Odd way to save money, but I'll give it a go...

Seems a bit over the top but what the hell.

Restaurants cut busboys to save eh? If that's the case I'm off to slash up a chef. That's gotta be worth a few quid.

Full article.

The day the coffee machine was saved....

Our coffee machine was playing up the other day. It was all noise and no action and by action I mean making coffee and by noise I mean it sounded like Bobcat Goldthwait. Clearly that's not what you want from your coffee machine. Obviously this was a disaster for the managers, coffee being the lubricant that oils their key holding hands and enables them to chat on the phone with their friends all day.

Heh.

Someone, a waiter chum who knew not of the managements minute to minute caffeine dependency, suggested that they could drink filter coffee and maybe just maybe not lose their minds. But that suggestion was laughed right out of the building. Which is where the offending waiter found themselves with a brush and a bin bag moments later. Sake, drama queens.

No, the coffee machine was busted and needed to be fixed, post haste, even I was getting twitchy for a short sharp boost of caffeine. A man was sent for and subsequently arrived. I'm not sure if the managers issued threats of violence or promises of love but he was here quicker than you might expect. If broken shit in any way has a negative effect on the managers ability to sit about then broken shit tends to get fixed quick.

A short, squat man with magnificent beardy chops, Thomas (don't try and call him Tommy as he wont respond) got to work straight away. He sized the machine up for a bit and dabbed at it with a special cloth that he pulled from a special cloth holding box. He ran his hand round the frame of the machine in much the same way someone would if they were buying a second hand car. Except most people buying second hand cars don't tend to whisper to them. Thomas did, which was strange to say the least.

"So my lovely...", whispered Thomas at an audible enough level for Waiter Chum Number 1 and I to hear. ".....what have they been doing to you then?"

I looked at Waiter Chum Number 1 with a look that was part fear part amusement. Was this man whispering to our coffee machine? His gentle stroking and rubbing with the special cloth seemed a little creepier now, a little bit like someone has crossed the line from dedication and passion for their job to being as bonkers as a bag of badgers with rabies.

This was no ordinary coffee machine engineer, this was......The Coffee Machine Whisperer!

"It's okay....it's okay, Thomas will make it better. Eh....you're a good old girl aren't you?", said Thomas with all the care and conviction of a vet putting a beloved pet to sleep.

Cuckoo, cuckoo.

Waiter Chum Number 1 and I were mesmerized as we stared at the odd little man. He rubbed and he mumbled and he dabbed and he whispered sweet nothings into the machine. It appears it's "ears" are located somewhere near the frothing wand. Who'd a thought? And then in a flash bang wallop of energy he ripped the machine open exposing it's brown tinged innards to all and sundry. This made us jump. I half expected him to cover this up with a tarpaulin of some sort, you know to save the machines blushes. But that would have been daft eh?

Crikey he was an odd one but after twenty minutes of rubbing, whispering and gamefully employing some of the many tools from his impressive tool kit the coffee machine was brought back to life. By this point the managers were hovering about like Baltimore crack addicts waiting for Avon Barksdale to appear with a delivery.

The Coffee Machine Whisperer gave us some advice about coffee machine maintenance or as he put it, "love your machine and it will love you back". Which was one of the oddest conversations I've ever had with a grown man who wasn't three sheets to the wind and full of vodka. Thomas packed up his splendiferous tools back into his toolbox, said good bye, to the coffee machine that is and off he went. It was like the end scene from Mary Poppins as we all waved the wonderful little man away. We were all a little wiser and a little bit freaked out for having met him.

But as everybody else filled their cups and buckets with hot frothy coffee and ran outside for smokes I hung back. I tentatively sidled up to the machine and introduced myself. Well what harm could it do?

Manuel welcomes your feedback.....to a point, obviously...

I spent most of Wednesday afternoon trying to stay awake which was ironic as I had spent most of the previous night trying to get to sleep. Life's a real fucking comedian sometimes. It's always the way when you have to get up early. And I mean actual early (7.45am) and not waiter early (11am). I spent most of the night in that nowhere place between between being asleep and being awake, and I don't mean I was in the bathroom all night.

Being as I had to be up at the unwaiterly hour of 7.45 I had to go to bed at a reasonable time. So come 1am I switched off the Mac, knocked off the lights and set down my book. "The Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole 1999 - 2001" which, by the way, is just a fantastically silly read that I heartily recommend it. For me to switch off everything at 1am is like sending a kid to bed when it is still bright outside. I wasn't happy. But it wasn't just my having to get up at such an impolite hour that was playing on my mind and keeping me awake....

I was angry and getting angrier.

One of my most favourite posts, of my own, is this one about that most peculiar of species, The Real Ale Drinker. Honestly it still makes me laugh. Almost funnier again was the reaction to it. I got more emails, and continue to do so, about that particular post than any other. Most of them from Real Ale enthusiasts and plastic bag aficionados calling me names. It seems to have ruffled more than a few feathers if not beards. Seriously. Take this chap who happened by the other day....

At first I thought little of it. You aren't compelled to like what I write and you are entitled to disagree. I mean it would be a dull old world if we all got on. Why just the other day there was a chap who took umbrage at my "Seamus and the Men Who Like to Say Yaaaar" post and he made a comment to that effect. I have no problem with that at all. But the more I thought about it the more I realised that this chap, Tom Donald, is an ass hat. An ass hat and then some.

Tom says, "Hating people is so unfunny" Are you kidding me? Hating people is tremendously funny, especially when it's completely irrational and obviously in jest. I should also point out that at no point did I say I hated Real Ale Drinkers. I'm not fond of them for sure, but hate them? No, that would be too much and a waste of hate. I only have so much hate to share and I'd rather like to save what hate I have for internet dullards who CANT TAKE A FUCKING JOKE!

Sake.

But it was his parting remark that really has pissed me off, "Happy holocaust day, idiot." January the 27th is indeed Holocaust Memorial day in the UK. Is he calling me a Nazi? Because that's how I read it. He is calling me a Nazi for writing a post about beardy men who drink flat pints of pishy beer? Because that's what I think he is saying. Is he comparing my gentle lampooning and comedic invective to the party of Hitler? To the people responsible for the mass murder of over 6 million people? Because if he is then he has lost all sense of proportion assuming he had any to begin with.

Disagree with me if you want. I welcome debate. But call me a Nazi or even imply it and I will cut you right off.

Beardy twat.......(probably)

It was a day of meh.....

only for good, non-grumpy waiters....

So Friday was back to work day after having been off for four days. I didn't take the alarm clock's whingesome wake up call with good grace. Instead I slapped the snooze button, farted and rolled over for another nine minutes of sleep. But I was forced out of my bed almost immediately. Ironically it was my early morning trouser trumpeting that done it. That's the last time I treat myself to late night chickpea and chicken curry.

"Going til yer work then are yus?", asked the taxi driver in a good spirited and friendly way.

"Well what the fuck do you think then big fella? Eh you think I would dress like this if I wasn't? You think a lot people go to restaurants two hours before they open?", I replied with sarcastic venom.

Okay I didn't but I wanted to. I just said, "Yeah" and stared out the window to indicate my unwillingness to be drawn into a conversation about crunchy credit, the difficulties of parking within Belfast city centre or "that blonde" he had in the car the other evening . My mood was grumpy bordering on petulant. I am such a slapped arse in the morning.

Some time later I found myself standing, alone, in the restaurant. It was about ten to opening and everybody else had nipped out the back for a smoke. I didn't get an invite. Not really a surprise as I had managed to alienate almost every last one of them, the larger chefs excluded (you don't bite the hand that feeds your tables), with my surly demeanor and snappy answers to simple questions. That's snappy as in annoying dog and not as in how Humphrey Bogart dressed.

I finished my bitter tea of loneliness and slung my apron on and sighed to myself. They, my work colleagues and waiter chums, returned a few minutes later laughing and making plans for the upcoming staff party.

"Ha ha ha ha ....yeah you're right......we should totally meet up beforehand......cocktails n all that"

"What's this?", I asked adopting a meeker tone. Ten minutes alone/without attention is long enough to make me see the errors of my ways.

