordered it, the chef made it, I served it. So it would be chuffing well nice if you could be at the table and not out smoking when the food arrives. And if the call of another Marlboro Light is so strong that you cant wait then tell me. I know how it feels. I'll happily get chef to hold it for you. It annoys them so I'm all for it.

Give us a clue. Are you done? Eh? No, seriously. I have no idea, there's a bit of uneaten cow loitering on your plate and your cutlery is in the twenty to four position. Does that mean you are done or are you taking a break to discuss the latest "fab" YouTube video? I DON'T KNOW! Help me to help you! Push your plate away from you a little, put your cutlery together and relax. Your waiter will pounce on you be with you presently.

Leave quickly taking all your stuff. Finished? Bill paid? Please get out. I don't mean to be rude but I need that table back/want to go home. We've had a blast, you enjoyed the food and my cheeky chappie service. You paid and tipped with the generosity that makes me want to serve you again with glee, now don't ruin it. Don't overstay your welcome. Don't have me to make you up a rent book.

Flaming idiot.....

I had a whole other post planned for today but as I was lounging a top my bed sans trousers considering whether to have another min-twister ice lolly or maybe just a cup of tea and dark chocolate Kit-Kat my deliberations were interrupted by the pinging of my email notifier. It wasn't yet another google alert telling me what restaurant waiters are up to in sunny South Africa or the latest from celebrity chef and swear master general Gordon Ramsay, but rather it was something a whole lot more interesting.

It was instead a bit of celebrity gossip, hot off the press and straight to me from a chum at another restaurant. Okay celebrity is pushing it and I'm not sure tales from a Belfast restaurant counts as gossip but it was still rather funny. It was still an amusing little anecdote sprinkled with a little star dust. We don't get much star dust round these parts.

Belfast is awash with rock and roll types this week what with the newly created Belsonic festival taking place in the city centre. Belfast is always awash with rock and roll types to be honest. But most will never get the "deal" they crave so much and will instead end up working behind the counter at their local branch of HMV or Clements Coffee Shop. Don't be bitter pretty ones, don't be bitter just have kids and live your life through them.

Anyway I'm drifting off the point. Now it appears that a couple of the bands entered a local restaurant looking for pre gig sustenance. Where are the rock stars of old? Eh what's with the visiting of nice restaurants and what have you? Surely they should be getting wasted on JD and engorging on Bolivian marching powder. Do you think Ronnie Wood stopped for a steak and salad before a show in his heyday? I very much doubt it, unless of course he was trying to pick up a waitress or twelve.

So in walk these two bands, all rock star like with their special auras and magnetically sexy personas. From what I'm told people fainted with the majesty of it all. Or maybe not. The troubadours were seated and orders taken. All were said to be quite the lovely boys. Lots of lovely manners on show and generous smatterings of please and thank you. All except one.

There is always one.

The flaming manager of one of the bands apparently.

The brisk rude type, with his phone stuck to his ear when you're trying to take his order, too cool to look at a menu or non-important person, say a waiter for example. He finally completes his loud, sharing with the room, phone call and eventually orders a bottle of french red wine.

Voila, says the young waiter and pours him a glass. But moments later he calls her back to complain.

"Do you realize this wine tastes very poor? It's been watered down" says he.

"Doubt it sir" counters she.

"Oh but it has" he says getting a bit sneery about it.

Our intrepid hero of the dining room floor explains using words of two syllables or less that being a French wine that it is particularly intended to be enjoyed with food thus it maybe somewhat lighter than he was hoping for. This was of course delivered without any hint of sarcasm but with a genuine desire to educate.

The rest of the table nodded along with her explanation.

"Takes this away and bring me a Rioja."

Ego tripping at the gates of hell thought the young waiter but she did indeed take the offending wine away. The wine was given to the manager, who was of course beside himself with fear at the thought of someone exotic being offended or upset whilst on his watch. He tried some from the glass and did indeed agree that it tasted watery. He tried some from the bottle but this tasted perfect. Something was afoot. He was unconsciously screaming such was his bewilderment.

Mean while the waiter had returned to the table to discover a less brazen somewhat sheepish looking band manager.

