"I can't believe that Bryce prefers Van Patten's card to mine"

When you have a blog called Well Done Fillet you really do deserve a business card that matches the meatiness of the title.

That's why I need these...

meat cards
whoop whoop!

"We start with 100% beef jerky, and SEAR your contact information into it with a 150 WATT CO2 LASER. Screw die-cutting. Forget about foil, popups, or UV spot lamination. THESE business cards have two ingredients: MEAT AND LASERS."

There is only one word for this kind of blatant meatiness, AWESOME-O.

"MEAT CARDS do not fit in a Rolodex, because their deliciousness CANNOT BE CONTAINED in a Rolodex."

Well exactly.

You should have a butchers at the comments on the Meat Cards site. Some people just need smacked, hard, with meat.

I have become comfortably dumb

I had always assumed that the dullest thing on gods green earth was the verbose, prog, rock stylings of those hideous bastards Pink Floyd. Philosophical lyrics? Sonic experimentation? Elaborate live shows? Meh, who gives a rats ass? The fact that they are credited with influencing Genesis is nothing to be proud of. In fact the shame of that alone should have driven them into the hills to live the life of a recluse only surfacing from time to time to warn the kids to stay away from keyboards whilst under the influence of drugs, maaaaan.

there's a charming toilet scene in this story too...

I will never forgive Pink Floyd for unleashing that 95 minute long art college wankfest, "The Wall" on the world. Watching it was seen as a right of passage moment and no dissenting voice was tolerated. You had to play along and ooh and ahh and make like you were going home to write in your diary about it before cutting yourself to sleep in the bath. Depressing? Oh good god yes. Depressing and insanely boring. I was sixteen and full of Gothy joy and wonder. I did not share their dystopian view of the world. I had seen a real boobie and new that life was gonna be okay.

But oh good Gordon they are dull, so so dull and like I say I had always assumed that they, Pink Floyd, were the dullest thing striding the planet. But Sunday changed that, for the only thing duller than Pink Floyd is in fact fans of Pink Floyd. So much corduroy, so many beards, so much mumbling into beards.

It was Sunday night and all the lovely seats were filled with the corduroy'd bottoms of middle aged men most of which were sporting beards. I have never seen the beautiful restaurant filled with so many genuinely ugly people stroking their beards and rubbing the elbow patches on their home knitted sweaters. It was like a "Pink Floyd Fans Think-in" or Pfft for short. The Australian Pink Floyd were in town so hairy men were out in force. This was obviously to the delight of the women who are married to hairy men.These are the sort of chaps who own £500 Sennheiser headphones and refer to themselves, without any hint of irony, as audiophiles. They are philes alright.

Anyhoo most were easy enough to deal with, mumbling, beard stroking and waffling about live bootlegs aside. But one guy on one table was enough to bring all my distrust and repressed dislike for all things Pink Floyd, Australian or otherwise, back to the surface.

He was beardy in the extreme with grayish black hair emanating from not only his face but from his ears, nostrils and I swear to god his forehead. It was like there was no discernible break from head hair to face hair. I'm not sure if this hirsuteness was the cause of his bitterness or if it was the years of listening to Pink Floyd but he was unhappy about life. It didn't help that we were down a few menu items due to having had our asses handed to us the day before.

"So there is no tuna, no Caesar salad and only one seabass. What exactly do you have?", asks the bearded one with a tone that simply wasn't required. I wouldn't mind but he hadn't even looked at his menu.

Sunday night isn't the night to be snippy with me, I'll not be for taking it.

I stared at him for a second or two longer than he expected and this made him twitch. One nil to the waiter. "We have everything else....sir."

His bearded chums were actually rather pleasant despite none of them having apparently seen the inside of a shower in many a few years by the smell of it. And who the blinkers wears a heavy sweater to a gig, who? But I put my own health and well being to one side and tried a few one liners and witticisms which raised a few polite guffaws.

Yer man wasn't having it though and continued with the sniping and acerbic barbs. "Jokes a plenty but no tuna eh." I ignored him. When I asked him what side order he wanted with his lamb he replied, "Well what have you not run out of?" I was getting very fucking tired with this. "Chips? Do you have chips? Will you still have chips when my food is ready?" Again I ignored him but did cast him a very dirty look. Ooooh get me!

Just like most Pink Floyd albums/concerts he carried on along this repetitive, sardonic route for what seemed like an age. One irascible, sarcastic, captious remark after the other. I wished there had been a wall and he was on the other side of it. Bearded buffoon.

The arrival of his food seemed to shut him up if only for a moment. But finally there was some relief and all round the restaurant the bearded wonders were happily chomping away and when they weren't chomping they were pulling dropped bits of food from their beards. Nice.

I took this opportunity to go to the bathroom mainly to check emails but I also needed to go. But Gordon damn it the stalls were all taken leaving me to bob my phone back in to my pocket and having to brave the uncouthness of the urinal trough. Oh my. And guess who walked in? That's right my bearded and sardonically witted chum with all the smart assed remarks. Personally I think nothing messes up the waiter/guest relationship more than the sighting of each others pee pees.

