Another Hair Raising Halloween Story.....

I've been off work for the last two days so thus I have no stories from the restaurant floor. But instead, if you will indulge me, I offer you another story from the crazy days of Manuel's youth....

Last years halloween post was a picture of horror, literally a picture of horror. It has probably taken most of you a year to get over the sight of me lying drunk on the fireplace with my belly button exposed for all the world to gaze upon. Haven't seen it? Just click here, clicker beware though, it ain't a pretty sight!

But seeing as it has been a year I think you are ready for another snap from the Manuel family album.

behold the majesty that was my hair!
are you beholding?

As I've mentioned more than a few times before my hair was everything for me as a teenager. It really was all I had. My chums were bigger, taller, stronger and most importantly wittier than I. They had the quips, I had the quiff. I could fill you full of bunkum about it being my way of expressing individuality or how I was sticking it to the man but really it was all just about getting a girl, any girl. This, obviously, was a futile gesture as it got me absolutely nowhere with the ladies. Like it was ever going to!


But I needed it, the haircut that is. I need it too but that's a whole other post for another day. In my group of chums, associates and general ne'er-do-wells everybody had a thing, a bit, a role. Conor was the funny one. Daryl was the exotic one who had lived in the US, it also helped that he was rolling in money. Colm was the indie music one. And I was the one that lacked definition, so I shaved my hair and bought a can of hairspray. So I beacame the one with the hair. Or as I would become known as, toilet brush head. Ah the jokes and the constant ridicule, such happy days.

I heard them all from, "You just get a shock?" to "Oi mate, your hair is standing up!" to "What a wanker." Family can be so cruel. Oh yes the good people of Belfast weren't shy when it came to passing on their opinions and legendary wit with regard to my tremendous tuft. But still, I persevered with the daily ritual of back combing and spraying, so much spraying, a half can of hairspray a day to be precise. It's a good job I had a part time job. Although I did have to raid my grandmothers hairspray on more that a few occasions.

The rain rarely bothered it thanks to the hairspray but fire was a constant worry. For example there was the time when I was on the bus and the feral rats in tracksuits at the back took to flicking their lit cigarettes at it. I managed to get off the bus with my hair, but not my pride, still in tact.

I wasn't so fortunate though on one halloween night about 17/18 years ago. I was setting the mood, a goth mood, in my bedroom of the flash apartment I was living in. The Cure were crooning away on the stereo (crooning is probably not the right word) and the incense was masking the smell of teenage boy angst. I had a girl in my room and all was well. My hair was looking particularly erect and my velvet caftan-esque top topped of my ensemble perfectly. I had just opened a fresh bottle of cider and we were settling down for an evenings fumble when she suggested we light some candles and switch out the light. Now I wasn't so sure about this as I was pretty sure the red bulb in my lamp was providing all the moody lighting that was required.

But what was I gonna do, say no? I don't think so. So I got some candles and shoved them into the numerous empty cider bottles that littered my room. I didn't smoke back then so I had to borrow a light from Daryl who was having a larger and more exciting party in the sitting room. The music was getting gloomier, which was great, and the cider was taking effect, being a useless drinker it only took an bottle or two to have me on my ass. She was giggling and chatting away as I carefully lit the many many candles. I'm talking a cheesy rock video amount of candles, November Rain springs to mind.

I lit all the candles at the front of the table and then reached across to light the candles at the back. And then it happened, in a wooooooosh it was gone, my hair, my beautifully crafted hair, my raison d'être, the only thing that separated me from the rest of the mouth breathers out there was now nothing more than a charred lumped of nothingness on my singed scalp. The half can of recently applied hairspray acted as the fuel that burnt my hair and ruined my life in two seconds flat. To add insult to my burnt injury the young lady I was hoping to fumble with, because that's all it would have been, doused me in cider to put the flames out. So there I was in tears with no hair, no booze, and no bloody hope of a fumble on this the most magic of nights for Goths. Just fucking brilliant.

The girly screams of horror, my voice was yet to fully break, attracted all my so called chums to my room. Of course they thought I was up to no good with the young lady but immediately their expressions of concern turned to ones of hilarity as they copped a load of my seared skull. There was huffing and moodiness for the rest of the evening, an evening I spent on my own except for the gloom rock stylings of Captain Bob. So it wasn't all bad.

In the end the hair was shaved off completely and I grew out of the army fatigues and velvet caftans. But I loved my hair and despite it never really doing the job I grew it for I would do it all over again, if I could grow hair again that is. Which I cant. Obviously. So if you are lighting candles this Halloween night and are in hope of a fumble do yourself a favour and light the candles at the back first......

So spill, who else had a whackadoo haircut?

Trophy Breakfast.....

As I tucked into my morning bowl of Sugar Puffs, the king of breakfast cereals, my mind wandered back to the first breakfast I had when I moved out of the family home. My mind wandered so much that I over filled the bowl with milk and then had to transfer the whole milky sugar puffy mess into a large pasta bowl, well it was either that or a small saucepan. I'm a real class act in the morning.

cornflakes
not a trophy breakfast...

Free from the reigns of parental control I could have what ever I wanted for breakfast, lunch, diner or at any other time of the day. That said, Dad had long since given up on trying to provide me with nourishing meals and what have you. I was a moody, goth, teenager who wouldn't be contained by eating at any of the regularly alloted times or indeed with any regular food. This petulance would later manifest itself as vegetarianism. I was disowned during this period.

So there I was a few months shy of my seventeenth birthday living away from home and having to budget and provide for myself. This was a shock to the system as food at home was always good home cooked fayre. I used to lament my fathers fantastic culinary skills when other kids at school would regale me with stories of frozen chips and tins of beans and that holy grail of convenience food, the Findus Crispy Pancake. Oh no, not for me where the delights of the potato waffle or the frozen pizza. We had to make do with actual fresh meat and vegetables. I considered it to be so medieval.

I have never admitted it but I was a little nervous when I moved out. I was given very little advice or anything else for that matter when I left bolted from the family nest. Dad reached out to ruffle my hair but pulled his hand back when he realised you cant ruffle a twelve inch quiff that's pretty much held in place with a half can of hairspray. He shook his head, gave me a few quid and warned me about the dangers of constant partying. I took the cash and ignored his sage a worldly advice. I had partying to do and crispy pancakes to be buying.

I moved in with my chum Daryl, not into a grotty student flat bedecked with 1970's brown curtains and purple carpet. Oh hell no. This was luxury living, a swish new apartment in the centre of town. Remember this was the early 90's and city centre living was the reserve of the homeless. Our carpets matched our curtains which in turn matched our couch. Crikey, it was just like one of those show houses off the telly. We were beside our favourite bar and club, we were within spitting distance of the big shops, and college was only a stones throw away. We never threw any stones though or actually go to college either now that I come to think of it. This place was just swell and a bona fide babe magnet too. Not that I was ever really able to take advantage of that situation.

Most food shopping was done in either the local Spar shop or the wonderful 24 hours garage that is when we weren't dining out. By dining out I mean eating kebabs at 3am outside the pub. The 24 hour garage was always a delight and the sarcastic and perma-huffy attendant behind the perspex window made or nightly trips complete. Service with a sneer. Having him run to the far side of the shop to pick us up a loaf of bread only to send him back again because we wanted the other one on the left was a shitty trick we never tired off.

Anyway one night shortly after moving in we found ourselves yet again at the perspex window through which most of our daily nourishment came. I never lived in Communist Russia but this must have been what it was like - queueing up for bread at 3am in the rain with the other dregs of society whilst a sneering control freak takes an age to get your sliced white. As I stood there shuffling back and forward in a semi-sober state I spied from the corner of my eye the most sought after of breakfast products. It seemed to glow at me and there was definitely the sound of angels whispering in my ears. It could have been the drunks in the queue but I'm sure it was angels.

It was the breakfast I had always wanted but never got. The choice of children all over the land but the one no self respecting parent ever bought, it was......

....it was, The Kellogg's Variety Pack! Hallelujah! The time had come for me to sample the delights of eight different breakfast cereals from one packet. No more would I have to make do with boring Cornflakes or listen to the repetitiously dull snap crackle and goddamned pop of Rice Krispies!

I could barely get the words out as I inched my way to the window of wonderful delights. I fidgeted in my pockets for some notes, the 24 hour garage being a robbing fucker worse than the taxman, and a quality item such as the Kellogg's Variety Pack would obviously command a high price.