But I was dead to them now. I've been here before, many many times before, and I can spot the signs of a freeze out from a thousand icy paces. So instead of answering me she just stared right through me and turned to her chum, my former chum, and said, "Yeah....lets talk about it later."

"Fuck you and fuck your snidey cocktails then, because I wasn't gonna go anyway. Huh.", I thought to myself adopting the disposition of a sullen teenager. But I didn't mean it, the Fuck You bit that is, I'm still not going to the Staff Party.

Right on schedule some guests arrived and this broke the tension or at the very least removed me from it. I rushed to greet them, which is unusual. "Twelve of you? No reservation? Superb, come with me." I was just delighted to have someone that wanted to talk to me rather than someone who was wishing I would fall down some stairs.

They were all from the same office and they looked like they had endured a tough morning in the trenches. Or it could have been just because it was dress down Friday and they had decided that the clothes lying on the floor beside the laundry basket would be the best way of saying, "It's Friday and I don't care." Whatever the reason they looked rough.

I cracked some jokes, that died. I made some suggestions, that were ignored. For a first day back this was hideous. I was the ever so cheery waiter but they just ignored me. I got their order, delivered their drinks, brought extra water without having to be asked and then waited patiently and silently for their food.

"And who is having the steak sandwich?", I asked holding aloft a plate of beefy goodness like I was an auctioneer at Sotheby's. But no one was buying, or claiming it. The one guy with the empty placemat looked at me and just shrugged his shoulders.

"Are you having a steak sandwich sir?"

"No? You ordered the pie.....right.......and you don't want a steak sandwich instead? No of course you don't"

And off I went in search of pie, not for first time it has to be said. Ten minutes later he got his pie. Most of his work colleagues and I assume friends were nearly finished and he was less than chuffed. It was my fault. I rang up the wrong order. This day was starting to suck harder than Black Friday. Not only did I ring his order up wrong but I left a portion of wedges sitting at the pass and forgot to get another guy his pint. They could barely look at me by the time I finished clearing them off. I swear one guy was holding back tears. Most didn't even say goodbye as I waved them off.

But here's the odd thing, they tipped me and handsomely at that. Now from time to time I might make out that mistakes were not my fault, we all do it. That's right we blame the kitchen, I'm not proud of the fact but hell it works. But I didn't this time. I ponied up and admitted my mistakes. But the amount they left me was way too much for such poor service. So I gave it back.

I gave them back the tip.

I told her that I wouldn't have tipped me. First time I have ever done it. Took some convincing for the woman paying the bill to take it but she did in the end.

So from the moment I got up I managed to piss off everybody I came into contact with. That's a new record for me. Whilst it was horrible giving the money back, horrible like having to buy work shoes or paying the dentist, I felt better after it.

Doesn't pay to go to work in a bad mood.

Meh.....

Measure your success in shelves not trophies or awards...

I was off work for four days last week. I deserved it, a little treat for Manuel, a little well earned me time. Me me me me. Lovely. I was supposed to have used the time to catch up on the many projects, half assed ideas, and laundry that constantly occupy my mind and the entire left hand side of my bedroom. Instead I sat about scratching what didn't need scratched and poking things that required no poking. I did manage though to put up two sets of shelving one of which is still attached to the wall. Some men measure their triumphs and successes against the climbing of mountains and the running of races, not me. I count success in the amount of shelves I can get to stay on a wall. And fifty percent is a pass, with honours, in this house.

Like I say I had a very productive week planned. Planned, being the operative word, but not executed. I spend a good half a day just writing a to do list. Instead I got sidetracked by bloody Twitter. I was considering alternatives to the "micro blogging and social networking site" and it's one line question, "What are you doing?" This diverted my mind from the more important tasks at hand. I should have been toiling on my magnum opus but instead I was giggling to the thought of Flutter and it's one line question, "What are you betting on?"

Obviously this amused me for the rest of the afternoon...

1. Admitter - What did you do? Come clean on the world wide web!
2. Blatter - Who did you hit? A thugs only site where they can send pictures recorded on their cell phones of their latest victims.
3. Fatter - What are you stuffing in your pie hole? Aimed at cake and sausage roll enthusiasts.
4. Forgetter - What was it again? Cant remember what I was thinking about with this one.
5. Ratter - Who did it? Name and shame!
6. Shatter - What did you smash? A site to post picture of stuff you just broke, it's the sister site to Admitter.
7. Nutter - What are you doing standing in the street naked? A way for nut jobs and mentalists to record their zany activities.
   
8. Jotter - What are you writing on? A site where Moleskin fans can fight it out with Rhodia fans. A very sad place if you ask me.
   
9. Boycotter - Where are you not shopping? Has Primark's use of child labour forced you out of the shop? Share that fact here.
   
10. Regretter - Why are you red faced? But remember it's better to regret something you have done than something you haven't. Unless of course it was Small Bob from accounting.
    
11. Bitter - What have you won recently? Just for Manchester City fans.....Arf!
    

In the end I got very little writing done and wasted another half day trying to re-work the Twitter logo to read "Fatter" but all to no avail. So come Thursday night I was a right grumpasaurus. Actually a grumpasaurus sounds like a lovable character in a Julia Donaldson novel, I was not a lovable character. I was mean and moody and really rather bellicose.

So if someone wants to give me $20/30m to get these projects off the ground then my week wouldn't have been a complete waste of time. Anyone? How's about £5k then? Seriously....

If you want to follow me on Twitter and waste more of my precious time then click here...

Blue Steak Man...

On the face of it my favourite guest shouldn't really be my favourite guest. On the face of it you would think I'd run a mile, if I was capable of performing such a feat (which I'm not), from his table. But despite his foibles and idiosyncrasies he is an absolute hoot to serve.

On first meeting you would say he was just another 50 something male with bad guts (that would be from all the raw meat) and an undeserved air of satisfaction. And you would probably be right. But there is more to him than that. He is a benevolent sort, congenial and good humoured. And unlike almost every other regular customer he never crosses the line. We chat and we joke and I listen to his little tales and he mine but there is no familiarity and thus no contempt.

Blue steak man is a portly chap. The word "chap" could have been created for him as he does appear every, rotund, inch like a character from a Billy Bunter novel - Buster Blue the school tubby lad most probably. He has jaunty jowls and a wobble of chins and his eyes peek out through his billowy cheeks. If he was to dribble, which he doesn't, you would swear he was a bulldog pup.

At a guess I would say he works in one of the dry and dull professions, something involving huge dusty ledgers and towering lists of numbers, the sort of place were all the employees refer to each other by their surname and carry copies of the Daily Telegraph under their arms. They start at nine and end at five, every day except bank holidays when they tend to their gardens or visit old and dusty Aunts. And Blue Steak Man fits right on in, never rocking the boat or revealing the red socks under his trousers or the book of French Love Poems he keeps in his desk drawer.

But I have a feeling that Blue Steak Man lets his mind wander whilst counting the numbers or estimating the number of bricks needed to build Mrs Carson-Carruthers new holiday home. I'd say that when you think he is working he is in fact doodling pictures of cars and rocketships and penning little lusty rhymes to his sweet wife. He looks the sort, a doodler, a rhymer, a maker of mischief. But he never acts on his impulses no matter how much he wants to glue Mr Fitzsimmons hat to his hat stand. But he thinks about it and chortles to himself. He is a chortler.

He has never LOL'd in his life.

He doesn't get to say much at home either what with four teenage kids that he doesn't quite get. He loves them all, deeply, but wishes they would go away, to university or Spain or anywhere, so he can cuddle and canoodle. He's a canoodler too. He has never kissed in public though, except for that one time, in Paris, but that was Paris, you have to kiss in public.

No, the only time Blue Steak man gets to speak and be listened to is when he goes out for a meal and that's where Waiter Chum Number One and I come in. It took us a long time to twig all this, that he is voiceless everywhere else. But in a restaurant he has to be heard, he has to be listened to. And we do, listen to him, and put up with his teeny tiny complaints. He complains every week, every visit. It's always something inconsequential - the carrots weren't as round as I'd hoped, the wine could have been a bit more French, the napkin was a little rough and so on. And we get him rounder carrots and find him softer napkins. His wife playfully chastises him for making a fuss as they coo and woo and blush across they table at each other.