Just as he approached the light that had been flickering finally snuffed itself out. With only the light from yonder window breaking I'm not sure he realised it was me that was in the bathroom with him. So I seized upon this opportunity for revenge. All those nasty comments had bothered me and it's rare that a waiter is presented with such an obvious opportunity to get their own back.

"Oh what a big cock!", I remarked in the direction of his teeny weeny.

Well I thought he would appreciate some dark sarcasm in the bathroom.....

Arf!

Yahoo Answers eh, there's an slightly odd/icky concept. Idiots Ordinary people, in search of the answers to life's prosaic and in many cases embarrassing little conundrums, turn to the wise and great oracle of Yahoo in search of enlightenment. Not that Yahoo itself answers the questions, no Yahoo turns the question over to the general populous. It's like getting to the end of the yellow brick road and finding not a lovely wizard but three taxi men, an unemployed PR consultant and a whole nest of level seven nerds. Oh my, imagine. In many respects Yahoo Answers is a bit like Wikipedia but for six year olds and with just the same level of accuracy and incisiveness. That is to say none whatsoever.

Take this doozy of a humdinger, that's right it's a humdinger of doozy proportions, I wandered across the other day. I spat tea, beautiful life affirming tea, all over my Mac as I read it. You can imagine my consternation at this loss and waste of precious tea.

"Can a very handsome, but quiet, guy be successful at being a waiter?", asks someone who refers to himself as "Good Guy". [Snicker] Thankfully he goes on to explain his vexatious dilemma, "I'm good looking, but I'm not sociable and it's almost impossible to make small talk with strangers. Could I make it as a waiter?"

Where do you start? I mean where do you start when the laughter stops?

There were a number of fantastically ludicrous and downright preposterous answers given. My favourite response was from "Milo's Mommy" who said, "You don't have to be sociable to be a waiter..." Oh really, is that right now is it? Yes Greta Garbo would have made for a fantastic company through a full house Saturday night shift.

Milo's Mummy also goes on to say that a good waiter needs to be a good listener and have a good memory. Again not so sure about that. I mean my memory is for shit but I have an order pad which really does a smashing job at "remembering" orders. As for being a good listener, I have one ear that is about as useful as a trophy cabinet at manchester city but still I manage to hear all the bits n bobs that I need to.

There were many other arseholey answers all testifying to the fact that a good waiter doesn't need to be able make small talk or be sociable and that being prompt and courteous and have the ability to check on the level of water in a jug is all faaaaar more important than being able to pass a few civil words.

Bobbins. These people are talking absolute bobbins. Bobbins and balderdash.

If I may be so bold to suggest I think these people haven't a bloody clue what they are talking about. The best waiters I have ever worked with have been the ones that could talk. They could talk themselves into your wallet. They could talk themselves into your bed. They could talk themselves out of trouble. Give me a kid that can talk and I'll give you a waiter back.

A good waiter knows when to talk and when to shut the fuckity up. But dull as dishwater waiter who remembers to refill your water and is more ghost than human can do that as he cant talk at all.

So in answer to your question "Good Guy", no you cant be a successful waiter if you cant small talk and are lacking in social skills. And lets be honest you'd probably just spend your time looking at your ever so handsome reflection in the wineglasses.

But that's just my opinion, what say you oh great unwashed readers. Do you prefer your waiter hot and silent or squat and chatty?

Swine Flu and the Delicious Side Effects

Bacon sweats...mmmmmmm.

Coming soon...

Ahem, cough cough...

National Waiters Day 21st of May.

Website coming soon

You'll probably want to start thinking about what you are getting me....
...oh and all the waiters in your life.

This week I was mostly

This week I was mostly getting my hands dirty with actual work. Which was odd. I have taken to planting vegetable in my backyard. Oh happy day. I have planted aubergines, broad beans, chilli plants, basil, and coriander or cilantro as you crazy Americans keep calling it. I would post photos but I am too insecure and worried about green fingered old people telling me I ma doing it wrong. I get enough of that when I go home. But it's all very exciting and left me feeling very at one with old mother earth and all that hippy balls. Saying that I really wanted to be at one with next door's cat. I went out the next morning to bask in my green fingered triumph only to find that a certain fat ginger bastard had done a poo on my aubergine plant. Obviously I went to The Cousin first but assured me he didn't do it.

it's a tough life....

The cat thing has to be dealt with before I move on to stage 2, and the most exciting part at that, of my subsistence revolution - the growing of potatoes! Whoop whoop! That's right I whoop whooped for the growing of potatoes. I need to do some research into the whole affair as I don't have any ground into which to plant the spuds so I am intend to do it in a bucket. Youtube had the answer....

Brilliant! Just brilliant. I could listen to that chap talking about taters and pertaters all day long. Seriously. I wonder if he has any YouTubes on how to do a Wordpress Install. Heh. But whilst checking out all my growing options I came across this little beauty of a site, "Fuck Yeah Cilantro". As the title suggests it's all about coriander/cilantro. Passion, they has it. Yer man from the YouTube should start his own potato site, "Fuck hell goddamned yeah sirreee Pertaters". Ha! It should be noted that I have a poor track record when it comes to the raising of living things, whether they be plants or animals. The fish tank was a hotbed of death and tragedy on a scale not witnessed since the second world war. But ho hum one must try....