"Variety Pack...", I stuttered.

"What?"

I thought he was demanding civility at the window so I tried again, "Variety Pack...PLEASE."

"Variety Pack of wah? Condoms?"

"Condoms?" Like what the hell was I gonna do with condoms? I barely knew any girls to talk to let alone get close enough to actually need a condom. The procurement of the breakfast of dreams was proving difficult. From behind me came a gruff and angry voice...

"Will ya get a fucking move on...it's pishing out here!" Some ladies have no patience.

So I tried again, "Dude can I please get the Kellogg's Variety Packet PLEASE."

"Dude?"

"Sir, boss, big fella, whatever! Can I just please have my Variety Packet."

"Is there any fucking chance up there? I've been waiting twenty minutes!" Came another angry voice. I was tempted to tell them I had been waiting nearly twenty years but they looked cold and ugly so I kept that thought to myself. But finally I got my Variety Pack and rushed home, avoiding muggers and hoods and all the other wonderful creatures to be found at 3am on a cold Wednesday morning.

By the time I got home I was totally pooped and not really in the mood for anything other than sleep. I awoke a few hours later slumped on the couch and still clutching my trophy breakfast. Despite a killer hangover I bounced into the kitchen to fetch some milk, a bowl and a spoon. This wasn't easy as we only washed dishes on a quarterly basis and we weren't even close to doing them any time soon. But the mould was removed and dubious plant life scoured off. I was ready.

I had waited nearly seventeen years for this moment. I lined them all up minus the Cornflakes and the Rice Krispies and ate them one after the other, tiny packet followed tiny packet. It was at his point that I realised moving out of home was the best thing I had ever done. Funnily enough I don't think I have bought a Variety Packet since.

It's funny the things you think about over a bowl of Sugar Puffs.....

"Don't wan it, der's no calee-flough-er cheese."

As I lay in bed on Tuesday morning I considered how grouchy and miserable I have been over the last week or so. I also considered how freaking cold it was and I hauled my ass, which was hanging out over the edge of the bed, back under the safety and warmth of my duvet. Just as I had quickly solved the problem of my freezing cold bum I also resolved to be happier. This made me chuckle as it's like resolving to be taller. But I am normally a happy person by nature and it's only the introduction of others in to my daily routine that brings me down. That's not such a good situation considering what I do for a living.

bend over.....

The last few weeks at work have been tough. I'm not sure if it's the Festival crowd or just as a result of the current woes in society as a whole but people have been grouchier and just downright shitty of late.

Lets take Sunday for example. I arrived into work at two full of the joys of having enjoyed an extra hour in bed, thank you day light savings time, and with a veritable spring in my step. Did it last? Did it fuck. I was all tensed up and reaching for the stabbing fork before I even got my coat off. As I pulled at my man mittens waiter chum number four came rushing towards me with tears welling in her little eyes.

"Good grief, here we go again", I thought as I stashed my gear and sought to console my unhappy little chum. Bear in mind this kid is sixteen and as sweet as a basket of kittens.

"What's up?"

Sniff sniffing and looking as sad a scolded puppy she handed me a plate of half eaten Sunday lunch and explained that the guy on table six had sent it back due to a lack of cauliflower cheese.

"Say what?"

"He [sniff sniff] shouted at me.....and his kids [sniff sniff] laughed....[sniff sniff] and told me to take it away. What'll I do?"

"Are you kidding me? Cauliflower cheese?" Oh I'll give him cauliflower fucking cheese alright." I sent her out the back for a little sit down and to fix her makeup which was dripping down her wittle face. With carefully applied mascara and what have you she can appear much older but with it washing away with her tears she appeared every inch the child she is.

So within minutes of arriving my heart was racing and my head was pounding . Wonderful! Snatching the plate from kiddo I marched back to table six to have a conversation with this brute of a man. I wanted to face down the man who thinks it's okay to get on like a five year old because there is no cauliflower fucking cheese on his plate. I wouldn't mind but we haven't served cauliflower bloody cheese since the frigging eighties.

"Excuse me." I omitted the sir, obviously.

Staring up at me was a large sweaty man with his mouth wide open despite nothing going in or out. It was just open. The only thing it was missing was a speech bubble with the word, "duh" written in it.

As I literally dropped the plate in front of him I said, "Your lunch I believe?"

"Don't wan it."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't wan it, der's no calee-flough-er cheese."

"Yeah, we eh don't serve cauliflower cheese." I made sure to pronounce the syllables correctly.

"I eat calee-flough-er cheese wi ma dinner on a Sunday." He says with all the petulance of a very spoilt child. I had really had to suppress the urge to tell him that as it was only 2pm he was in fact eating lunch.

"Not today then eh. Oh and could you get your kids to stop throwing their food on the floor, cheers." Says I and with that I walked away leaving his plate in front of him. Obviously I really wanted to whisper into his ear that if he made any of my chums cry again I would ram a whole cauliflower up his, well, his own hole. But I didn't for obvious reasons.

As I walked away I mentally chalked up another victory for waiters over the mouth breathers of society. I glanced around to see what else was happening and I noticed that the table beside them was all done so I stopped to clear them off.

They were a charming and joyful looking four top.

"So folks did we all enjoy our lunch today?" I asked in an affable and friendly manner.

No response.

"Eh, sorry was everything okay?" I asked again. I was worried I was about to get more grief but instead I got....

"Yeah, yeah....hehehehehe......yeah......bwahahahahaha." What started out as stifled snikering behind clasped hands ended in hearty belly laughs.

"Excuse me?" I was more confused than a chef in a library.

"Oh sorry but we couldn't help overhearing you deal with that menace a few tables over. Well done you. He was so rude to that lovely young girl", explained the mummy at the table.

I gave a brief explanation and free coffees, well you would wouldn't you. But I only remembered about their laughs of support on Tuesday morning. I had instead focused my thoughts on the brute and his need for artery clogging covered vegetables and the way he made my waiter chum cry. And when I thought back over the last few weeks I realised that for every weenie with entitlement issues and the need for an anger management course there have been many many more appealing and wonderful people.

For example when this dick was kicking off there was a woman two tables over who had to be restrained form stepping in and telling him to catch a grip. When these kiddies where flinging their metaphorical shit around the restaurant there was a gentle ripple of applause from my table of accountants for the way we handled it.

There is nothing that endears a waiter to a guest more than words of support when things aren't going so well. And when I think about it for every muppet who complains about the brownness of their gravy or the difficulty of dealing with a tomato there are hundreds of delightful and agreeable guests who love what we do.

So huzzah for the them and ya boo sucks to the rest of them!

"The world is full of crashing bores......"

You know who I find tedious beyond words? The arts crowd that's who. I say crowd but it's more a pool, a vacuous pool so shallow that they couldn't even drown themselves in it should they finally realise they have wasted their lives and see fit to do the right thing. The 2008 Belfast Festival at Queens has been running since the 17th of October and finally finishes on the 1st of November. And thank fuckity fuck for that. The last number of weeks have been spent massaging the egos and stroking the vanity of these pretentious bores.

pogo dick
sorry I meant stick
actually dick is better....

Please don't get me wrong I'm all for the arts, I say more art and less of almost everything else. I love to see the reaction of people when some mad bastard or t'other makes creates a shoe the size of a house out of his own dung and calls it art. I laugh out loud every year when the shortlist for the Turner Prize is announced and the usual tabloid pundits get all hot and bothered under the collar and spout the same old lines of, "I don't know about art but I know what I like blah blah blah...". Art should be challenging and should make you scratch your head. It should force an emotional reaction from even the deadest of souls. The arts should do that, the arts crowd should not.

The arts crowd forces an emotional reaction from me alright, mainly contempt and mockery. Honestly the next horse faced muppet who utters the word, "thee-ay-ter" will get strangled to death with their own silk scarf. And what's with the silk scarves? Jesus wept, it's like they have all read the same guide to going to the theatre -

1. Mandatory silk scarf
   
2. Inability to pronounce everyday words such as theatre.
   
3. Faux English accent.
   
4. Aloofness to the point of being rude.
5. Inappropriate hat, preferably either too large or to small and always with feathers.
   
6. And most important of all, the placing of thee-ay-ter tickets on the table for the world to see.
   

Why they feel the need to put the tickets on the table when they constantly need to be moved to make way for wine and food is beyond me. I had a chap get quite irate the other evening when I plonked a bowl of mash potatoes on top of his tickets to some show or other. I didn't do it deliberately but the tickets had been journeying round the table to make way for variously ordered items and who knew where they were likely to pop up next.