His favourite bit is when we bring him his steak. He has very exact standards about how he likes his steak - seven to ten seconds on each side depending on the size of the meat, no more no less. It's all pure theatre, a dramatic highlight to end his week and set him up for the next. We serve him his steak, we wait, he cuts, he chews, we wait some more feigning anticipation, and he pronounces his opinion in a Man from Del Monte kind of way.

"The Man from Del Monte he say Yes it's not bad maybe a little fatty and possibly overcooked by two or three seconds."

In five years I don't think we have ever completely satisfied him, well not that he has ever told us. But we love serving him and enjoy his dry wit and playful and obviously put on self importance. He tips like a character in a bad 1950's movie by stuffing a folded note into your hand and half nodding half winking at you as he does it. And as they walk away he reaches for his sweet wife's hand and off he goes. He always says he, "might be back" the following week as if he might give us another chance.

He always comes back.

Cynicism and belligerence have taken a day off but will return tomorrow.

Gingers. Is there anything they cant do? (Apart from go out in the midday sun, obviously?)

apple pie
as deadly as it gets....

"Achgggggguurgggllleeee", said the man furiously pointing to his back.

"Scuse me?", said the puzzled looking waiter with a bottle of nasty rose in his hand.

"Achgggggguurgggllleeee", said the man with fantastically blue hued lips. He said it over and over and over again whilst pointing to his back.

"Achgggggguurgggllleeee"

"Achgggggguurgggllleeee"

"Achgggggguurgggllleeee"

The waiter with the nasty bottle of rose stared briefly at the man with the deepening blue lips and thought for a moment about a few goth chums who would kill for a colour like that.

But the man with the fantastic blue lips wasn't in the mood for discussing goth styles or favourite lip glosses with a waiter with a bottle of nasty rose in his hand for he was too busy with the choking and the gurgling and the struggle for air, if not life itself.

The waiter twigged, "This man isn't showing off his fancy new lip gloss, he's ........CHOKING!"

Well d'uh.

The waiter gleefully, and like a man with a plan, set down the nasty bottle of rose and began with the furious and urgent banging of the man with the fantastic blue lips' back.

Pound

Pound

Pound

He pounded but there seemed no relief for the man with the fear in his eyes. The waiter, suddenly aware that all eyes were on him and the man choking on a piece of perfect shortcrust pastry from an apple pie, decided that they needed to move somewhere free from the gaze of stunned Saturday night diners.

So he got some hot pounding and walking action going. This wasn't so easy but they did make it to the back area of the restaurant. The waiter fearing that he was out of his depth, much like a ten year old on an inflatable adrift in the mid atlantic ocean, secured the help of the flame haired manager.

The pounding on it's own wasn't really freeing the man from his mortal danger.

"Some sort of move or maybe a technique of some sort is required to dislodge the errant pastry from this man's windpipe", said the waiter with urgency masking the fear in his voice.

"NO!", replied our flamed haired key jangler to the stunned and silenced gaggle of waiters holding their hands over their mouths as if to mask their own breathing. No one wants to show off at times like this.

"NO, we need a maneuver! The Heimlich Maneuver no less!"

And with that the Flame haired key jangler was on the man thrusting and pulling at him in a scene which the waiter would later say was reminiscent of the time he found two young lovers enjoying some post chocolate cake coitus in the middle stall of the male facilities.

Moments later the man with the previously fantastic blue lips coughed. The relief was palpable amongst the gathered group of waiters and friends of the choking man. He coughed two or three more times then stood erect. He was breathing heavy but he was breathing and he dabbed at the tears in his eyes and motioned for some water. He embraced his friend. He embraced his hero, the Flamed Haired Key Jangler or as he will for ever be known, The Flame Haired Saviour.

The waiter went back to his tables. Lifting the skanky bottle of rose that had been left on a fireplace he went back to the table he had been about to serve and said, "Now who's having this beautiful bottle of rose?"

Scariest two minutes of the waiters life. I'm sure the choking man was quite petrified too. But huzzah for our Ginger Wonder! And huzzah for Gingers everywhere, for they truly are a special and misunderstood people.

Seamus and the Men who like to say Yaaaar...

Salmon was a staple on our menu for years. It was always on in some form or other from smoked to baked to pan fried to being covered in lemon butter sauce to resting [shudder] on a bed of something. But that all changed about four menus ago when it was dropped. It was a shocking day, some people openly wept some danced with delight. I've always been rather ambivalent towards it. It's a bit of a meh fish for me.

our fish man Seamus McNobeard yaaaar...

But it's back for a while and in it's current incarnation it is, and this isn't a word I use very often unless I am complimenting Little Miss Manuel, divine. Seriously. That's why it's a pricey number, well that and the fact that it's wild salmon and not that stuffed-in-a-cage-without-room-to-roam-or-leap type that so permeates menus everywhere.

Our salmon is caught by a fisherman called Seamus McNobeard of the Donegal McNobeards, not to be confused with the Kerry McNobeards who are a rum lot of door to door mitten and scarves salesmen. "Ach come on now Missus will ye nat be buying me mittens, ach me oul mammy made them herself, from her sickbed she did. Ach come on now Missus der loverly mittens."

Seamus McNobeard, or Frank as he is called by his crew due to his fondness for the American rock trio ZZ Top, captains the good ship Fandango. A jaunty but sturdy trawler that is painted in the same colours as ZZ Top's famous Eliminator car. Frank and his crew of nare-do-wells, runaways, and men you have a fondness for saying, "Yaaaar" set sail from the village of Killybegs on a regular basis in search of everything from shrimp and salmon and herring and mackerel.

Trawler men such as Frank and his crew of misfits endure rough seas, hard weather, and sleepless nights to get their catches. They put out in all weathers, hehehehe put out, and can work for 24 hours straight without sleep just to get the job done. Working on a fishing boat is regarded as one of the world's most dangerous jobs with only loggers and the people who have to give Pete Doherty his monthly wash and scrape down coming anywhere near close to the same level of mortal danger. Think about that the next time you scoff at your mothers fish fingers and beans combo.

Even Frank himself lost a son to the sea, well it was his trusty spaniel who accompanied him on his voyages but he loved him like a son. Frank never married. "I'm married to sea you see. Oh I do like to be beside the sea you see and the fair handed maidens do not, you see, like to be beside the sea. Plus I smell like the inside of a catfish's arse on a hot day" said Frank recently in an article for "Big Nets Monthly" magazine. The premier magazine for lone trawler men. Frank was The Catch of the month for December.

I was thinking about Frank and the men who like to "Yaaaar" one night last week. It was a dark and stormy January night and not just outside. My guts were blustery and boisterous and blowing a gale all of their own. Thankfully it wasn't pishing down. I was loitering with intent behind my favourite velvet curtain and enjoying it's soothing ways. I was also pretending to be the ghostly child that may or may not have been in Three Men and a Baby. This made me chortle and took my mind off the shit storm that was brewing behind my apron.

Nice mental images there folks eh....

I had just served table 8 his wild salmon and crushed potatoes with fine beans and simple lemon butter which had been playfully drizzled over it with love and care. Or so I am lead to believe by the cooker jockeys in the kitchen. Whatever! But no matter how it was put on it did look delightful, delightful and delish. The gentleman I served it looked as excited as I was about his meal.

"Superb", blustered the lucky chap as I presented him with his meal. I was smiling like an honour student giving his parents his latest school report card. It was that good. So there I was standing behind my velvet comfort curtain watching him eating his salmon. He drank some wine, a pleasingly bone dry Chablis, fixed his napkin, lifted his fork, and then reaching across the table lifted his wife's dainty jug of pepper sauce and poured it over his salmon.

The absolute fucking waster. What care he of Frank and his crew of Yaaaar men? Or of the journey a salmon has to make from spawning grounds to the fish markets of Killybegs? Or of the chefs in the kitchen who lovingly and with the deftness of touch of a brain surgeon spooned the lemon butter sauce over his fish? What care he? He cares not a jot.

I did a little sick in my mouth and wept a little. What else was there to do? Guests eh? Break your heart they do. Or cover it in pepper sauce. Same difference I suppose.