"Eh I eh er um don't need the Rioja now."

"Excuse me sir?"

"Yeah I seemed to have poured my water into the same glass as my wine."

Jesus shootin heroin was that guy embarrassed. But she let him away with it and the rest of the night was rock n roll.

Flaming red face I'd say.......

So have you ever embarrassed yourself in a restaurant? I do it about three times a week but that's another story/post.

Tedford's - Review

What is is we, as guests, are looking for when we dine out? Or rather what is it that makes for a great dining experience? We have to make compromises when we evaluate what we have eaten, what we have experienced. We trade an aspect of the cooking with an aspect of the service. We mark up or down depending on what is important to us. I can forgive average food quicker than I can forgive average service. With Little Miss Manuel it is very definitely the other way round. All restaurant guests have to go through this evaluation process when the bill is presented.

But on Saturday night we had no such compromises to make. We didn't have to trade the positives of the food or service with the negatives of the other. There simply were no negatives. When the bill was presented I had no choices to make, no marks to deduct.

Tedford's, in every aspect, was perfection. No if's no ands no but's, perfection.

The Wine.

Ameztoi Txakoli (pronounced chacoli) is a white wine from the Basque Country. It came recommended and I'm so glad I put my trust in Sharon. There is a very gentle almost fizz to this crisp, light bodied gem of a wine. With Tedfords being a seafood restaurant their wine list is structured to match the dishes they serve so it was no surprise that the Txakoli went so well with my turbot and scallops. This was the first time I have tried Txakoli but I will be having some that again, soon.

The Food.

I had: Pork Belly with squid to start followed by a duo of duck breast and filo wrapped shredded duck with quails egg. My main was Pan Roast Turbot & Scallops, crab crushed new potatoes, buttered asparagus, and Hollandaise. We shared a selection of sorbets to finish.

Little Miss Manuel had: Beef spring rolls followed by a duo of duck breast and filo wrapped shredded duck with quails egg. And for her main she had Curry Roast Monkfish, coconut rice, stir fry Pak Choi, tiger prawn wontons, finished with curry oil.

Each plate was dressed to dazzle both the eyes and the taste buds. My starter of pork belly and squid was flamboyant, a bold statement of intent that set the standard for the rest of the meal. But just as the pork had been a bold statement by contrast the duck was deliciously understated. It was melt in your mouth gorgeous with the quails egg providing a beautiful sweetness to the dish.

By this point we were drooling and giddy with excitement.

And we had every right to be. The portion of turbot was as generous as could you could hope for, as was LMM's monkfish. The strong smell of her curried monkfish had me slightly green with envy. Not that I was disappointed with mine, far from it, but I really did want both. LMM is no stranger to my greed and cut a slab for me. That's love.

Her monkfish was meaty, if you know what I mean. The flavours of both dishes were perfectly balanced and left you wanting, no craving, more. My scallops were divine, creamy with that slight caramelised glaze on top. I honestly think I am becoming a scallops junkie. I had scallops recently at Ginger Bistro and whilst these weren't the size of the scallops that night they were every bit as gorgeous. Simon from Ginger has his own diver who seems to have the ability to find scallops the size of ping pong balls. Which is nice.

Greedily we had ordered a portion of the triple cooked chips to share, despite being told there was no real need for anything extra. There was, of course, no need for these. Still they were eaten with gusto. We finished with a trio of sorbets which was the perfect end to a great night even if we did eye up the lemon tart on the next table with covetous eyes. The food was sublime, generous, and cooked to perfection. I really am running out of superlatives here.

The Service

A good waiter has the ability to be all things to all people. They can alter their patter and style from table to table to suit what each of their guests expects/wants. I have rarely seen this done with the consummate ease and genuine sincerity that I did in Tedford's on Saturday evening. Our main waiter was a young guy called Tom. He was the perfect definition of what a good waiter should be, knowledgeable, chatty but not overbearing, quick at the table and sincere. But the supporting cast was just as friendly. The service really impressed me and I waxed lyrical about it for ages after we got home until LMM took my whiskey off me. Huzzah for LMM but two huzzah's for the service.