"Careful now young man, we cant have my tickets to tonight's wonderful show ruined now can we? We are going to the thee-ay-ter you know", he blustered whilst trying to save his tickets from the ignominy of being trapped under a bowl of spuds. He gave a little look round the room as he spoke to make sure his words carried far and wide. I'd say if he could have got away with wearing a big flashing neon sign reading, "I'm going to the theatre" he would have.

Twat.

"The thee-ay-ter? You don't say? I would never have guessed. Maybe we could put them in your pocket then?"

And it's not just the right wing Daily Mail reading asylum seeker bothering brigade either that have me gagging on my own tongue, the bothersome hippies on the left are at it as well. In they wander looking for a table without reservations, obviously, whilst reeking of patchouli oil and an over inflated sense of their self worth. Fucking hippies make me want to puke on myself.

"Oh we just want a quick bite of something, we are going to a performance this evening."

They do this funny thing were they half close their eyes when they are talking to at you. They half close their eyes and they drop their head to one side. It's really quite irritating and a little patronising too. But not as irritating and patronising as them trying to be your friend. You see the hippies want to give the impression that they understand the woes of the working man, they feel my pain and all that crapola. That's why they are spending £40.00 to see some idiot on a pogo stick recite the works of some other tortured a-hole.

"He's so edgy. So left field....." So fucking stupid more like.

Everything for the hippies has to be left field or edgy or on a pogo bloody stick. They are easy to serve though mainly because they order bugger all. They like to share, "We'll just put it in the middle and share." Bleurgh! If you want to share try a used needle you total waste of a table. And they tip like they order too, that is say they don't.

Roll on the second of November......

So to summarise this post, I hate everybody today. I may hate everybody tomorrow too, it's really hard to say. If you hate something or somebody or whole groups of people or things then share with the group. It wont really make you feel better but your bitterness will nourish me as I gently rock from side to side atop my bed.

*******

Oh and don't mess with Manuel, any Manuel. Funny though, I haven't heard any apologies to the woman they made the lewd remarks about? Juvenile pricks.

Jesus was a carpenter, I am a waiter....

I knew Friday was going to be an interesting day when my choice of underwear was restricted to one of two pairs. One likes to reach blindly into the drawer and a pull out a large roomy pair of briefs but this was not the case on Friday. I reached in, rummaged around, and came out with nothing. This was a most unsatisfactory situation. Peering further into the drawer I realised all my boxer shorts etc were either in the wash, just out of the wash or in the queue to be washed. I also realised that my sock to briefs ratio is well out of kilter as I have a many more pairs of socks than briefs. Why the disparity? Surely there should be balance in the whole underwear department.

not my pants....

In the end it came down to a choice between a pair of tight green jockey-esque briefs or my Incredible Hulk comedy pants. Remembering that the tight green jockey-esque briefs have a nasty tendency to chaff I had no choice but to opt for the Incredible Hulk comedy pants. I'm no fan of comedy underwear. I mean the comfort, care and protection of ones genitalia is not a laughing matter. But like I say my choices were limited and I lack the confidence to go commando. It had been quite a while since I last wore them but they must have shrunk as they were somewhat tighter than I remember. (Yeah that's right "shrunk" hehehehe - LMM) They were a bit too Incredible Hulk like for my liking.

Friday night was busy, actually we surpassed busy within the first hour and before we knew it we were riding the choppy waters of full house. But it was good, we were good, the kitchen was good. Every obstacle the guests put in our way was dealt with masterful ease. For example...

There was a table of 20 show up that claimed to have booked that we didn't know about. POW! We got them seated without them even realising there was a problem.

There was a table of 16 that arrived with 5 extra guests. POW! We got them seated proving that 21 into 16 does go.

Oh you want three courses in an hour? POW! No problem, we did it.

We were hot. Every extra guest seated, every table served with grace, calmness and good humour. They set 'em up, we knocked them right out of the field. POW! POW! POW!

It was a really great night and after 8 o'clock nothing went wrong.

A table of fourteen didn't arrive with seven unannounced extra guests and insist we seat them all. Sixteen of them didn't sit there meekly saying nothing whilst four of them swore, ranted, raved, and generally abused waiter chum number one for not looking into her crystal ball and guessing that there would be seven extra places required. That same four then didn't go on a mini rampage lashing out verbally at all and sundry for not having the ability to quickly fashion a table and four chairs out of thin fucking air.

I'm glad that didn't happen

I'm also very relieved that the quartet of doom didn't launch a verbal assault on me as I was happily carrying out my waiterly duties. I'm glad they didn't threaten me with violence. I'm glad they didn't threaten me with violence. I'm glad they didn't threaten me with violence. I mean I was overcome with joy that the large oafish chap with a head like an anvil and fists like mallets didn't threaten to, "Knock my fucking head off." I was delighted that they didn't start telling lies and making up stories. If they had abused my manager and called him "scum" and followed it up with more threats to remove heads from shoulders, well, that would have been intolerable. So I'm chuffed that didn't happen.

Mostly I'm really pleased that I didn't react to any of this provocation and keep clam and controlled through it all.

And I'm super fucking pleased that I didn't get so wound up and beside myself with anger that I tripped the abort button in my head and decide to call it a day and storm the fuck out. Phew I'm glad that didn't happen at half eight on a Friday night.

Because if that had all happened at half eight on a Friday night and four people had verbally abused my friends and co-workers and my good self and issued viscious threats of violence and in the end have to be ushered out the door leaving my waiter chums traumatized and myself half way home then that would be both abhorrent and unacceptable.

So thank fuckity that didn't happen.

Oh....wait.....it did.

And all because we couldn't seat them.

They booked for fourteen but twenty one arrived. We couldn't accommodate them, we apologised but what were we to do? Jesus was apparently handy with carpentry and fashioning stuff out of thin air but despite my large ego I am not Jesus nor do I posses any carpentry or magic skills. So I cant create tables and chairs and the space to put them in out of nothing.

That's why I have now binned the Incredible Hulk pants. I get all Bruce Bannerish with them on and we all know he had severe anger management issues. In the end I only got as far as the back door. I realised half way through my storming out that I had no cash on me with which to secure the services of a taxi and I'm far too lazy to walk the two miles home. To lazy to walk out, ha! So after a brief conversation with the boss, were he craftily tugged on my sense of camaraderie, I walked back in again with the same force that I walked out. The rest of the night went like a breeze and within half an hour we were laughing and relaxed again.

But the whole incident was, in the end, a minor, if quite scary, moment in a hugely successful and lucrative weekend. So why is still bothering me? Is it my reaction or theirs that has me contemplating the point of it all? I'm going shopping on Monday for new underwear, maybe that will offer me some new perspective or at the very least better underpant options. And isn't that all what we really want - perspective and good underwear......

The Voluptuous Vegan Ventures Out…

Anybody who watched The Restaurant on BBC 2 on Wednesday night will be acutely aware how difficult dining out is for vegans and veggies as a whole. Getting a plate of cabbage really isn't good enough. This week our good living correspondent, The Voluptuous Vegan, ventured out in search of something scrummy to eat. Vegan food? In Belfast? That'll be a baked potato then......

the voluptuous vegan....
....seriously she has grapes for hair and peppers for eyes

"Since giving up 90% of the ‘Western diet’ in favour for a more ‘hippy’ culinary adventure, eating good and tasty food has been less of a problem or issue than I first envisaged. However, this has only been so for one reason; for three out of five days, I work from home. Therefore, I bake and cook a helluva lot (you’ll find out just how much next week!!). Yet there comes a time when a girl just gotta get out of the house and put her trust in the ‘experts’. Oh yes, this voluptuous vegan has been putting Northern Ireland’s finest to the test and duly presents to you, dear readers, ‘The Voluptuous Vegan’s (mini) Guide to Eating Out in Belfast’.

For starters, The Cloth Ear. I was pretty hopeful about the Cloth Ear after downloading their menu in advance. Numerous vegan friendly delights graced the pages, making my mouth water and my heart skip. However, dear friends, this was but a tease as it appears that the menu provided is just a guide. And a bad guide at that! Upon reaching the Cloth Ear and perusing the menu, none of the previous delights were to be found.