The big boys made me do it.....

stick a cork in it son.....

Pop quiz... (It's multi choice so don't fret)

What do you do when you make a mistake?

Do you...

A. Take responsibility

or

B. Blame the waiter

Well if you are a professional footballer (that's soccer to you Americans and GAA people) you obviously take option B - blame the waiter. Diego, I'm not sure if that's his first name or last name, who plays football for German side Werder Bremen decided to take option B when he was busted for drink driving after trying to out run the Polizei. When asked to explain himself he decided that it was all the waiters fault.

"...he kept filling my glass" said the Brazilian who went on to plead ignorance with regard to how much is too much.

"He kept filing my glass" eh? Grow the fudge up and stop getting on like a six year old. Waiters eh, the absolute bastards with their filling of glasses and doing what they are told. And there is no way to stop them either. You cant just ask them to stop either because waiters just love to work and once they have started they just won't stop. They are like machines, waiters, they really are. There's no off switch.

Oh wait that's not right, not right at all!

Diego, you sir are an ass. Take some responsibility for your own actions and don't try and blame others for your own short comings. I assume his soup will be spat it for many a year to come.

I had a punter arrive at the restaurant once who asked for a different waiter to serve him as he said I made him sick the last time because of the amount of food I forced him to eat. Forced? I mean really is there any chance?

Well it was one of those sort of days......!

Oh and cheers for the om nom nom nominations
(seeing as as I'm in the Food/drink Category.)

It's hard to see the love sometimes....

I love working in a restaurant. No honestly I really do. I realise that this love I have for the schlepping of plates to and from tables may not always seem obvious through the bitterness, anger, sardonic commentary, and general loathing that emanates from these pages. But it's there, you just have to look really hard.

table for two?

But that said sometimes you just wanna smack them, the guests, right upside their heads before they have even ordered so much as a slice of bread. Take this pair of fork fiddlers from last week. In they shuffled shaking the rain from their coats and umbrellas and hats and trousers and gloves. Now this was understandable as it was lashing down outside but still they had created a rather large pool of water or as we call it a claim waiting to happen at the front door. Narrowing my eyes and pursing my lips I indicated to Waiter Chum the Vegan to get them seated, quick sharpish, so that I could dry up the pool of potential broken ankles. Obviously this just involved putting out a big yellow warning sign and dabbing round the edges with some white roll.

Mop?

Me?

Pfft....

"Best of luck", whispered Waiter Chum the Vegan with far too much glee in her voice for my liking. She had decided against seating them in her own section as indicated on the booking sheets. Non-adherence to the precious and all knowing booking sheets upsets me. I'm anal like that. But more importantly than this carefree flouting of the rules she had seated them in my section which meant I had to deal with them. And I didn't like the look of them already. Too much pomposity and there is only enough room in the restaurant for one inflated ego.

Ahem.

I had been stiffed. Hmmmm - the student has learnt well. But revenge is a dish best served cold, and with bacon. Ha! I adopted a fairly conservative smiley happy face on the way to their table. These sorts don't like too much happiness or perkiness. They rail against what they consider to be vulgar displays of emotion such as smiling.

"Good evening madam, sir and how are we this evening?", I asked by way of an icebreaker.

"Well we are wet and cold. I couldn't possibly know how you are."

Ha! That's quality cuntage right there.

I was momentarily taken aback at the savagery of his opening remark, a remark that was delivered in an almost perfect monotone voice without him ever having looked up from his menu. Which was of course a simply heartwarming way to set the tone for the next couple of hours.

He had a face that only a plastic surgeon could drool over what with all it's many bumps, lumps, protuberances and random hairy bits. It was like he shaved in the dark during an earthquake with the garden shears. Brutal is too kind a word to describe this particular chap's mask. In fact the last time I saw a face as offensive as his it was made of stone and was perched on top of a castle. But yet his face was warmer and exuded more love than his chilling opening line.

"We shall have a bottle of Chianti and a jug of water. Tap. Water." This order was conveyed with an equally monotone voice by The Gargoyles wife. She was lovely, in comparison to The Gargoyle that is. Compared to anybody else she was the very essence of darkness, in a Laura Ashley frock. A charmless skeletal woman with piercing eyes and a wispy moustache, she peered right through me to give me their drink order. I figured that on the very rare occasion that they kiss they must come together like a velcro patch. I would hav giggled but for the fear that gripped me.

"Eh actually we have it, maybe something else?" Why the hell was I shaking?

"Which don't you have? Tap water or Chianti?", snapped the Gargoyles wife. The Gargoyle himself managed to tear himself away from the menu to peer over the top of it at me.

"Eh the Chianti." This was met with a sharp intake of breath from her and tut tutting from him. They both managed to shake their heads in disapproval in a very unnerving moment of synchronized whinging. But why was I fretting? We don't bloody list Chianti!!

Metaphorically grabbing my balls I hit back with, "Maybe you should check the wine list. I'll be back in a mo with your water. Your tap water."

Cheeeeerist on a bike were they snappy and just plain difficult and all for no reason, well no reason that was obvious to me. I brought them down their first course of port and stilton parfait and bread and tapenade and as I was about to beat a hasty retreat from the table they both started to polish their cutlery with their napkins.

I and my chums spend an eternity polishing and buffing the knives, forks and spoons so I am pretty damn sure that there was no need for them to be polishing them again.

"Eh is there a problem with your cutlery? Shall I replace it for you?" says I indignant at their actions and I reached out to lift it from them.

"No no....", says The Gargoyle recoiling from my child like hands in horror.

"...it's what we do", added The Darkness

"I'm sure they are fine", finished The Gargoyle as he polished himself into a little frenzy.

And on and on it went just like that for the rest of the meal. They ate most of their food, but not all. They drank most of their wine but not all. They poo pooed the sweets menu saying, "It's not to our taste" and pushed it away like it was a used copy of Razzle magazine. They took every opportunity to verbally stab at me, stick their pointy snouts up at my recommendations and look for all the world like they were on the verge of walking out. Now here's the fun bit, they left me a very handsome tip, more handsome than your average James Bond, and a note saying they had a wonderful evening.

Bonkers, clearly.

And that's why I love my job, you don't get that sort of mentalism in an office, or do you?

Da Daaaa!

As part of our refit in November we got some lovely new curtains installed at different points within the restaurant. They are ever so lovely and velvety, so much so that you just wanna reach out and touch them or maybe rub them against your face when you are sure no one is watching and pretend, just for a fleeting moment, that you are in an advert for fabric conditioner.

Isn't that the dream we all share?

Isn't it?

da daaaa
seriously, you'd want me as your waiter wouldn't you?

They don't just look pretty they are functional too, actually in many respects they are more functional and prettier than some waiters and almost all chefs. They act as a graceful barrier between sections of the restaurant, the curtains that is not the hideous waiting staff and lazy lazy chefs.

I like to draw the curtains at work on quiet nights and corral all the guests into to one easy to manage section. Then I get to do my two new favourite things - hide behind the curtains and listen in on conversations and even more exciting than snooping is pouncing from behind the curtains in a live from the Apollo kind of way.

"DA DAAAA! Who's having the fish?"

Never fails to both amuse and startle the guests. Not sure startling the guests is part of my job description but hey I like to bring my own unique brand of entertainment to the dinner table.

Yes the curtains have brought me absolute hours of fun, I could play with them all day. Well I could have until the guests started touching them. Idiots. Bloody guests and their bloody sticky hands and their bloody "privacy" and their bloody "we're always right" attitudes. Yes Saturday night was brightened up with two sets of guests who really were old enough to know better.

The first couple to the left of the velvet wall were a gregarious pair of fifty year olds, all flirty hands and twinkling eyes. They were as frisky as a pair of love struck teenagers who just managed to escape from their parents. I mean any excuse to touch each other they took it from the placing of napkins to the sharing of bread. It was all so cute. Thank god they were attractive, it could have been bokey otherwise. They didn't care who saw them, who heard them or what anyone thought. They were having a ball and huzzah to them.