This week I was also mostly stuffing croissants, vegetarian quiches, eclairs - both chocolate and coffee and some weird Grand Marnier choux thingy-ma-jig down my pie hole with uncontrollable haste. There's a new bakery opened near Well Done Towers and I am besotted with it's delectable French fancies and rustic breads. So much so in fact that I fell of my bike on the way home from the Boulangerie yesterday, such was my rush to get inside and let the eating begin, and as I careered towards the ground my only concern was for my box of precious buns and not my head. I got away with a grazed elbow and knee but the buns made it home safe. I am such a fat master.

there used to be six...

The funny thing about The Lisburn Road Bakery is the staff. They aren't the usual bakery staff, fat kid in a tabard wearing a hair net, but rather they all look like Apprentice candidates with their million dollar smiles, lovely hair, crisp white shirts and stockbroker ties. But they seem much nicer than Apprentice candidates and none of them look like back stabbing egomaniacs who would push over and old lady just to get ahead.

Next week I shall mostly be having a heart attack.....probably.

Have a good weekend.

There are many things we would love to do but don't, for obvious reasons

It was Wednesday morning and I was at my local coffee shop enjoying my usual Americano and chocolate muffin when I became very aware that there were two guys standing beside my table. This was not what I needed nor wanted. I wasn't really enjoying the whole coffee experience as it was, due in part, to the disappointingly stale muffin that the emo man child had served me. I would have returned it but he bore the look of an emo man child who no longer cared for the freshness of his own underwear let alone my muffin. And as the place was busy I was forced to sit at a large table beside the counter and not my favoured small table beside the window. Everything was all wrong and my sunny disposition was floundering .

oh the injustice
the humanity!

And then there were these two dudes, for they no doubt considered themselves to be dudes, loitering beside my large table. I did not want to share, Manuel is not the sharing sort. I was not in the mood to have my morning routine disturbed, any more than it currently was, by a brace of bronzed douches. Alas my attempts to avoid eye contact and the spreading out of the various flotsam and jetsam across the table, notepad, phone, niquitin/farting tablets etc did not put them off. So there I was in the wrong seat, eating a sorry excuse for a muffin, whilst doing the booth seat shuffle to make it clear to all and sundry that I was not with Douche A and his chum Douche B.

My chagrin was complete.

And what did I do about this whole sorry situation? Nothing, that's what. I did nothing. I just sat there trying to read Robin Cooper's, "The Timewaster Diaries" and block out the Tommy Hilfiger clad "delights" in front of me. But it was difficult what with their constant yapping, chortling, loud guffawing and over use of the word, "faaaan-tastic". But I just sat there and took it all. Even when Douche A knocked the table thus spilling my coffee a little as he tried to cross his massive tree sized legs, I just smiled. Leg crossing? In a booth? DOUCHE! But I just sat there politely smiling and accepting it all. My morning routine, one that I hold in high esteem and reverence, had been ruined. It will be many days before I get to right this wrong. But I just smiled and sucked it all up.

I put this ability to take injustice, and you cant call bad muffinry and bad company anything less than injustice, down to my training as a waiter. We are constantly at the receiving end of injustice. I mean there are tables you want to run after and ask them what there problem is. There are nights when I would pay someone just to get the opportunity to question the punters. I mean you whore yourself for them, you bend over backwards, you are charming and witty and they leave you nothing. You wanna confront them, you wonder what was it that you did wrong (even though you know it was them and not you).

But you don't do it. You cant do it, no matter how much you want to, you just cant confront the guest apres stiffing. I assumed no waiter would do it until I read this blog post on Serious Eats.com. I was flabbergasted to say the least. The waiter, feeling unhappy with her tip from a table, confronted the diners and even corrected the guest's maths. Seriously what? Not a fucking chance would you get way with that where I work and at a guess in many places. Not cool, not cool at all.

Getting stiffed by a guest is all part of the game. You win some, you lose some that's just the way it is. Don't get me wrong I get really freaking angry when I get stiffed by a table I know I did a good job on but you just have to let it go, or blog about them. Heh.

The guest from the story accepted that they had made a mistake and changed her tip amount. But for an extra $8 was it really necessary to embarrass the guest and leave yourself open to some major grief from the management. I'm all for waiters getting what we are due but not like that....

So what would you do if confronted by a waiter doing an Oliver Twist and asking for more? Personally I would just walk away shaking my head and never, ever, dine there again. And then blog about it, obviously.

Hat tip, Fork it Over.

Budge up Salman

Ah Jaysus lads, they're kidnapping waiters now.

From the BBC...

Man kidnapped in Ukraine released

A London waiter kidnapped in Ukraine has been released after his family paid a ransom of £10,800.

Eren Parker, 25, from Penge, south London, went missing while on holiday in southern city Odessa on 9 April.

His cousin, Erol Kesen, said Mr Parker was kidnapped by a gang who stunned him with a Taser gun and bundled him into a van after he had left a casino.