But the ‘fun’ didn’t stop there, oh no…

I was dining with three other lovely ladies, one of whom is vegetarian and also unfortunately a coeliac. Suddenly my restrictions seem immaterial, one bad choice on her part could lead to pain and all sorts of unpleasantness whilst I'd just be annoyed at getting it wrong! What followed made me realise just how much of a kick up the bum some Belfast restaurateurs need. After 3 - 4 trips back to the kitchen (the chef wouldn't come to her it seems, despite it being 6pm and the place practically empty) a compromise was reached: a bit of fish and some spuds.

Then it was my turn.

The waiter turned to take my order and I asked if the veggie pasta had any eggs or dairy in it. I could see her die a little inside as she turned back to the kitchen and face the chef again (I can only imagine what was going on behind those kitchen doors). It turns out I was a lot easier sorted: I could have the chips or I could have the salad. Lucky me! I had both as I was pretty hungry, and happily I didn't spy any of the (by now I’m guessing pretty huffy) chef's 'special sauce' on my plate. On a positive note, the chips were bloody gorgeous, mmmmm...

Moving on to the main course, and having had my 'vegan dining' cherry broken in such a dismal manner, my faith in restaurants was greatly restored by the Archana. I had forgotten how great this place is; not only do they have a vegetarian section, but within this are symbols denoting vegan friendly meals! Yes, I said it: VEGAN FRIENDLY MEALS!! And there were a couple dozen of them too! The food is great in there anyways, but that's just going the extra mile really, innit? I was out with the same cohort as the Cloth Ear experience and the vegetarian coeliac was more than catered for, with warnings given in advance of the pappadums and everything! A grand time was had by all and I can’t wait to get back there. Yum yum!

And for dessert, well, there aren’t many I can have so instead I’m covering some take-out options. I googled Subway and found out that if I'm out and about and stuck for grub I can grab a veggie delight on Italian White with one or two of the sauces. Or if I’m feeling a little flush, then maybe a Boojum. For anyone who's not had a Boojum yet, shame on you. Tex mex fast food, mmmmm.......

And that concludes my learning curve in relation to Belfast vegan dining. I’m clearly going to get on better in ‘ethnic’ places compared to the good old ‘meat and two veg’ but there you go.

‘Tis a good job I likes me spices!!"

V.V. xxxx

A bit sensitive? Probably....

We had a large table of what turned out to be Danish people for dinner on Thursday night. Nice enough sort of chaps if a bit sensitive on it.

One of the party arrived in a bit after the main group and was wandering aimlessly around the restaurant when I found him.

"Hello sir are you okay?"

"Ya, I'm looking for someone", replied the man mountain with such a shock of blonde hair it would have brought a tear to Hitler's eye.

"Aren't we all sir, aren't we all." It's one of my standard responses and it normally gets a delayed giggle. Not so this time. I choose to think it was lost in translation.

"Ya I'm a looking for a large group of my friends."

"Ah right so you must be Swedish then." Says I, to which he replied...

Bear in mind he tried to put on a Belfast accent.

"Ah right so must be Scottish then."

Okay whatever Jesper. And he wasn't joking either.

"No I am Danish, not Swedish." And he sort of screwed his face up when he said "Swedish".

Talk about sensitive.

I might do a proper post later. I might also not bother my gargantuan ass either. Hard to say. Don't forget Well Done Nut Roast is in residence on Saturday. So if you have any questions for our vegan representative just leave them in the comments on Saturday.

Why is nothing ever easy?

I needed a lemon to make the cod goujons that LMM insisted I treat her with for dinner. So I went to my local supermarket to secure said lemon. A fairly mundane and hassle free chore I'm sure you would agree. I mean it's a lemon, what could go wrong?

Pfft, this is me we are talking about.....

the lemon
nothing more nothing less

I had been circling the fruit and vegetable section of my local supermarket for what seemed like an eternity in search of a lemon. I had been doing it for so long that I had attracted the attention of the burly security guard. Why it takes a man the size of a Ford Fiesta to guard the fruit and veg section I just don't know. Times are tough at the moment for sure but are people really stealing turnips and cabbages? He was staring at me with accusatory eyes and I'm positive he was whispering about me into his radio, "Fruit fancier, back up required, he looks like a right odd one. May have a pumpkin up his shirt."

I circled and circled, occasionally stopping to touch the exotic looking mangos and star fruits, but still no lemons would reveal themselves to me. Eventually I found a net of lemons but this was no good. What the hell was I gonna do with a net of lemons? I needed one not twelve. I'm not a fan of waste. So eventually and with a heavy heart I gave up and sought the advice of an employee. I find some supermarket employees to be snootier than some of us waiters and every simple request is like asking them to recite War & Peace.

Looking for an approachable supermarket employee was as tough as finding a single lemon. But I settled for this one guy who looked fairly agreeable.

"Excuse me...", says I in the politest and least bothersome voice I could muster. He had his back to me as he was, well I'm not sure what he was doing but it was something involving butternut squashes. I thought, "If he fucking sighs I'm gonna go postal."

Turning round to face me he sighs and says, "Yup?"

Bastard.

"Thanks. Eh have you got any lemons?"

Eyeing up my bag of unwanted lemons he asks, "You mean other than the bag of lemons in your hand?"

Fair enough, I'll give him that. "Yeah I wasn't looking for a net of lemons, just one will do."

"Have you tried the fruit section?"

I was sooo fucking tempted to repeated that right back to him mimicking the voice of a bratty child but didn't, obviously. Hardest thing I've ever done. Instead I just gave him a long, "Yeah..." and continued with, "...there's only bagged lemons there. I need loose lemons."

"Loose lemons?"

"Loose lemons."

Snickering like a thirteen year old looking up the rude words in the dictionary he followed with,

"Loose lemons like as in available lemons? The sort of lemons that sleep around? Eh eh....?"

Awesome I get the supermarket's comedian. No lemons, just cheap laughs. Funny he may have been but useful he was not.

"Right, good one. [fake laugh] So what we think about un-netted lemons then? You got em or what?"

Feeling chuffed and obviously spurred on by my sarcastic modicum of support he persisted down the line of bad puns. "We don't have any loose lemons but there maybe a promiscuous pineapple on the corner over there."

Bugger me, is there any fucking chance!

"Okay then, eh, you take it easy." I was backing away from yer man as quick as I could before he followed up with stories of wanton watercress or lax lettuce. He was creeping me right out and I really did begin to wonder what he had been doing to the butternut squash. But the more I thought about it the more it dawned on me that it the clever fella had come up with the greatest trick for getting out of having to help a customer ever - just be weird to them! Either that or he is just weird and has a sexual attraction towards fruit and veg and what have you.

I settled for the net of lemons and in the end forgot to bloody use them whilst making the goujons.

Pfft.....

....anybody need an unopened net of lemons?

Manuel's day off, a lesson in wasting time.

9.30am - Alarm went off, I swore, then I realised I was off work and tumbled over for another couple of hours snoozing.

9.33am - Swore again as it dawned on me that I had arranged to meet both my sister and The Boy Who Writes Backwards for lunch. That ain't gonna work so someone needs lied to.

10.05am - Much more swearing as I've dropped off again and still haven't cut someone from lunch. TBWWB gets sent a text message. Shitty I know but I'm not very talkative this early in the morning. I summon the TV into life and then the Mac. I say summon but really I just used the remote which I had been sleeping on and have now got remote control shaped ridges on my left cheek. Voice activated stuff would be so much cooler.

10.27am - Wake up with remote control in my hand and a creak in my neck, that'll be more swearing then. It dawns on me that I fucking swear too much. Check emails, blog stats, comments, and delete spam. The spam monkeys really are worried about the proficiency of my pee pee. It's nice that somebody cares.

10.50am - Finish second smoke and then begrudgingly haul my ass out of bed. Cant be bothered making bed as the sheets need changed. I'll do that later.

11.50 am - I'm at the bus stop with two old ladies who are giving me very dirty looks for smoking. I move, but not before blowing a nice big puff of smoke in their direction. Passive eh. The busman is very nice for once, probably because it's a woman busman. I take the back seat safe in the knowledge that all the happy slapping, knife wielding, puffa jacket wearing kids are at school beating their teachers and stuffing the heads of younger children down toilets.