Meanwhile over on the right hand side of the velvet curtain, the communist side, there sat two right old misery fucks. They weren't even old, probably mid thirties, which I'm sure we all agree is young. Along with his nice shirt and sensible slacks he wore glasses on a chain, probably makes reading the Daily Mail easier. His face had no features, none, nothing there just greyness. LS Lowry's matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs had more features and twice the personality of this amoeba. His charmless wife was no better with her spookily bouffoned hair and face by Pixar. They tut tutted from the moment they arrived.

The lights were too bright, they didn't like the table (tough one on a Saturday night kiddo) and they really didn't like the noise from the table beside them. Now at this point the curtains were open, it was way too busy for any of that carry on. I was just serving them, the fun couple, their coffees when I heard a loud and purposely directed emission of dissatisfaction from Mr and Mrs Grey. Mr Fun was feeding, who I assume was, Mrs Fun some chocolate mousse from his finger. This was the tipping point for the Greys. I looked over to find Pixar face crooking her finger at me, which isn't an action I take kindly to.

"Yes?", says I with mock confusion.

"Waiter...", says she whilst looking past me "...I want that curtain closed, now please."

I was all set to say no when I remembered it wasn't my table. "I'll get your waiter madam."

"Get my waiter? Why cant you just do it?" Good question, but I just really didn't want to close the curtain or get into a five minute argument as to why I wasn't going to close the curtain that would have inevitably ended in a manger bending over and closing the curtain whilst licking the boots of the offended Mr and Mrs Grey. So I closed it.

And what happened next?

That's right Mr and Mrs Fun got upset! Sake! Is there any chance?!

"Yes but by closing the curtain we are losing all our light and we cant see each other", said Mr Fun whilst running his hand down Mrs Fun's face. I was more convinced now than ever that they were not married, well not to each other. But he had a point and it was a little too dark. So I opened the curtain again and before I could explain myself Mr Grey was on his feet.

"Why are these curtains open again? We asked for them to be closed?" He was running his hand up and down the velvety wonders. Heh. This was gonna be tricky. Each had a fairly valid reason for wanting the curtain closed or open. But who was right?

"It's...it's just that.....well the couple on the other side lose all their light when we close the curtain. I'm sure you understand."

Stepping in close to my ear, he never let go of the curtain by the way, he whispered, "Maybe a dark room would suit them better."

Crikey.

Before I could answer I turned round to find that Mr Fun was standing beside me and he was also fingering my velvet drapes. This was getting ridiculous. They both stared at me waiting for me to make a decision, open or close.

"Well what's it to be?", says papa fun

"Surely you have a policy for such an eventuality", enquired Mr Grey looking over the rims of his specs at me.

"Policy? For the curtains? A curtain policy? Yeah I'm not closing the curtains. If I could ask you both to return to your seats. Sir if I could ask you to keep the noise down just a bit then I'm sure this gentleman will be happy"

And I walked off. Despondent.

This is what it has come to people, curtain policies for people who cant get on. Maybe I'll write one myself, "Proper and Safe Implementation and Management of Curtains, Drapes and Blinds for a Brighter and Profitable Tomorrow."

Or maybe I'll just direct all curtain related enquiries to the management, they get paid to deal with these massive issues.

Heaven knows I'm miserable now....

Waiter down....

send for back up

headache, sniffles, cough, sweats, shakes, Eartha Kitts and Wallace and Grommit's

not hangover before you ask

not pretty either

super virus

yes has to be super virus

no ordinary cold can take me down

can only write in short abbreviated style

must save energy

may not make it through the night

is that you Grandad? You want me to come into the light?

oohh look Irish Independent Site of the Week

go me

perked up a bit

cant write properly

all praise is due to Nialler9, he is like a waiter for your ears...

must sleep now....

if I don't make it through the night mourn me with loud weeping and gnashing of teeth

and lilies

and sad music

but not "knocking on heavens door"

cliche

have a little dog sit on my grave in the rain

and avenge my death

avenge me!!

It's almost a full year since this last happened......weird.

Is it something I'm putting out there?

I spent all of Thursday morning and most of the afternoon on the phone dealing with mouth breathers, cat owners, plastic bag collectors, pig fanciers, pensioners and various other minority groups that should really be ignored, marginalized and avoided at all times. I had to take a wet wipe to my ear just to be sure I didn't catch anything over the phone. You see this is what happens when you advertise. The freaks, semi freaks, and shut ins take it as an invitation to pester, poke, prod and generally bother the shat out of me. The phone never stopped with it's ring bloody ring ring all day. This was annoying as I was trying to sleep fill the eh um salt and peppers pots, yes that's what I was doing. Cant we just go back to hiding our light under a bushel?

go away...

So it was with very great relief that I noticed it was half past two. I didn't finish until three but I figured I deserved some quality standing about time after such a tortuous time. That's right tortuous! You don't know, it was rough man, rough. And there is nothing more enjoyable than standing about scratching on company time. Not that the freaks knew I was enjoying standing about time, they kept phoning.

One after the other, idiotic question after idiotic question -

"And does you restaurant serve food?" What? Seriously?

"Can I bring my next door neighbour?" You can bring whom ever you want, I don't care

"Is Brian there? I need to speak to Brian." Okay that one was a wrong number but it didn't help.

There were many others.

I had a vision of queue at a phone box of mad crazy people with mad crazy lives-in-a-cave type hair bedecked in dressing gowns and pajamas each clasping a fifty pence coin. One flew over the cuckoos nest and landed on my phone number, clearly.

But finally three o'clock came and I ran for the door leaving the ringing phone unanswered. Fuck that. I made for my favourite coffee shop. I secured the services of a seemingly underworked barista and ordered a double espresso and a sandwich. I pulled up a seat, plugged in my headphones, pulled out a book and relaxed.

Ahhhhhhh. Lovely. Between the pacifying sounds of Courtney Tidwell and the acerbic and cutting musings of Charlie Brooker I was starting to balance out, I was starting to feel normal again. Didn't last, never does.

Just as I took a bite of a rather deflating and far to soggy by half BLT sandwich I felt a presence looming over me. A shadow had been cast, a big fat sweaty shadow at that. I looked up and there was the chap staring down at me all teeth and nose hair and sweaty bits. Now I know how Mrs Chuck Norris feels. He was saying something but I had my headphones on so I couldn't hear him.

"What?", I wasn't in the mood to hear about Jebus or satan or whatever it was he was hawking.

"I said can I sit here?", came the response. He was a touch Ned Flanders with his creepy mustache and giddy red sweater.

"Yeah whatever, go ahead", I'm not at work I don't have to be nice. But I was sitting at a table for four so it didn't make much odds to me. I plugged back in and gathered my stuff a little closer to me and a little further away from sweaty boy.

"WHAT?" Why is he talking to me? I was clearly plugged in and was practically sitting with my back to him, I mean it was obvious I wasn't in the mood for chit bloody chat.

"I say it's a cold one today....eh....a cold one today."

"Yeah...right...." I swiveled back round and I plugged back in.

Nudge, nudge nudge. Is he touching me? What the fiddler fuck is this?

"What mate? I'm just trying to have my lunch what do you want?" I may have barked this a little more furiously than was needed as he looked a little nervous as he spoke.

" Sorry...eh...sorry it's just that I cant get the milk, could you...", and he stretched out his boney sweaty finger towards the milk jug. Shit did I feel bad. I passed him the milk and smiled at him.

Mistake.

He took this as a green light to start talking again. So I passed another five minutes bullshitting about the weather and the how wonderful iPods are and isn't coffee brilliant and blah blah fucking blah yes they don't make tables like they used to and wasn't it wonderful when we all shat in the toilet in the garden and yes I miss Columbo too. I would rather it had been a god botherer to be honest. I had enough and got up to leave.

And what did I see when I stood up?

I'll tell you what I saw, a fucking empty coffee shop that's what, just me and sweaty, stuck together on one table, not facing each other, but side by bloody side like long lost chums or star struck lovers.

He had a whole coffee shop to sit in and yet he decides to sit beside me.

I'm changing aftershave, this stuff clearly attracts weirdos and sweaty people. Jebus it's been a week of it.....

"A Stabbing Fork, what is it good for?" Eh...Stabbing...