He returned home on Friday suffering from shock, cuts and bruises after his family paid a ransom, Mr Kesen said.

Believed 'rich'

He said Mr Parker was initially held in a garage then taken to a flat in the city.

The gang originally demanded $60,000 (£41,360) to release Mr Parker but agreed to hand him over in exchange for a smaller amount.

Mr Kesen said: "I was told the average wage in that country is $100 a month so I guess they thought he was rich because he was a Westerner and had been in the casino."

A Foreign Office spokeswoman said: "We were informed on 16 April that Mr Parker is safe and well."

Oh my! Be safe in the knowledge that Manuel has been moved to the same secret location where that insufferable bore Salman Rushdie was kept after the release of the Satanic Verses. Little Miss Manuel insists that neither she nor The Cousin will, on principal, negotiate with terrorists and that they are welcome to keep me as long as they want.

Charming.

But there's no point to kidnapping a waiter unless you really want a collection of random pens, corks, battered black shoes and their penny stash. Because that's all they have. And lets be honest waiters would make for pretty difficult kidnap victims. They would enjoy the rest, sitting doing nothing appeals to them and there are very few things you can threaten them with that they don't hear from both chefs and guests alike on your average Saturday night.

Plus they would ask for a percentage of the ransom....a Manuel's Ransom

eh 20% of that's mine if you don't mind Mr Kidnapper man....

Is he really a waiter and how can he prove it?

Waiters eh, lovely people and easily identifiable by their hearty laugh, beaming smiles and proud upright walk. Seriously. Even in a busy restaurant on a busy night the waiters are normally easy to pick out what with the matching uniforms, aprons and the plates of food and trays of drinks that they schlep from chef to table and back again.

There was a chap in the restaurant the other night dressed in black trousers, black shirt and black shoes and looked every part like a waiter. I had to double take as I thought for a moment they had hired a new guy without first informing me. Not that they have to inform me of anything but I would have been upset if they hadn't. And by upset I mean a barrel of rage and anger. But the fact that he was swigging from a Coors and pawing over the young lady beside him, and he was very much pawing all over her, assured me that he wasn't a new waiter.

Honestly it ain't hard to identify who is a waiter and who is not when you go to a restaurant. Finding the waiter can be a little tricky for sure but you would never approach or call over a chap just because they slightly look like a waiter now would you? Or maybe you would. I chuckled out loud, Manuel doesn't LOL he is too old for LOL'ing, when I read this story from Hoboken New Jersey. I knew a hobo called Ken, lovely fella, used to shout at the birds. Actually he used to shout at parked cars. Mentalism isn't funny.

What?

Anyhoo here's the story from NJ.COM....

'READY TO PAY?' Slick 20-something thief tricks restaurant patrons Saturday, April 18, 2009 By AMY SARA CLARK JOURNAL STAFF WRITER

HOBOKEN - A man who posed as a waiter made off with $186 in cash from unsuspecting patrons at two restaurants, police said yesterday.

Wearing a button-down dark blue or black shirt, a yellow tie and khaki pants, the spiky-haired 20-something pinched the first check at Hobson's Choice, 77 Hudson St., at about 7:20 p.m. Thursday, police said.

The man approached two women who had recently received their bill and asked if they needed anything else before paying.

The women - a 22-year-old from Secaucus and a 28-year-old from Hoboken - said no and handed him $90 in cash, police said. Waitstaff at Hobson's Choice have no dress code, a Hobson's employee said.

The man next went Margherita's Pizza and Cafe, at 740 Washington St., about 9 p.m. that night, gave his name as "Steve," and asked to be put on the wait-list for a table.

He sat in the waiting area for about 20 minutes and then approached three women and asked them if they were ready to pay, police said.

"He took the money from them and walked straight out of the restaurant," said Anthony Buzzerio, a manager at the restaurant.

The women - a 41-year-old from Manhattan, a 42-year-old from Woodbridge, and a 42-year-old from Scotch Plains - told cops they gave the man $96 for a $66 bill and expected change. The report did not explain why the women paid so much extra, police said.

Margherita's waitstaff wear black polo shirts with the store's logo on the front, Buzzerio said.

"The man was dressed very professionally," Buzzerio said. "Obviously (the customers) were a little confused."

Buzzerio said the restaurant absorbed the cost of the meal. "One we saw that they had put the money on the table - we wouldn't charge the customers twice."

"This is the first time I've come across something like this," Buzzerio added. "Hopefully he gets what's coming to him."

Oh my! What a brazen little scam monkey! Doing it once was bad enough but having the Henry Halls to do it twice? Well that's just too cheeky for words. I assume the tips were in the piles of cash that he squirreled away back to his evil geniuses lair, probably on top of a mountain or something or maybe just a grotty one room self contained studio apartment. You know the sort of place I mean, the sort of dwelling where old pedophiles go to die a lonely death. I hope they get him and get him soon and I hope they rip the spiky hair from his 20 something head.

Or alternatively they could give him the same sort of punishment that Larry David got on Curb when he got done, unfairly at that, for stealing forks from a restaurant. That'll learn him as we say round these parts.