12.15pm - Muriel's Cafe Bar. Sister is already there. This perplexes me and has me on edge. I like to be seated before others. I don't know why, I just do. Total control freak. We order and I tick off the standard family questions. My sister is the oracle of all family related business. You get updated on everything from babies to impending deaths. We have one of each at the moment, so I've dropped my suit off at the dry cleaners.

12. 30pm Food arrives, we both have the Chorizo and bean stew. I slightly regret it, not because it's not delicious because it very much is but because I'll suffer with heartburn later. I'm so old it's not true. This thought distracts me right through lunch and I end up not really listening to my sister's list of family related instructions pertaining to upcoming birthdays etc.

1pm - Get shot of my sister and go for a wander about the town.

1.17pm - Fuckity fuck fuck I'm so bored. Have a smoke and consider my options. Forced to stub out my smoke and move on as a very strange man decides to sit beside me. He smells of feet, lots of feet, and not just human feet either. He had a collection of newspapers in a plastic bag that he clung onto for dear life and looked too similar to Paulie Walnuts for comfort. And I'm convinced there's something moving in his pocket. Way too weird.

1.22pm - New smoke rolled and a much more satisfactory seating arrangement obtained. Well it was free from creeps and weirdos which is the best you can hope for. I sat back and considered what to do with my day off. I have cash, I have time, I can do whatever I want. So I just sat there and watched the citizens of Belfast. Five horrifying minutes later I thought that I had better move on before people start throwing money at my feet or worse, feet at my money.

1.28pm - Fuck it, I'm going home. Taxi this time, I'm not gonna push my luck and try and get two agreeable bus journeys on the same day. It's not possible. I'll chalk the first one up as a success and leave it at that.

2pm - Bollocks, missed Doctors. Could this day get any worse. Checked blog stats, oh look seven people searching for "biggest cocks" and one for "how long does it take for ebola to kill you?" and another for, wait for it, "beetroot anal fissure". The mind boggles. Sometimes I feel like taking a hose to the blog and blasting the filth off the walls after these dirty people have been in. Oh their disappointment must be so deflating when they find no large penises or beetroot. This blog has been beetroot free for a year and a half and I intend to keep it that way. Big dicks may appear from time to time but that has little to do with me. Check email, dull, dull, dull, dull, "satisfy your woman with...", dull, dull, dull.

2.20pm - Decided to phone Dad to see if his Setanta viewing card has arrived. It had, not that he was able to figure out what to to with it. I could just see him there with the TV taken apart and wires in his mouth and the viewing card on fire. Bless, but he is a total technophobe. As predicted it wouldn't work. He fell at the first hurdle, re-scan TV. Someone's gonna have to go and do it for him. Someone else....

2.30pm - 3.55pm NOTHING HAPPENED. DIDN''T DO A THING. NOTHING. NADA. NOWT. ZILCH. SO BORED! Desperate times call for desperate measures. Considered cleaning. Mulled over mopping. Looked at laundry. Dismissed them all. I'm bored not mental.

4pm - Spot my next door neighbour out cleaning her step and decide for some unfathomable reason to pop out and pass a moment with her. She's an old dear and really quite lovely, in every way the perfect Hallmark Grandmother. I often pass the time of day with her and discuss the weather. Always the weather. I light a smoke and meander my way outside. She misses nothing and hails me with,

"How yi's doin?", she shuffles towards me with cleaning rag in hand.

"I'm very well, how you doing? Getting some cleaning done?"

Completely ignoring my questions she jabs the rag in the direction of the "TO LET" sign on the house next door and asks if I'm moving out.

"No not me, I like it here, nice and quiet. Next door is empty again though."

"Ah right...", says she and follows up with, "....I'm glad it's not you, you can stay as long as you want."

"I hope he doesn't move any students in, far too noisy." I was stunned by her reply, stunned, shocked and slightly perturbed.

"It's not the students yi's need til worry bout. It's the bloody Chinks....Bloody Chinks and the Japs too. I hate them bloody Japs."

"Oh......Eh....Right ho, must be going....", says I walking backwards away from her. This was most awful, my cute little old neighbour is a racist. My arse was I gonna hang around and wait for her to get stuck into some other random race. Maybe the Icelandic or the Fijians annoy her too. That's another one off the xmas card list.

4.10pm - Sighed. Had a cup of tea and biscuit to try and get over the horribleness of it all. And then considered a wee nap. But reasoned against it because I might enjoy it too much and then want to have wee naps everyday and that's not a route I should be going down at this age. So I lazed about, which is a different thing altogether.

5.56pm - Decided I still couldn't be mithered changing bed sheets so I tidied the bed but left sheets out just in case LMM felt like doing it for me.

5.59 - Put sheets back in the cupboard as I realise LMM isn't coming round tonight. That'll be another week then of funky bed sheets. I'm not talking James Brown funky either.

6.06pm - 6.58pm Stared at the fridge for a very long time, so long in fact that my man nipples went hard. Lashed together some pasta, sauce, bread and tapenade, and felt pretty smug about it too.

The rest of the evening was spent watching the football and writing this. What a waste of a day. I suppose it wasn't all bad though as I learned a few things - Grannies can be just as racist as anyone else, I smoke and swear too much and that I need to plan my days better. Thank fuckity Wednesday is a new day. I will endeavor to be more productive and avoid conversations with racists Grannies. Oh and WDF did swish past the two hundred thousand mark, so the day wasn't all wasted. Thanks folks for popping by, it cheers my cold black heart.

So what did you do on your last day off? Eh?

"My gravy is too brown" and other highlights...

Saturday night at work wasn't very pleasant, in fact it was decidedly unpleasant. Inevitably I ended up in a very dark place after the madness was over, a very dark and lonely place filled only with pain and swearing and distant voices.

I'm not speaking in overly dramatic metaphors by the way. I had forgotten to leave a light on when I left for work that afternoon and the house was in complete darkness when I got home. The phone was ringing as I entered my darkened abode and in my rush to answer it I tripped and banged my knee hence the swearing and the distant voice of LMM asking me, somewhat ironically, if I was okay as she hadn't heard from me all evening. You see this is what happens when I have to work past midnight. It was the perfect end to a very frustrating evening.

Don't rock the boat...
...don't tip the waiter over (the edge)

By frustrating I really mean eye gougingly awful. It was the sort of night that made me want to pull my own scrotum off and stuff it down the throat of the next mouth breather that even attempted to bother me with some spurious grievance or other.

"My gravy is too brown", being one of the highlights of the night. One really has to fight the urge to beat people with their own coats sometimes. "My gravy is too brown?" My ass is too big but we all have our crosses to bear. Still, that was was just a minor blip in comparison to the major ball ache that was to follow.

For example there was the man who arrived a half hour late for his 6pm booking complete with wife and elderly in-laws and then complained about us keeping him late for the concert he was going to after dinner. Well he probably shouldn't have fucking ordered sweets and coffee at half seven if he needed to be on the other side of town for eight o'fucking clock now should he? The total ass hat wet himself in the worst way with lots of shouting and drama. You could literally see the respect and love drain away from his wife and in-laws as he jab jabbed away with his pointy finger whilst refusing to let anyone else speak. Me included, which was annoying.

You see he was going to the thee-ah-ter, not to be confused with the theatre you understand where normal people, free from the difficulty of having a set of plums in their mouths, might go.

"We are going to a show in the thee-ah-ter you know....", he roared.

"Oh re-ah-ley!" I was tempted to reply but didn't as I didn't want to fuel his chagrin any further.

But his constant, and I mean constant like in every sentence, use of the word thee-ah-ter was really getting on my goat. He said it like it was a magical place that only wonderful people like he and his family would go. And every time he said it his stubby little nose was poked into the air in a dramatic swoosh.

He then whinged on about Pops (his father in-law) not having time to enjoy his pudding having had to wait a torturous ten minutes for it to arrive. Ten minutes? I wouldn't mind but the kitchen were flat out and working like Trojans. But his language was tweaking my nipples something shocking.

Pudding?

Thee-ah-ter?

Pops?

He was like a character from a Billy Bunter novel. I bet drives a motor car and enjoys luncheon and finishes each evening off with supper. Bleurgh!

He became almost catatonic as he tried to pay his bill. He was paying by credit card but the one credit card machine that we have was in use, by me. And each payment takes a few minutes and this was winding him up. I could see him hovering from the corner of my eye. I cant make the machine go any quicker and all the other guests had requested their bills before him. So he had to wait.

"Is there any chance I can pay my bill?", he blustered as I returned to the register.