I bet you thought the Stabbing Fork was made up. I bet you thought that it was just one of Manuel's exaggerations. Not that I'm prone to exaggeration you understand. The only whoppers round these parts are the Burger King ones I, occasionally, stuff down my pie hole. I mean why would a waiter stab someone with a rusty fork? What reason would they really have to warrant such extreme action? Rudeness is an ugly trait but is it worth of a four pronged attack? Hard to say, sometimes I think it's the very least some guests deserve. Tardiness makes my veins in my neck pop and it's all I can do not to go at the offenders with a fork in each hand slashing wildly and gouging with carefree abandon.

But I don't.....

fork him...

But some waiters aren't as controlled and as measured in their actions as I am. Take this heart warming story of hot waiter stabbing action in Paris. From The Daily Mail...
(The Guardian didn't have it)

"Seven waiters at a Japanese restaurant in Paris were under arrest today after an armed robber was stabbed to death with a sushi knife after trying to steal their tips.The 22-year-old was brandishing a pistol when he raided Planet Sushi, in the upmarket 5th arrondissement, last night.

The pair first demanded that that management in the restaurant handed over all the day’s takings.

When they refused the criminals began helping themselves to a tray full of tips.

This infuriated the waiters, who began fighting with the robbers, stabbing one with a razor sharp kitchen knife used to ‘sculpt’ fish segments into sushi.

‘An extremely vicious fight broke out, with one robber mortally wounded,’ said a Paris police spokesman.

‘The robbers had arrived soon after 11pm when the tip tray was pretty full. The thought they could get away with the cash, but the restaurant staff were having none of it.

‘That’s when a knife was used on one of the robbers.

‘We arrived at the scene with ambulance staff but they could do nothing to save the injured man. He was rushed to hospital but died a few hours later.

‘Seven staff at the restaurant have been arrested along with the second alleged robber. A full enquiry is under way.’

Police refused to name any of the suspects involved."

I don't normally go for this sort of vigilante action but tips are hard earned and they ain't gonna be given up without a fight. But arrested? What the fuck? They should be given a medal of honour or at the very least big hug. One witness, as reported in the Daily Telegraph, said "It was like a moment from Tarantino's Kill Bill films."

Really? Because that must just have been awesome. Ninja waiters don't take shit lying down or standing up either by the sounds of it. Let this be a lesson to all dirty little toe rags thinking about making moves on any waiters hard earned tips, don't, we have stabbing forks or in this case fish knives and we aren't afraid to use them.

Obviously our respects go to the family of the dead robber but I think he learned a valuable lesson that day. Huzzah for the Waiters of Planet Sushi!

Everybody Hurts, and with good reason......

Todd, the Toucher, was in again on Sunday for lunch but he wasn't his usual self. He was less demonstrative, less touchy handsy feely crotchy rubby than normal. [shudder] He seemed sad, well sadder than usual. Actually it's not accurate to describe him as being some sort of a sad sack as he is anything but. He is quite the dapper Dan in both appearance and outlook. If it wasn't for his less than appealing and constant crotch touching I think I would quite like to spend some time in the old duffers company. But he's a toucher so that ain't ever gonna happen.

awh.....

No, something was up with Todd the Toucher. Even his perfectly tied Windsor knot seemed less tally ho than normal. I was in two minds whether or not to poke it out of him. I mean one could have been asking Pandora what she has in her secret little box. But fuck it, I went charging on in, out of concern you understand.

"Hey Todd, you okay today? You seem a little down?"

"Ah yes Manuel you noticed. How kind of you....", began Todd whilst clutching his sweaty hands. This was weird. I was wearing my Sunday shirt which is a little tighter than the rest of my work collection and normally this has Todd in a frenzy of under the table fiddling activity.

But not today.

"...It's my friend, he has past away, gone to the other side, Valhalla has called for him and I am alone once more with my thoughts and my sadness." His hands were gesticulating now like a Shakespearean actor.

Woe is me, and Todd, obviously.

Oh that's what you keep in your box Pandora. How nice. I just had to ask. I just couldn't have brought him a Gin and Tonic and a jug of water like he asked for. Oh no, not me. Because you cant just recite the specials and walk away can you? Well not after hearing that.

"Eh......er.....I'm so sorry to hear that Todd. Had your friend been ill?", that's right, delve a little deeper and see if you can get yourself an invite to the funeral.

"Yes, yes the old chap had been suffering for quite a while now. His bowels had gone, lost all control of them Manuel. Lost all control. You'd be out for a walk, we used to love a good brisk early morning walk and lo and behold he'd shit himself. Terrible stuff I can tell you. Just terrible. Didn't even know he had done it either, poor old chap."

"Right.....eh yes......terrible indeed". Sweet mother of Gordon Ramsay what had I done? All I could see in my mind, vividly at that, was a shit covered old codger and Todd the Toucher trying to help him. I nearly did a sick in my mouth.

"It's the end when the bowels go Manuel, the end. You have to treat them right and look after them. It's the end otherwise."

HELP! Proctological advice from Todd the Toucher? Christ no no no no. I nodded my head in a sombre fashion and tried to excuse myself from the table but I had opened the box myself and the pain and anguish was flowing, presumably like his late chums bowels.

"Wasn't that old either, just seventy last August he was." A little tear escaped from Todd's right eye. He was clearly still very upset at the loss of his friend. I felt bad for him.

"Seventy? You don't say. Still seventy is a good innings eh?", cliches are just fab when consoling the grieving. I followed this up with, "He's in a better place now" and "Well at least his pain is over." Good old cliches, because what the hell else do you say?

"And did your chum leave any children or family behind?"

"Yes, yes the old boy had quite a frisky life of it, not sure how many kids he had but there was at least fourteen at the last count", and then he winked at me. This was as unnerving as it was creepy.

"Sorry, fourteen?" Okay then, clearly Todd has had more than cornflakes for breakfast.

"Yes fourteen, that I know of. Well I suppose I'll have to get another one now", says Todd dabbing at his teary eye.

"Another gin?", odd because he hadn't even started on the first one yet.

"Gin? No, another dog! Probably get another Collie, lovely dogs Collies. Do you have dog yourself Manuel?"

"A dog? Your friend that died was a dog?"

"Yes, a border collie, lovely old fella he was too. Kept shitting himself though. Had to get the vet in, you know the old sleeping injection."

I walked away. I just walked away without saying another thing. I will never speak to him again let alone serve him, the creepy sleazy crotch rubber. Fucker had me all concerned for him and everything. The dog truly is in a better place now and all......

Won the battle, lost the war.....

There is nothing that scares the bejesus out of a restaurant manager more than a letter of complaint, well that and hard work. I mean a guest ranting and raging and frothing at the mouth over the lethargic lettuce or the penne in their pasta (ha!) is far easier to deal with than someone who has taken the time and effort to put bic biro to a page from their kids school jotter. In most cases a manger will roll over and play dead if that's what it takes to satisfy an unhappy punter and whilst we waiters will scoff at their, perceived, lack of spine it is almost always the right thing to do. After all it is our job to make the guests happy.

Or so I'm told, constantly.

blah blah fucking blah.....

A letter of complaint means that someone has fucked up royally, unlike Prince Harry who is fucked up royalty. Not only does it mean that someone has truly made a turd out of a turnip but that the manager didn't spot it and deal with it on the night. Unless of course it was the manger who was doing the metaphorical shitting. Or actual shitting.

For managers and working staff, hehehe, alike a letter of complaint is like a case of genital warts - you don't want to talk about it and you really want it to go away as quick and as painlessly as possible. Now normally what happens is that the manager investigates, the waiters prevaricate, the chefs remonstrate (and generally mess themselves) the process eventually ending in someone being warned about future conduct or quality of work. Pfft.

The manager then has to pen a big sad faced letter saying how sorry we all are that we didn't meet our usually high standards during their recent visit and that we all promise to really try harder next time. Shucks. The letter is signed, bunged in an envelope along with a voucher for a meal for two and posted. That's normally the whole thing put to bed.