But if you aren't sure if the guy or gal taking your money is a waiter or not just stare deep into their eyes, again much like Larry David does. If they stare back at you with the haunted and dead eyes of a slightly psychotic and unhinged individual who probably spends all day in bed only waking to feast on the remains of cold pizza and flat beer then bingo, you have a genuine waiter. If there is any sign of life, any sparkle at all then you should scream, from the top of your lungs, that he is an impostor.

Remember the scammers just want your money and the waiters....oh wait...

The bitterness of Waiters shines most when the sun comes out

I was filling the empty moments whilst the credit card machine performed it's dramatic whirring and beeping with the usual banal chit chattery. It's always the same, "Heading on out this evening are we?" or "Any plans for the weekend?" or if conditions are right, "Beautiful evening sir, could be a good weekend for [insert any number of prosaic middle class activities here - boat sanding, horse grooming, writing angry letters to the Daily Mail/Belfast Telegraph and so on]

I went with the weather, obviously, as it was warm and pleasant, outside that is, it was hot and sweaty and generally disappointing conditions for the waiting of tables inside.

go away...

"Looks like a cracker couple of days ahead sir. Do you have plans for the weekend?", I asked with no real care for the answer as the machine performed it's overly complicated ritual of dialing and waiting and dialing again.

"Oh it looks fabulous doesn't it?!", exclaimed the previous sullen looking fifty year old gentleman.

I mean right up to that point he had shown no enthusiasm for anything, not the exquisite duck and foie gras terrine he dined on nor the spiffing bottle of Chablis he took 15 minutes to choose and certainly not the playful hugging of his super sweet grandchild. No right up until that moment he was a contrary old bastard. But as soon as I mentioned the favourable weather conditions predicted by scientists, farmers and old people (they can feel it in their bones, apparently) for the weekend he was Mr Saturday Night, Mr Jovial even. His change from sour faced old bastard to the campest man in the restaurant was really rather remarkable.

"Fabulous! It's going to be just fabulous!", he repeated with an unnerving and unexpected swing of his arms. Oh my. I had to take a step back lest he strike me with one of his flailing arms. But he was still to tip so I had to play along.

"Indeed sir, any plans?" I was staring at the machine and willing it to process the payment quicker with every fibre of my sweaty being.

"Well I fancy a jaunt up the coast, let the old girl out", the previous look of death and bitterness that had haunted his eyes was gone and had been replaced with an impish twinkle. I wasn't sure how to respond, was he talking about his wife? She was sitting right there for fuck sake! Oh please god no, I wasn't in the mood for an all boys together type nudge-nudge wink-wink conversation.

Treading where even angles fear I carried on, "Right so...eh..up the north coast then is it?"

"Yes yes....", he was so excited little bits of saliva where forming on the edge of his mouth, nice "...I have a little MG sports car. Gonna let the old girl out, let her rip"

My relief was palpable.

He droned on about the car for what seemed like four hours, "saved her from a scrap dealer.....restored the old girl myself....gotta treat them right...blah blah fucking alloys fucking racing green...blah blah blah" but in fact only about 30 seconds.

Cars bore me senseless but people who talk about cars make me want to hurt something, normally the person talking about them. I glanced, between politely nodding, at the credit card machine. It finally clicked into life and spat out the little receipt. Thank fuckity.

"And there you go sir, you have a fabulous weekend now." I was gonna say fierce but thought better of it.

"Oh I will", says he as he lifted his jacket.

"And what about you, will you be out taking advantage of the sun this weekend waiter?" People who call me "waiter" as if that was my name also make me want to hurt something. Douchery at it's best.

"Me? Oh no sir I'll be working all weekend", I said applying some final leverage into his wallet. Sympathy rarely pays off but worth a try.

"But it's the weekend!", he says all aghast at the thought of someone having to work an entire weekend, more douchery thought I.

"Ah yes sir but your Friday is my Monday and it's a very busy weekend for us."

Slipping some dosh, a decent amount at that, into my sweaty, wet, paw he bade me farewell and off he trundled, no doubt with dreams of racing round the north coast with the wind blowing through the part of his head where there used to be hair.

It's easy to spot waiters on their way to work when it's sunny outside. They walk like whatcha call him from The Verve in that video for that song, Bitter Sweet Symphony. But they slouch like they are carrying the woes of the world and they begrudge, they begrudge everything for everybody. Even happy go lucky me (arf) threw a tantrum on the way to work on Saturday. Repeated punches to the face from Little Miss Manuel put me right. Bless.

Seriously, I hate working when it's lovely and sunny and all your tables are late because they are all drinking outside soaking up the final rays of delicious sunlight and I am left to stare out the window like the child with the debilitating illness that means he isn't allowed to go outside and play with all the other boys. I am off on Tuesday and Wednesday this week, have your brollies at the ready, it will pish down.

Todays post was brought to you by bitterness, an almighty persecution complex and prayers for rain, but not for Tuesday.

Desked and iPhones and nefarious types.

bad iPhone....