"Ah yes, you are going to the thee-ah-ter sir aren't you?" I love stating the obvious.

If looks could kill I'd have been six foot under. "Take my card." And he shoved the golden card into my hand with more force than was really needed.

Asshole.

He made his own cross and chose to carry it himself by being late and booking into a restaurant in the wrong side of town from where he really needed to be. His woe is me attitude and sense of victimhood should have been recorded and set to music - something like Adagio for Strings, you know from Willem Defoe's death scene in Platoon. And if you think that's over the top you should have seen this guy lose it.

Wa-ahn-ker.

Situations vacant - Romancer in Chief.....

It's been quite a while now since Eddie, our Lothario in residence, retired from this most important of positions. He hung up his banana hammock and decommissioned his lusty lines in favour of the happiness that can only be found in the certainty and joy of that one special person. And by all accounts he has remained true to this new way of living. Who'd a thunk it?

Since his retirement the position of Lothario in residence, romancer of the willing or if you will, man whore, has remained vacant. Numerous candidates have applied and most have been found wanting - mainly a cold shower at that. But it has been a summer of slapped faces and bruised egos. Some of these kids have all the subtlety of Donald "I don't do diplomacy" Rumsfeld. That said, it is more shock and awh than shock and awe.

the peacock
natures desperate case....

Each refusal marked more than each candidates face it also marked their elimination from the race. Every staff get together, whether it be drinks after work or the hormonal pressure cooker that is a full staff party, was akin to the state by state battle of the Presidential Primaries. So just like the race for the White House it has come down to just two horny hopefuls. The differences in appearance and style between the nominees in the Presidential contest is mirrored in the race to be Romancer in Chief. There is no significant age difference nor is there a difference of ethnicity. No our boys are far less subtle than that. That's right I said less subtle.

This is a battle between a man with a beard and a man who probably only has to shave once a fortnight. Whilst this, at first glance, is the most obvious difference between them there are many many other traits, attributes and mannerisms that set one apart from the other.

First up is the mild mannered and softly spoken uber geek, The Beard. As his name suggests he is a very hirsute chap. His style, if that's what you can call it, is to befriend the ladies he loves and then lure them back to his student digs for a fun night playing Guitar Hero. His fondness for Guitar Hero is matched only by his love of the ladies. He is almost like a one man welcoming committee for new female staff. Within a day or two of a new person starting The Beard will have invited them out for a post work beverage and questioned them on their aptitude for playing electronic fake guitars. The Beard prefers a long game and takes his time to become friends with the lady in question. This is seen as his strength and ironically his weakness as he often becomes the new best friend and as we all know, best friends don't get it on.

Well they shouldn't.

The second runner is The Buckle. By contrast to The Beard The Buckle is outwardly flash and in every way he appears to be the consummate ladies man. He gets his name from a very very over the top belt buckle of a rams head. It's screams testosterone and in many ways desperation. By many ways I really mean in every way. Actually I'm sure there is a button on it that probably does allow it to scream and light up and most likely spray cologne. The buckle sits atop an overly tight pair of trousers. I'm talking tighter than lycra in certain points. The Buckle's style is to come on strong with charming lines and compliments. Despite all the bravado and belt buckles with sheep on them The Buckle just wants to be loved and to love. This is never more evident when he is let loose at the music box. He will select every power ballad, love song, and soppy duet that it has to offer. I mean the next time, and that will probably be Monday night, I hear "I wanna know what love is" by fucking Foreigner I'm gonna bust his buckle over his head.

The Buckle is as lucky in love as The Beard that is to say he is exceptionally unlucky. They both flirt with success only to have it snatched cruelly away by bigger boys with better beards and shinier belt buckles. But like Messrs McCain and Obama the day of judgement is approaching. For all concerned the race will come to a head in the first week of November. Our next staff party is on the Sunday before the vote for the next US President.

Will The Beard's long game find him playing rock duets on Guitar Hero or will he be left as a one man band? Will The Buckle ever find out what love is or is he destined to spend his evenings shining his rams head alone whilst listening to Cheap Trick's "I want you to want me"?

Who knows? But it is great fun to watch from afar.

It should also be noted that the only person to get any real action was of course a woman. She only worked with us for a while, but she arrived in a flash, got hers, then left. As she often put it in her American/Russian twang, "Awesome."

That, boys, is how it's done.

Well Done Nut Roast - A Vegans Story......

Vegamatarians are an odd bunch, eh? Odder still are vegans, I mean what is their major malfunction? Veggies and vegans are just about the most difficult guests to serve. They are never happy with their choices and will complain before anyone else, if they have the energy to raise their meek little arms and voices that is. I mean only Guinness drinkers and people with nut allergies are more annoying to serve. (That's right I'm trying to alienate the whole of my readership.)

I cringe when I know I am getting a vegan in my section. And you pretty much always know in advance as they like to give you warning.

"Yes so that's a table for four on Saturday and I'm a vegan. So what are your vegan options?", they ask in a way which is part challenge part threat.

"Eh eh eh um er eh....", that's right I'm intimidated by vegans, "...we have eh stuffed peppers?"

There then follows a five minute diatribe about the rights of vegans in the modern society and about how Belfast is soooooo last century. So it would be fair to say I never relish serving vegans and their less enthusiastic cousin the vegetarian. They are right royal pains in the ass. But am I wrong? Are vegans right? Are they badly catered for? Do we owe them better? To answer these questions we need to understand the vegan. We need to know what makes them think, apart from soy beans and tofu obviously.

With that in mind I am passing, limited, control of Well Done Fillet over to the Voluptuous Vegan over the next few Saturdays to share with us her journey from mild mannered veggie to hardcore veganism. Can a vegan be voluptuous? Who knows? But lets find out...

the voluptuous vegan....
....seriously

"I had been happily vegetarian for a number of years before turning vegan a few weeks ago. If I’m honest, what sparked this transition was jealousy! I’d spoken to a friend of mine who’s been a veggie for years, after her girlfriend converted her (to vegetarianism that is!) and she told me of their past five months of successful veganism. I was surprised, impressed and then jealous, all in that order! I found myself protesting, not for the first time either, that it would be virtually impossible to be vegan in Belfast.

Then I had a think about it. Would it be? What did I base this hypothesis on? As a researcher, I am used to critiquing people who make claims that are little more than opinionated assumptions. I didn’t know any vegans in Belfast so I too was basing my claims on nothing. Thus, the challenge was born! I was to be vegan… for as long as possible! (Optimism was with me from day one, clearly!)

The first week went surprisingly well. I rediscovered the joys of baking bread (before I discovered that most bread is actually vegan, but by then I’d caught the baking bug!) and cooking in general. I have always liked cooking and baking, but had recently stopped given that I was living on my own for a few months. Somehow an evening baking muffins, cakes and cookies seems a waste of time and effort for one…

The first ‘challenge’ of my new vegan world was a wine and cheese evening. Given that it is hard to tell which wines are vegan and which aren’t, I’d taken an executive decision that all wine that passes my lips shall be vegan for the purposes of having some fun left in my life! So I happily indulged in all of the wines and none of the cheese or breads. Later on I had my first chip with no butty, which hurt a bit, but I survived. However, there were a few surprises in store…

Having booked into a conference, duly noting my ‘special dietary requirements’ on the form, I arrived to find that there was no record of either me or my form. Damn. With no ambitions for lunch whatsoever, imagine my surprise when, despite no records, I feasted on a sumptuous delight of foods there anyways! Cous-cous, bean salads, leafy salads, veggies, fresh, exotic fruits etc…. yay!

All in all, the past few weeks have been about even in relation to disappointments and surprises. In some eateries it’s been a ‘chips and salad’ jobbie whilst in others I have been well looked after with a vast array of choices. Whilst Belfast has a long way to go in terms of vegan friendliness, there are some good points. There is a Subway on every corner (by the looks of things!) and a new place in Castle Court shopping centre that does a mean pretzel and they’re vegan! There are a good few health shops too, selling all manner of vegan friendly foods and unfriendly – vegan cheese? Bleurgh!!! *Shudders at memory*. All in all, it’s an excuse for me to eat, so I’m happy enough!

So that’s a bit about my ongoing journey. Feel free to come along for the ride…."

Love,
The Voluptuous Vegan xxx

Next week the Voluptuous Vegan goes out for dinner with hilarious consequences!

"No! Chicken is not a vegetable!"

Stay tuned....