Alan and Sharon who own and run Tedford's have created a restaurant that is the very definition of modern Irish cuisine. They have taken the best local produce and best local staff and they have created an exquisite, relaxed, sumptuous dining experience. We saved Tedford's for a special occasion, LMM's birthday and it was the best way to celebrate. So the next time you have a birthday, a promotion or a Tuesday do yourself a favour, go to Tedford's.

Tedfords Restaurant
5 Donegall Quay
Belfast
BT1 3EF
Telephone : 028 90 434000

Lunch is served Tuesday to Friday, 12noon to 2.30pm
Dinner is served Tuesday to Saturday, 5.00pm to late
Pre-theatre is served Tuesday to Saturday from 5.00pm to 6.30pm
Lounge Bar is available every Friday & Saturday from 7.00pm to late

I know I've had a drink but....

...there is no need for films about dancing. No need at all. Films with dancing are fair enough, everything in context and all that. Films about dancers are also acceptable.

But films about dancing?

No, no need.

That is all.

Todays post has been brought to you in association with Champagne, wine and whiskey.

Ta Ta......

Falling down....

I fell at work on Friday night. Not a big dramatic crash bang wallop of a fall but rather a stumble followed by a wobble followed by a cry of, "bollocks" which ended up with my ass in the air and face on the floor. It seems I have lost all my previously earned ballet skills. And the ability to walk.

Not cool.

Not cool at all.

caution
splayed waiter

I managed to right myself before the old couple who were paying their bill hobbled over to help me up. That would have been unbearable. I bounced up despite the pain in my back and wrists as quick as I could. Guests really don't approve of fat little lads lying sprawled on the restaurant floor. I too am against such positioning, it's not professional.

I jumped up and slumped myself over the bar to catch my breath and do a quick check of my vital functions - eyesight check, no blood loss check, no repositioning of bones check. All was okay. I looked up to see my work colleagues, my friends, my sisters in arms, my comrades doing all in their power to stifle their laughter.

Didn't last long though.

They fell, not as I had fallen obviously, about laughing. This went on for minutes. And when they finally managed to catch a breath and regain their cool work chum number 2 said, "Awh you looked like a toddler. Did you break your boo boo?"

Nice....

So I stared the week off being an "old man" and now I'm a toddler.

A ........... of waiters

I was chatting with a seemingly charming four top last evening - the usual topics of the weather, the Olympics, wine, and the lack of a good fishmongers in the south of the city. Life for the middle classes must be hell. I oohed and aahed in all the correct places and nodded along as one must do in such situations. The bill hadn't been paid and the question of my tip was still unanswered. So I had to nod along and make like I gave a tiny little rats ass.

oh ha fucking ha

But it wasn't busy so I was quite happy to talk with them a while. The conversation turned to other restaurants. One new city centre restaurant in particular had been mentioned. I was keen to share my opinion, as I am on almost every subject you care to mention. I mentioned that I and a group of other waiters had indeed visited that particular place quite recently and had been somewhat disappointed. Now I thought the conversation would have continued along that line, why had we been disappointed, what specifically had let us down and so on. But not a word of it. Instead one chap, who had been quiet until that point asked....

"A group of waiters?"

"'Scuse me? I had no idea what he was on about.

"You said a group of waiters."

"Yes...eh...I suppose there were four or five of us." Just where was he going with this?

"And is that the collective noun for waiters?"

"Eh?"

"Group? As in a group of waiters. Is that the collective noun?"

"Em....er....uh...I don't actually think so. Em........" Remember my tip was still swinging in the air so I felt I had to stick this peculiar line of questioning out.

"A group? It doesn't sound right." There was silence as his three companions and I stared at him with perplexed gazes. He took a final swig of wine, turned to me, winked (which was very weird) and announced....

"An absence! That's what the collective noun for waiters is, an absence!" And then roared with laughter repeating, "An absence of waiters!" His many chins wobbled as he laughed.

As I walked away with their cash and my tip, which was generous, I began considering the collective noun for restaurant guests...

....a whinge of guests?

....a bastard of guests?

....a k-ching of guests?

What say you? A .... of waiter/guests?