It has come to my attention, via a very scary email, that if you take a photograph of your desk with an iPhone and then submit that photo to Desked and then I or my good chum Mr Red Leeroy then publish the photo of your desk along with some pithy lines about the tidiness or otherwise of said desk then nefarious people with nefarious minds COULD, with a bit of jiggery pokery, find out where you live or work.

And they can do this with frightening accuracy.

Oh my.

The email came from blog chum and photographer, Toast. He can explain the whole thing better than I....

"Ha... when you take a picture with a digital camera, it by default adds in some extended data from the camera, 'exif' data, now traditionally this was info to help the photographer such as f-stop used, lens type etc - all very useful, also adding more information for filing - remember that Manchester congestion thingy I rumbled? I did that by looking at the exif data for one of the photos, after seeing 'mom with kids on white background' i knew that it was a) America ('mom') and b) from a stock agency ('on white background') so i went to istockphoto and searched the term and found it... Well I digress, now the iphone also has a gps it puts this info into the exif data as well, thus giving your location away in each photo... its not something I realised until I looked at that photo of yours...[FROM WELL DONE FILLET-NOW REMOVED] maybe worth bearing in mind... there are things that you can do to strip out exif data, and i think, that uploading only to a certain size in blogger might do that."

He also linked to my place of gameful employment, which was nice. Sorry did I say nice? I meant pant wettingly scary. Anyhoo I thought I should let you all know, just incase you worry bout such things. My advice is probably best not to submit photos to Desked that have been taken with your iPhone. But if you do, you do so at yer own risk.

Seriously, you cant take a poo without someone knowing about it....

(This post is a copy of the post on Desked)

This week I was mostly...

This week I was mostly looking forward to the English translation of Anna Sam's French bestseller, "Les Tribulations d'une Caissiere" or "The tribulations of a check-out girl" to you and me. This tale of woe from a former checkout girl has sold over a hundred thousand copies in France and has caused a bit of a rumble in the process. Her, behind the toilet roll, exposé of life on the front lines at a supermarket register looks right up my rue, if you know what I mean. In it Ms Sam details the abuse, tantrums, lies, thievery, sex, and humour of life at a supermarket. Sounds almost restaurant like! From sleazy Pierres asking if "she is open" or if she "is available" through to the untold joy and rudeness of people carrying on telephone conversations whilst she is trying to deal with their purchases Anna Sam has seen it all.

She hadn't intended to work in a supermarket but found herself there after failing to get anything else after graduating from University. One thing lead to another and she started a blog to document the daily shenanigans and malarky of her customers. From this came the book. Huzzah for her.

It makes you wonder though - with waiters, supermarket employees, bar staff, teachers and so on all blogging about the loutish, rude and unbearable behaviour of your average member of the public just where can one be a total asshole and not worry about being written about!

The English version will be out later this year.

This week I was also mostly striding about the grounds of a 18th century mansion, pretending I owned the place. As you do. Pity there were a few thousand others doing the same thing. Talk about ruining my afternoon dalliances. Yes, like most of the good people, and I'm sure quite a few of the not so good, we decided to get out of town on Monday. So we headed off to Castleward for a wander about the grounds.

It was all very jolly hockey sticks and what-what and tally ho. A little too much for my working class sensibilities if I am being honest. There were also too many children with names like Milly and Jack and Nora for my liking. There wasn't a Chantelle, a Shakira or a Britney Jane to be seen anywhere. I was worried for a while I had wandered on to the set of a Roald Dahl adaptation, "Milly and Molly and Ben and the case of the Lost Volvo." But that said they did have a decent gift shop, which is important to me, and the grub from the various stalls was scrummy, as little Jack probably would have said.

The only downside to the trip was the no show of the much lauded and heavily advertised pot bellied pig. I was a veritable mess when we couldn't find it. I was left to wonder just what it looked like, sigh. I picture it as being a frightening beast with three heads and seven tails. But a ride back up the long hill on the back of a tractor did perk me up somewhat and soon I forgot about the pig. I did enjoy my evening bacon sandwich more than normal that evening though.

When I wasn't reading about lovely French writers or wandering about mansions with the middle classes I was mostly listening to my chum's new single, "When Jackie Shone" by Cashier no9. Dan Todd et al, released their new single during the week and it's a spiffingly good tune. I urge you to get on it, as the kids might say, and eh I dunno...party down? Does that seem right, party down? I partied down once, didn't like it, got my head stuck. Anyhoo it's available from iTunes etc. and well worth the £1.58 for the 2 tracks.

Have a meh free weekend,
it's the best you can really hope for.

Thirty is the magic number

Oh it's been so busy of late. So so busy. I'm not complaining, much, but I have started to take a tube of vaseline with me to work. It makes the nightly shafting so much easier to take. I have to say we have been jolly brilliant too, the kitchen have been sober and quick and the punters, for the most part, cooperative and pleasant. The only exception being the table of twenty four that showed up one evening without having gone through the tedious 2 minute process of reserving a table in advance. They all thought that somebody else had done it. Oh how the chuckled when they realised that nobody had. There was less chuckling from the Waiter Chums working that night. It's probably a blessing for all concerned that I was not there.

waiter-lube
makes it easier to bear...