The process is normally the same no matter what the complaint or wether the complaint was really justifiable. I mean I have lost count of how many times over the years I have threatened to leave if, "that lying fucker gets a voucher" only to end up serving them again a few weeks later. It hurts but it's the right thing to do. It rarely matters if you are right as winning an argument with a customer over semantics and details isn't going to win you any friends. You gotta keep them happy, that's the bottom line and we all know it, from the staff to the managers.

Well nearly all of us know it.

This story of a letter of complaint sent by a woman, Marilyn Fletcher, in England to a restaurant made me dribble down my shirt with laughter. It's from The Daily Tory.

By all accounts Mrs Fletcher hadn't been a happy bunny by the time she and her family had left the Manor Restaurant in Waddesdon Manor, a National Trust property and home of "the finest Rothschild wines available". The food wasn't up to it and the service was said to be even worse. And that's what she wrote in her letter to the catering manager, one Simon Offen. But Simon wasn't gonna just take her word for it and say sorry, which is what he should have done. Oh hell no Simon had other ideas. Ideas like scanning the CCTV footage to see exactly what had gone on.

Probably didn't want to do that as Mrs Fletcher took her complaint and Mr Offen's response right up the food chain to the head of the National Trust Dame Fiona Reynolds. That cant be good can it, I mean having an actual Dame as your boss? Mr Offen dismissed her complaint and said he had "watched and listened with interest to the video recording of her table" and then added, "You sat at your table at 14.31, at 14.41 whilst the staff in your room were running about, you stormed over to the cash desk to make your point. At 14.44 your order was taken."

Now this may very well be true but it's not going to make Mrs Fletcher and her family and her friends and their friends and their friends friends rush to his restaurant now is it? You see he thinks he had won the argument by being able to quote exact times and what have you. But he didn't win anything. He had lost sight of what he is meant to do, make punters happy, make them leave happy, and give them a reason to return and not with a writ either.

Plonker.

New Year, same chinless freaks.....

I'm not a fan of guests substituting ingredients, not even little ones. It's very annoying and regularly leads to unhappiness. I may have mentioned this before. I suppress my urge to stab guests with my faithful and only true friend, the stabbing fork, with little obvious changes such as sauces or salads. I really quite amenable if you catch me in the right mood.

what have you got if you take the penne away?
eh?
nothing, that's what!

That said, I had to be physically restrained the other evening...

It was a frightfully dull Friday, as they tend to be at this time of year, and all was well. I was amusing myself by seeing how long I could balance a cork on my thumb for. This didn't last for long as I have all the hand to eye coordination of a blind quadriplegic. Waiter Chum Number Three managed it with ease whilst talking at the same time about, "...this one time....and he said...and I was all like no way." Or something like that. Manual dexterity is wasted on the youth.

What tables we had were all in their happy places and required nothing in the way of waiterly assistance, which was a good thing. I was tired and frustrated, mainly by my cork/thumb exertions but also because I had been on all day. I sent Waiter Chum Number Three off on a walk-round of the floor. This was under the guise of checking the tables but mainly because her perfect cork balancing thumb was getting right up my....well it was annoying me. I am so childish it's a wonder people speak to me.

"Your table of two are ready to order", she says.

"I have a table of two?" This was news to me.

"Yeah I seated them 'bout five minutes ago", says she in that perky happy unjaded by life sort of way that only a sixteen year old can.

"Right....", I lifted my slumbering mass off the bar and tossed the cork that had been vexing me into the bin.

Wearing my, "HI I'M HAPPY TO BE YOUR WAITER. AREN'T I JUST LOVELY?" face I reluctantly sauntered my way round to the surprising, to me, table of two.

I opened with, "Hi...", it's the expected greeting "...you folks ready to order?"

"Yes I'll have the ....", standard issue pause as she really doesn't know what she wants "....I'l have the eh...um....er.....no I'll have the sea bass with a mixed salad."

"Beautiful madam, good choice." I cant stop myself from saying shit like that. I do it all the time. As if the guests gives two fiddlers fuck what I think of their choice.

"And sir, what will you have this evening?"

He was a thin, bookish looking sort of chap, the sort that has to lie down in a shower to get wet. He stroked his face were normally most people have a chin but where he had only a bump. He wasn't hideously deformed or anything, I'm not that cruel, he just didn't have a chin. Don't people normally have chins? Anyway he was stroking his, "chin" and studying the menu like he was reading The New England Journal of Medicine's latest study into cures for men with no chins.

"I'll have a Kirk Doulas please"

Okay maybe not.

"Yes...I'll....have...a...", this was like pulling teeth.

You'll have a what?

What will you have?

MMMMM?

A chin? Would you like a chin you chinless twat?

".....I'll have the pasta."

Yippee! The pasta. Ten thousand points for you for making a decision. I know I'm a waiter and I'm meant to wait but sometimes I just don't have the patience. All that contem-fucking-plation for pasta.

"Very good sir, the penne pasta. With bread sir?"

"Yes bread would be nice but no penne."

What's this?

"Scuse me?", I turned sharply with my mouth open in full fly catching mode.

"I'll have the pasta but with no penne", confirms the chinless one.

"No penne?"

"No penne please."

Now one has to be careful not to embarrass guests in situations like these. I mean I don't normally correct people who ask for a bottle of Merlot and pronounce the "t" and that sort of thing. It's not conducive to the getting of good tips. But at the same time this guy wasn't exactly a teenager nor did he have the appearance of your average Joe either.

"Ah eh.....eh sir the penne is the pasta."

"Yes that's right. I'll have the pasta without the penne."

Is he taking the pish here?

"No sorry sir the penne is the pasta. We only have penne on this evening. It's the only pasta we do."

"Yes, that's fine...", says he "...I'll have the pasta but with no penne." And he said the last bit nice and slow so that I would understand what he was saying. Yeah because I'm the idiot here!!

I said it again but this time towards his wife, maybe she was the intellectual wing of the table. Alas this was not the case. I got down on my knees beside the chap and using words with only one syllables in them I explained, again, that the pasta was the sodding penne. Penne? Word had lost all meaning by the time I had finished. So I just gave up.

I was back on my feet and had collected the menus and wiping the sweat from my brow calmly said,

"So that's a sea bass and salad for the lady and a penne pasta with bread with no penne for the gentleman." And off I walked, muttering and rueing the day I decided I wanted to become a waiter.

With a tremendously heavy and somewhat saddened heart I rang the order up without making any substitutions or omissions. Twenty or so minutes later I served one sea bass with salad and a pasta dish resplendent with penne (as it's the fucking pasta) and a side of bread.

"There you go madam your sea bass. And sir, your pasta, minus the penne as requested." And I walked away and died a little more.

The worst bit of the story? He loved it, the skinny chinless freak loved it, penne included. You could say the penne never dropped.......

Competitive blogging...

manuel took last years defeat very hard
and made this child cry....

Nominations for the Irish Blog Awards close at 6pm on January the 14th.

Just saying.

Nominate your favourites here.

"U" are driving me round the bend.....

The Cousin and I were standing in the kitchen staring at the mess under the sink. We bore expressions of the damned, damn idiots that is. Yet another attempt to fix the leaking U-bend had ended in unmitigated failure. What started as a barely noticeable trickle of water about three months ago is now the very bane of our existence. We now live the life of our grandparents. Three maybe four times a day we have to empty the bucket under the kitchen sink. A bucket of very dubious delights. And it's not like that goes well every time either. I mean the number of times the greasy lukewarm water has ended up round the back of the toilet and half way up the bathroom wall is beyond silly.

It's oh so grim.

So very very grim.

ma bucket....

"We need a bigger bucket", I suggested.

"What we need is to get it fixed", retorted The Cousin.

His feet, and not for the first time in recent weeks, were soaking wet. A situation which leads to constant sock changing and great unhappiness. I am not a technically gifted person when it comes to such chores. Honestly I had to spellcheck DIY three times just to write this story. But I ventured forth to my local hardware superstore place, having changed out of my nice sweater shirt and trouser combo to a more roguish and manlier t-shirt and combats ensemble, with determination and resolve.