Fill in the blanks s'il vous plaît

Little Miss Manuel and I are off on our jollies to Paris in a few weeks time. It should be noted that little to no planning has been done for this our first venture to the French capital. We are very much excited at the thought of it all - the style, the galleries, the museums, the big towers, the coffee oooh the coffee, the food, the waiters! Oh yes I cant wait to learn from the masters of snootiness and arrogance. Hey maybe I can teach them a few things, like subtlety and the art of being rude without getting busted.

Christ I love a good stereotype.

I've been frantically searching for a good restaurant in which to celebrate my birthday but am simply overwhelmed with the choices available. I did consider Alain Ducasse' Plaza Athénée Restaurant but after a quick shoofty at the menu I realised that it simply wasn't gonna happen. As much as I want to celebrate my 36th birthday in style I really couldn't justify the best part of £800 or sixteen hundred of your American dollars for dinner. And that doesn't include wine. For that price I want the food to cut itself. Hell for that money I want the waiter to feed me and make airplane noises and generally amuse me.

So this is our itinerary for our three days in Paris.

Day one: Check into hotel, relax for a bit, get some food.
Day two:
Day three:
Day four: Get plane home

If someone could fill in the blanks that would be just great. No, but seriously, if anyone knows of good restaurants for lunch and dinner that would be fantastic. Obviously some places speak for themselves, the Eiffel Tower, The Louvre, The Rhodia Notebook shop and what have you but if you know of anything or anywhere below the radar that we should see or do then let me know. I trust you, honest.

*******

I don't post very often on a Saturday but I will be from this Saturday and for the next few weeks. I am starting a new feature. Settle, I know many of my new features have disappeared after the first post never to be seen again but I'm not writing this one so whoopee! I give vegetarians and their crazier cousin the vegan a hard time. I call them salad botherers and meat dodgers and make spurious claims about their ability to stay awake. But maybe, just maybe I've been a bit too hard on our lamb loving friends. So with that in mind I'm giving a new vegan the right of reply. The Voluptuous Vegan will be documenting her journey from veggie to vegan and all that it entails, eating out, eating at home, the difficulty of finding vegan wine (?) and so much more.

It starts tomorrow, so make a cup of elderberry tea, tuck into a tofu burger and welcome the Voluptuous Vegan's, Well Done Nut Roast.

First kiss is the sorest.....

that's not lipstick
that's blood

It's rare that I am able to contain my anger when guests arrive late for their reservations. In fact there is nothing that I find more vexatious than the tardy attitude some guests have towards bookings. It's rude and liable to result in less than favourable service. That said I kept the stabbing fork sheathed on Saturday night when one table arrived close to 45 minutes late. It appears pity trumps anger in my head.

In he arrived all sheepish and shy. He was 18 maybe 19 years old at a push. I could barely hear him tell me his name such was his crippling bashfulness.

"John."

"Don?"

"John."

"And you have a table reserved?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend booked it."

"Right and what's her name?"

"Theresa."

"Trees?"

"A"

"Right okay, TheresA. Yeah we, still, have your table." One finds it hard to pass up a dig at a late guest. One finds it very hard.

I seated him and got him a coke. He'd ordered it, it's not like we give out free cokes. He perused the menu, actually I think he was trying to hide behind it. His little spotty face was flame red and he did bear a striking resemblance to a rhubarb and custard sweet what with his shocking blonde hair. At first I thought this embarrassment was brought on by his chagrin at being so late but soon realised he was just an awkward teenager type. He looked like a good boy, his mother probably took a photo of him before he went out and his father most likely made him blush more by telling him not to do anything he wouldn't do.

Time was ticking for lonely John though as we were getting perilously close to last orders and his date still hadn't graced us with her presence. It was unfortunate for him that his table was positioned right beside the bar as a little huddle of waiters, managers and wandering chefs had all gathered to stare at the guy who had been stood up. Well it had been over a half hour at this point and there was still no sign of her so we had to assume he had been stood up. Oh it was tough to watch as he squirmed and shifted on his seat like it was on fire but watch we did. The women wanted to cuddle him and make him feel better the men cringed as if they themselves were the ones being stood up.

This was all very amusing and we all shared his pain and all that but it was now about five minutes to last orders and I was getting tetchy. Lonely kept staring at his mobile phone, waiting for it to spring into life with the beep beep message that would either save or ruin his Saturday night.

It never came.

Eventually I had to step in. The chefs had moved on from their little moment of concern for the guy and were now only concerned with getting home. I got down beside him to make it less intimidating. I felt like a security guard at a shopping centre, "Have you lost your mummy little boy?"

"Now sir do you think your friend will be much longer? It's just that we are closing very soon."

"Eh um eh eh" Yes stuttering helps.

"Maybe you could give her a call?"

And before he could stutter a word in she arrived in a whirl of colour and big hair. If Lonely was quiet she was the polar opposite.

"Sorry sorry sorry! Can I get a glass of Chardonnay? Now what you having? Oh it's busy isn't it? What you think of my hair? OOOh love your sweater."

She turned back to look at me...

"Sorry can I get a glass of chardonnay?"

Oh is that right? Are you getting snippy with me? Forty five minutes late and your getting snippy with me? I don't think so. I very don't think so.

"Yeah.....you eh need to order right now as we are about to close. So I'll get your chardonnay just as soon as you order."

Pfft

Order secured, wine served and eventually food served all within 25 minutes. It's a wonder what the kitchen can do when it's past closing time. But I watched them from behind the bar, all awkward and jittery and new and exciting. Despite her snippiness they were really quite sweet. He giggled like a teenage girl at her jokes and stories and she fluttered her eyelashes in return. By the end of their meal they were holding hands across the table and whispering to each other.

Awh how sweet.

Sweet my arse, we were well and truly closed by now so I slapped the bill down and informed them of their right to go away. Whilst he settled the bill she fixed her big hair, I'm talking Amy Winehouse big. He then wandered back to the table. I turned to say goodnight just as they had lunged at each other to kiss.

EEK!

It must have been a first kiss because it went horribly wrong. You could hear the sharp crunch of teeth meeting teeth meeting top lip followed by a barely constrained yelp from the young lady. Good grief the space shuttle docks with more grace and ease than those two went at it. He went red again. Hell I went red for him. It wasn't pretty and resulted in more awkwardness and shuffling not for me though, it was an amusing end to a busy night.

Bless their little busted lips, a night I'm sure he will want to forget but probably wont.

Shish

There is outrage about the case of the kebab shop owner who carried on making kebabs whilst the body of a dead employee lay on a sofa in the rear of the kitchen. There has been so much outrage in fact that the owner, one Mr Jaswinder Singh, 45, (I'm not sure his age is pertinent to the story but hey now you know) has been banned from ever catering again.

I'm dying for a kebab myself....

That's right they have taken away his, no doubt filthy, apron and forced him to permanently pause with the pita. It wasn't just the dead body or the fact that he carried on cooking and serving whilst said corpse was laid out on a sofa in the kitchen there were many other health violations as well. It would be reasonable to say that Mr Singh took a very relaxed approach to all matters relating to health and safety. Well he had a sofa in his kitchen, is that not evidence enough?! There was meat oozing blood covered in flies, people smoked in the kitchen, and there was a dead rat under a pot. An Environmental Health Officer said there was an, "awful smell". No shit Sherlock. Actually there probably was some of that floating about too.

So now they have closed his Pappu Sweet Centre in Wolverhampton (England) and given him a fat fine for his troubles too.

The dead employee was said to have died from natural causes but I'm not so sure. I mean there must have been some environmental impact on the poor chap what with all the smoking and rats and what have you. And lets face it Mr Singh doesn't seem to have been the most caring sharing employer.

But there is another way of looking at this story. Instead of castigating and chastising Mr Singh maybe we should be holding him up as a shining example of good service. I mean there was a dead body in his kitchen yet he carried on preparing and serving his customers. Not for one moment did he let the fact that his work colleague and no doubt chum had passed away get in the way of stuffing kebab meat into a pita pocket. I mean I cant tell you the number of times I have had to go to my tables and apologise for delays due to the chef having injured himself or something. But death? Death would close our restaurant no question. But not Mr Singh, he worked through the mental anguish of it all.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of service that gets you crew member of the month in a KFC and yet he finds himself out of pocket and out of business. Shish, the worlds a tough place for a man who only wants to serve.....

Of course he could just be a very dirty man.