Even I have have been remarkably tantrum free, I did whinge for a day or three about tips, but still I was in sparkling form. There was a snappy/gruff period in the middle of Easter sunday when Waiter Chum Number 1 managed to annoy me. She snapped at me for seating a four top on a table that was in the middle of being deconstructed by a ten year old with sticky fingers and a huge case of OCD. Honestly he had arranged the cutlery into the shape of a crop circle. Impressive for sure but annoying, mainly for Waiter Chum Number 1. But chocolate soothed over our petulant moment.

But it appears that our customers are only happy when they arrive in groups of 30 or more. Take last week, we had...

A table of thirty singles from a singles/friendship club. Awh bless their little lonely hearts. But they were so sweet and lovely. Terrible ratio of women to men though and what men there were wouldn't have captivated the heart of even the most desperate of women. But they all had a giggle and seemed to love it. But it was hard serve them without going, "Awh" and feeling sorry for them. Probably no need as they were the ones who were drunk and I was the one with the sore smelly feet.

Then we had a table of 37 from the Canadian Fencing team. Wow, for athletes, they sure could drink. Whiskeys were nailed at such a rate of knots it made my gargantuan head spin. By the end of the night it was just the coaches left as all the younger members of the team had gone back to their hotel for an early night, or something like that. But the coaches sat on and I couldn't help listening in as I cleared up around them. Who would have thought that the world of competitive fencing was so political. Large Canadians with French accents became really rather animated as they waxed on about the old days of fencing and how it's all changed so much. For reasons of health and safety, mine that is, I removed the large pepper mill from their table. I thought they were talking about Errol Flynn but they weren't.

To be honest it was like being in A Louis Theroux documentary such was the oddness of their discussion. When I heard they were booked I assumed there would be lots of puns in it but there was not. Foiled again. Ahem.

And finally a table of 35 old age pensioners from Florida. Oh my. They were fun if a little hard of hearing.

"CABBAGE, IT'S CABBAGE" I confirmed for a little old lady.

Her husband wasn't so sure and asked for just a "bisl".

"Cabbage? You're telling me it's cabbage? Do I want cabbage? It's cabbage, you're saying it's cabbage, why wouldn't it be cabbage. I'll take just a bisl of your cabbage if that's what you are telling me it is."

This lead to an argument between them, "HOW'S HE GONNA KNOW WHAT A BISL IS MORT? HE'S IRSH! THERE'S NO IRISH JEWS. THEY'RE ALL CATHOLIC. SOME ARE PROTESTANT BUT THEY ARE ALL CATHOLIC. THEY'RE NOT JEWISH."

I did not know what a bisl was and I'm pretty sure I went to college with an Irish Jew.

"HE JUST WANTS A LITTLE BIT OF YOUR CABBAGE", shouted the little lady. It was surprising that such a voice could be mustered from such a small frame.

"Oy vey!" indeed.

Tonight's table of 30 are Dutch, probably my favourite non-Irish people to serve, outside of Americans obviously, due simply to their awesome "acshent".

Thirty really is the magic number....

Never seen The Goonies nor mowed a lawn

I have never seen The Goonies or any Indiana Jones movies.

I have never played a guitar or shot an animal.

I have never mooned in the street. Actually I have never mooned anywhere.

I have never read the Da Vinci Code and I never will.

I have never mowed a lawn.

The list goes on a bit but I have never done these not because I was scared to or because I didn't take the chance when I was offered it but due to lack of opportunity and/or common sense. Mooning in one thing, reading the Da Vinci Code is another all together. But essentially these are ordinary events and experiences that some how I have managed to miss out on, things that maybe would surprise some people, that gain a reaction.

"You've never seen The Goonies?", they say, their little faces contorted with bewilderment as if I was an alien from another planet/some sort of weirdo and they wander away clasping at their fat swollen tums tums in some sort of Goonies ritual.

I mean given the opportunity I would love to shoot someone playing a guitar, I'm looking at you here Jonny Buckland lead guitarist for Coldplay. But the chance has yet to reveal itself to me. I would love to float round the stratosphere looking down on the Earth but alas I am not a multi billionaire and I'm not so sure I would quite trust the Russians anyway. I mean it would be like going to space in a Ford Cortina. I would love to eat at El Bulli, gorging on the finest food by the finest chefs. But again, as I have mentioned, I am not a wealthy man. There are things we all want to do but cant because we aren't Bill Bloody Gates, actually there are lots of things we cant do because of Bill Gates.

But when life rolls you a hard eight I say bloody well go for it, watch that movie, mow that lawn, moon that ass.

Seriously.

I had a lady in for dinner last week, who had never eaten fish. That's right she had never eaten fish in her whole life. Not one forkful. I was amazed.

"Not even as much as a fish finger?", I asked with the bewilderment of a Goonies fan.

"No"

"You've never had fish and chips or salmon or tuna? Not even a tuna sandwich?"

"Eek no."

"Are you allergic to fish? Maybe a bit squeamish about fish?"

"No, just never really fancied it."