Not sure I totally pulled off the look I was hoping for but I was past caring. I just wanted the fucking u-bend fixed. I would have gone in backless chaps and stetson if that would have got the job done. Needless to say the parts that it took me a half hour to select didn't fit. There is no chance that B & Q will go bankrupt anytime soon with the amount of money I am spending attempting to fix one stupid leak. I think I am personally responsible for keeping ten people in full time employment at the moment. Seriously, I got a thank you card from their kids and all.

In the end I am just going to have to call a man. I am going to have to call a man to come out and fix a stupid leak that a stupid child could fix that I cant. Maybe I should just get a child. I dunno. I just cant take anymore of this 1950's living. There is a constant worry about the bucket breaking whilst on the way to the bathroom to be emptied. If /when this does happen I will burn the house down, that's right, down to the ground.

In many respect our house is a contradiction. By the last count there were four computers, three mobile phones, four televisions and assorted cable boxes and associated dvd and pvr players. There are three dab radios and more remote controls than you can shake a Bang and Olufsen stick at. You can wirelessly stream music round the house at a touch of a perfectly formed Apple button and you can talk to someone in Boise Idaho whilst taking a bath. Not that I've ever done that. In many ways it's awesome, my house that is, not talking to people in Boise Idaho whilst taking a bath. Although I'm sure that is just lovely. But what you cant do is run the water in the kitchen for anything longer than a freaking minute without flooding the place.

It's so utterly depressing.

"So that's more money down the drain", I huffed.

"Or not" replied The Cousin with a cheeky grin.

"Heh, very good."

"Did you see that KFC they are building?", he asked without taking his eyes off the bucket.

"Yeah I passed it on the way home."

"Biggest KFC drive through in Ireland."

"Makes you wanna burn your car eh?", I ventured.

"Makes me wanna burn all cars."

"Yup.", And with that I lifted the bucket, emptied it and went to bed.

1950's living it is then....

Serve hair side down.....

I wasn't home from lunch at Ginger with Little Miss Manuel for very long when I decided I was hungry again. This had nothing at all to do with the Fisherman's Pie I had at eaten at Ginger, because it was just superb - packed as it was with white fish, salmon and juicy little prawns (10/10) - and everything to do with being a very greedy youngish chap. Plus seeing as I'm still off the evil but lovely cigarettes (oh how I long for thee) I deemed myself entitled to a treat.

mmmm
hairy....

A post lunch snackette was required to fill the void to dinnertime. But what to have? I looked in the cupboard but it was as empty as Old Mother Hubbards cupboard the day before pension day. I lifted out what was there and considered exactly what I could do with a bottle of Nam Pla, a packet of risotto rice and an unopened, for obvious reasons, bottle of anchovy ketchup.

Nothing, obviously.

I checked the fridge. There was a very odd concoction in the bottom of a badly wrapped bowl that may or may not have been the left overs from last weeks navarin of lamb. It sort of glowed a little so taking no chances I just put it back where I found it. I may sell it in a few months to some crazy terrorist type or other for use in a toxic bomb. Or LMM will make me throw it out tomorrow, who's to say? Anyway I drew a blank in the fridge. The freezer only has frozen carrots and the never ending joy that are Mini-Twister ice lollies. And they are more a nighttime treat.

"Fucking stupid kitchen with stupid food and stupid anchovy ketchup." I kicked the mop bucket and spilled the dribble of dirty water contain therein over the floor. Funny but this didn't help the situation much. So I knew I had to do what had to be done, I went to the shop. Reluctantly.

Ten huffy puffy angry minutes later I was back in the groove again. The kettle was on and the toastie maker was making me a cheese and ham toastie. I was happy, so happy that I nearly mopped the floor again. Nearly, but I settled for just mopping the wet bit again. The cheese was oozing out at an acceptable rate and settling on top of cheese from toasted sandwiches from yore. By yore I mean last week. Soon I will have to remove all this hardening cheese from the toastie maker, but not today, we aren't just there yet.

And then they were ready. Hu-fucking zzah! They were browned to perfection and nuclear hot on the inside. Still more cheese oozed from the volcanic core of the toasted bread. I wet the tea and sliced the toasties along the diagonal, such is the way of the toastie, and being an adult now I popped them on a plate. Lifting the plate of afternoon goodness and a bar of chocolate and stuffing the newspaper under my arm I headed back into the living room again to settle down to watch Doctors and relax. Damn it, I forgot the tea and shuffling everything around I reached out to grab the cup.

Plop

"What the..."

Plop, again.

Both my wonderful cholesterol raising heart stopping lip burning toasties hit the floor. To be precise they hit the unmopped and less than pleasant part of the kitchen floor. I stood aghast and agog at the horror of it all. Such a sad and desperate sight I must have cut as I stood there with the Guardian slipping out from under my arm and a Mars bar melting in my hand.

"But hold on a mo", I said out loud to no one on particular "there's no one here, no one to witness my actions."

So recalling the five second rule I figured, fuck it, and just lifted them up and dusted them down a bit. Okay this episode had gone on a few moments longer than five seconds, more like a good 30 seconds by this point. But it was only five seconds in Matrix time. Ah bless the five second rule and bless Matrix time too. I used to swear by the five second rule when I worked in Pizza Hut and not just when I worked in the kitchens either. I pulled the hair right off the cheese and everything. I'm good like that. No one ever died from a bit of garlic bread that's hit the deck. Hey what they don't see they don't need to worry about right?

Right?

Todd the Toucher is a tedious tosser who takes thrills in touching himself in toilets

The music system has been at it again. This time with highly amusing results, well for me they were highly amusing. Then again I am easily amused. For example when the boss of bosses, the Great Leader, the dude from my pay cheques was in for lunch with his charming family it took to playing ABBA's Money Money Money whilst they were scoffing their roast beef and I was emptying the bin in the male toilets. Nice....

turn it up....

But it doesn't end there. It was Sunday afternoon and all was well. Barely a fork was being moved in anger. It was quiet, January quiet. Waiter Chum Number three and I had run out of conversation, such as it was, and had taken to sighing and heel kicking. What guests we had were either done or eating, either way they didn't need us. I went for a wander round the restaurant just to see if anybody wanted me, that's right I was touting for work - need your napkin folded sir? Jug of water madam? I can dance a little, you want me to dance sir? Cue a quick flurry of shuffling feet and jazz hands. Okay maybe not, but I was tempted.

There were no takers, just smiles of contentment. Bastards.

I went back to the bar and continued with the sighing and heel kicking. Waiter Chum Number Three smiled. I could feel my hair grow. Christ I could feel time actually slip very slowly by. I was fidgety.

"Every time you sigh you kill an angel"

Waiter Chum looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, "Really? Like actually?"

Bless.

"No, no I think it's just a saying", her little face was a picture of worry and guilt as if she suddenly realised she had sighed about a thousand times and that she was probably responsible for carnage and death on an unimaginable scale, in the angel world.

She smiled again and we went back to heel kicking and sighing. Well I did, Waiter Chum wasn't taking any chances. Then the door opened and in walked Todd the Toucher.

"Brilliant, this guy again." I said with a huge dollop of sarcasm.

Todd the Toucher is a tedious tosser who takes thrills in touching himself in toilets. And not just toilets either. Okay I've never actually seen him do it but you get the feeling that at any moment he could. Makes for quick and silent visits to his table.

Seriously.

He dines alone. On the face of it he is an affable enough sort of fellow - chatty and mannerly. But there is the issue of the touching and it's the sort of issue that makes your skin crawl. His hands wander under the table when he is waiting for his food. Actually that's not the worst part, his hands wander under the table when he is talking to you. And he leers at everything and everybody.

[Shudder]

So anyway Todd the Toucher was in and somebody had to deal with him, somebody named me. Obviously. I couldn't in good conscience send the sixteen year old teenage girl to serve him. He was in fine fettle and was chatting away when I noticed his hands moving under the table towards his crotch. There was much ruffling and what appeared to be stroking. Mother of jebus.

I got the order and practically ran from the table. But before I got to the bar the music changed from some dull easy listening classic/abomination or other to Radiohead's "Creep".

I burst out laughing right there and then. I couldn't stop myself.

Creep? Spot on. Still as creepy as Todd the Toucher is he is nothing in comparison to Sean the Shuffler. But that's a story for another day.

Is it any wonder I shower when I get home......