More from the BBC here.

Not laughing with you but at you.....

I am the master of the fake laugh. It's a key skill in the waiters armoury - the ability to laugh at the piss poor jokes, witless remarks and the supposedly "hilarious" shenanigans of guests. Don't get me wrong I appreciate that there are tougher gigs in life but it can still get you down. I mean the constant stream of balderdash and blather could have a lesser mortal reaching for the stabbing fork. But needs must and all that and if my fake laugh strokes their ego a bit then fake laugh I will.

The weekend past was filled with my fake laughter, so much so in fact that I couldn't tell what was genuinely funny and what was piteous pish. Bit like the audience at an Adam Sandler show.

a pheasant
not to be confused with a peasant....

"Let me see....." pondered the middle aged man, "....I'll have the roast peasant!" And with that he looked up at me with a huge grin as if he had just cracked the frigging enigma code or something. Making a play on the word pheasant doesn't make you Oscar Bloody Wilde.

"Ha indeed sir, roast peasant, very good. Would you like to choose the peasant yourself? We keep them in a cage out the back. We have all types - council estate, street urchins, there's a fresh batch of working class peasants just in. Eh they've been fattened up a bit with burgers and kebabs too. Or maybe the imported Romanian peasants would be more to your liking? They go particularly well with a bottle of Pinot Noir." Says I in reply without cracking even a hint of a smile or amusement.

He stared back blankly. I swear his top lip was quivering.

"Eh um eh er can I have it with champ?"

"Pheasant and champ it is sir, very good. Maybe try the peasant another day."

I didn't mean to piss on his chips so hard but I wasn't in the mood for jolly japes and poor puns. I would normally fake laugh that sort of line up with gusto and indeed quite probably embellish it with fake tears too. I can do that. But I had just had to go and admonish a table of twenty idiots who should really have known better.

For a gag they thought it would be dead fucking funny to hide items of food as we served them. Everyday it's something new yet depressingly similar. We would return to the kitchen to fetch more food only to return to find that we were still missing something. The old hide it under the table and pretend it's not there gag. I faked laughed the first time they did it but ended up scolding them like the badly behaved children they were when they persisted with it right up until they got their sweets. I wouldn't mind but the youngest was about 40! It wasn't my table but I had to step in as they were running waiter chum number four, one of the new kids, ragged. And being new she wasn't sure quite what to do about it. Right up until that moment she always believed the customer was always right.

Her wagon has indeed been fixed in that department now. Her dreams shattered and her heart hardened. She'll make a fine waiter.

I really do die a little, and not just on the inside, every time I have to feign my guffaws. But there I am every night of the week back slapping and ego stroking my way through another round of pretend complaints, "Oh that was just awful" as they stare up at you grinning gormlessly as you take away their empty plates. Oh good one, the old we really liked it but we said we didn't because that's sort of funny and you probably panicked a bit there when we said it wasn't nice routine. Well heres the news funny man it's not funny at all. It's tiresome. Please knock it the fuck off.

And I've had the pretend complaint routine backfire on me when I assumed a guest with an empty plate was joking when they said they didn't like it. They then complained to the manager that I laughed at their complaint. Don't get me wrong I quite often laugh at some guests complaints but never right in their faces. Let it be a salutary lesson to all you guests who like to cry wolf.

But the "fun" and "frolics" don't end there, no, like an Adam Sandler movie one predictable joke follows after another until you are knee deep in shit and in desperate need of a shower.

How would you like you steak cooked? "On a cooker...."

And how did you find the wine tonight sir? "No problem, it was just sitting there....."

Now can I get anyone a sweet? "No we're sweet enough..." Ironically that one always comes from the most sour faced person at the table.

"I suppose you want a tip? Don't eat yellow snow."

Still there are a few punters who manage to make me laugh, even if it is at my expense.

From Feb of this year...

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

You people?

You mean waiters?

"No, fat people"

Made me laugh.

Remember every time you crack a bad joke at a restaurant a waiter dies a little on the inside. So save a waiter and keep the bad jokes to yourself.

Waiter Walks - A Guide

I slumped onto my bed on Sunday night with much relief. I was weary, weary and just about done in after a hell of a weekend. I ached all over. Every fibre every bone every hair follicle screamed with exhaustion and weariness. Whilst others were making plans to spend what remained of the night in downtown bars in the company of disreputable waifs and strays and Mr Jack Daniels too no doubt I was counting the moments until I could flop like a big fat rag doll with smokey breath on top of my bed.

I used to be swanlike,
but now it's all interpretive dance with me....

As I lay there, still wearing my duffle coat, scarf and bag, I could feel my little legs throb. Oh the many miles they must have done round and round the restaurant (and out the back for sly smokes and coffees) over the weekend. All that walking, so much walking. It's not good for a sedentary chap like myself. I'm a pointer not a walker, you don't even have to get out of your seat to point. I wouldn't mind so much if it was just walking, just ordinary standard issue walking, the sort everybody does but it's not. It's much sorer than that.

Waiters walk in many different ways for many reasons. You see we aren't allowed to run. No, running is heartily disapproved off, much in the same way as nose picking is. We must appear calm and serene at all times. Serene? That's a laugh when you are sweating like a fat lad with a penchant for cakes standing outside the Mr Kipling cake factory. A waiter running is generally a bad sign. I mean no waiter is going to run to the bar, no matter how much you may want them to, to get you another vodka rocks. So if they are running, shits burning, somewhere.

Whether your waiter is ambling, strolling, strutting or indeed meandering, I do like a nice meander myself, you can tell what sort of pressure the plate schlepper is labouring under by their walk. Or not as the case may be. I have compiled a handy cut out and keep guide to identifying the many walks a waiter may adopt during a single service & what they may mean for you, the guest in a spiffing section I call,

The Well Done Fillet Guide to Identifying the Many Walks a Waiter May Adopt During a Single Service & What They May Mean for you, The Guest

(pithy eh?)

1. Running Waiter: Like I say this is not a good sign no matter if it is towards your table or away from it. If you see the waiter running you should calmly pick up your belongings and leave by the nearest exit because the place is either on fire or being held up or something else as equally unpleasant. Waiters don't run in public, period. We may well run like Olympic champions behind the restaurant door but never on the floor. One doesn't want to look panicked or in anyway cause the guest to be spooked. Guests, like sheep, are easily spooked.

2. Moving very quickly whilst appearing to be focusing on something far away Waiter: This is the closest the waiter will ever get to running. It's not quite a run but it's faster than a walk. It's the "fuck I've forgotten the fries/vodka/wine cooler/what section I'm on" walk. In order to rectify a problem or get a missing item to your table the waiter will adopt a walk that still looks serene but propels them either to or from your table with gusto. The waiter will focus on some far off and quite often imaginary object whilst shimmying through the restaurant. This is to prevent other guests even daring to ask for attention. It's the I cant see you so you cant see me approach. To be honest you could be juggling the salt and pepper sets whilst your willy gently flambes and the waiter wouldn't stop. This walk shouldn't worry you as long as he is coming towards you, not so cool if he is going away from you.

3. Interpretive dance Waiter: A good waiter should float swanlike on the choppy waters of a busy restaurant. Their movements should be composed, deliberate and almost regal. You should never notice their little legs paddling beneath the surface. But when the culinary shit is hitting the guest and all hell is breaking loose even the best waiters end up performing a strange kind of interpretive dance routine. The gliding and serene movements of before are replaced with jolting and jerking and half runs. They double back on themselves as if they have no idea where they are going or are trying to lose the guy who is tailing them. If it was set to music you would have to use 80's German synth pop. If your waiter is doing this then all hope is lost. Just sit there and hope he sees you when the coke wears off.

4. Master of the world Waiter: This is the waiter that is on top of their game, his tables are all good and his movements are slow and relaxed much like a member of royalty on walk about amongst the commoners. You could tell this guy that your table was on fire and he would simply reply, "How frightful!" and then proceed to put out the flames whilst breast feeding your child. Obviously this is the guy you want but they come with a price as they are almost always to cocky by half.

5. Wincing like he was sucking a lemon whilst limping Waiter. Your waiter has chefs arse and it will take an eternity to get anything. Now you can do the right thing and just ask other passing waiters for more drinks etc or you can be evil and have some fun with it. Every journey to the bar is causing him unbearable pain. So do the right thing.

There's more but I'm sucking a lemon right now so fill the blanks in yourselves......