So I spent the next five minutes convincing her about the delight that is our seabass and how super scrummy it is with some simple garlic roasted potatoes on the side. I explained how it is cooked and what the flavours are like. Hell I even roped in Waiter Chum Number One for added back up. Her husband egged her on. I offered to get her something else, quickly, if she didn't like it and free of charge at that.

She went quiet as she pondered her options.

I went quiet as she pondered her options.

Her husband used his cutlery to beat out a drum roll. There was no real need but it did add to the suspense.

"I'll have..."

"Yes?"

"I'll have...."

"The seabass?"

"I'll have the pork thanks."

I was deflated, so much so in fact that I swapped sections and let somebody else serve them. Okay it was her choice and her cash but c'mon!

Never eaten fish eh? How frightfully odd.

So what "ordinary" food have you never eaten?

Veggies don't count.......obviously.

Now, I'm no David Copperfield but I am magic...

my name is Manuel the Magnificent
and I'l get your "decaf" right now

"Did you tell that lady you were gonna get her a skinny latte?", whispered Waiter Chum Number Four into my bad ear as we walked away from table six.

"What?", I scowled. The defective hearing in my right ear frightens me and reminds me of my mortality. It's the first, no doubt, of many bits to start falling off or breaking. Soon most will become superfluous, nothing more than decoration. Sigh.

"Did you tell that lady you were gonna get her a skinny latte?", repeated the littlest vegan in that slow slightly condescending way the youth talk to their elders.

(The Littlest Vegan would be a great TV show. Just like the Littlest Hobo she could travel from town to town solving mysteries and teaching the inhabitants a little about themselves and the "joy" of a diet free from meat and full of pulses and nuts. Mmmmm. Not. Although unlike the Littlest Hobo she would probably have to get a bus from town to town as the whole vegan thing would have her incapable of walking for more than 20 minutes at a time.)

"Yup"

"Do we do skinny milk?"

"Nope"

Waiter Chum Number Four was quite perplexed. He little face was a picture of wonderment and really rather reminded me off the time The Cousin was asked to explain what he did for a living - its something to do with farmers but not farmers and there are vets involved and maybe government ministers and who the fuck knows what else. Suffice to say she was confused, Waiter Chum Number Four that is, The Cousin is not a she. Moobs aside.

"So how are you gonna make her a skinny latte?"

"Magic!", I exclaimed doing the magician hand thingy up at her face.

Brushing me away she responded with, "Magic?"

"Damn right magic!"

And I proceeded to lift the full fat milk from the fridge and started frothing it for the requested latte. A latte it certainly would be, skinny it would not.

"But...but...but...but", she protested sounding every bit like a terrible white rapper. I'm looking at you here Vanilla Ice.

I made the coffee, popped it on a tray and handed it to my bewildered little Waiter Chum.

"So we are just gonna lie to her?"

"Lie? Me? A waiter? I think not!", and with that I waved my hand over the coffee and declared it now a skinny latte.

"See, magic!"

Obviously the woman who ordered the latte drank it and loved it and in no way questioned it's skinniness or otherwise. It was a sweet win-win situation. I mean if I told her that we didn't carry skinny milk it may have taken the edge off her evening, leaving her to go home disappointed and disillusioned with life and the ceaseless joy that is dining out. And as a consequence cause some downgrading in the tipular area and I needs the money folks. But mostly I just wanna make people happy. I am that magnanimous. No seriously.

"Magic hand" is a key waiter skill that allows you to turn something you have into something the guest needs without having to go through the ball achery of having to go to a store or speak to a chef, open a new bottle, grind beans or disappoint the guest by being honest and telling them we don't have what it is they desperately need to complete the night.

Need decaf but cant be mithered to grind beans because you have, just this minute, cleaned the grinder? Wave a magic hand over a cup of filter and SHAZAM you have a cup of decaf. Need a glass of Shiraz but there is none open? Who wants to go through the untold grief and monotony of opening a new bottle when you can simply pour a glass of the Cabernet that's just sitting there on the shelf with a cork popping out winking at you? Just wave a magic hand over it and SIM SALA BIM you have a lovely glass of hearty Shiraz.

And on it goes. Magic hand can "turn the music down" without ever actually turning the music down. I have used magic hand to both increase and decrease the heat. I've magic handed countless guests over the years with untold trickery and "magic" and never once been caught out. It's all about confidence and masterful bullshittery and I am a champion bullshitter. Ah magic hand, it's the waiter's Jedi mind trick and there is nothing that cant be magic handed.

Actually, that said, you cant magic hand a pan fried chicken breast into a Guinea fowl. Tried that one night. Ended up slapping my magic hand all over my magic face.....

Whoops!

I'll be eating chocolate and spraying aftershave to mask the smell of my evil feet if anyone is looking for me

If you came here expecting to hear about the Easter weekend exertions, malarkey and indeed endeavor of me, Manuel T Waiter, then I'm sorry for it shall not be today dear readers. For I am so utterly shattered from the weekend toil that I am unable to share with you in any way, that could be considered adequate or indeed amusing, the untold joy that was the last three or four days at work.

All I can offer you is this picture of a lovely piece of toast.
But I shall return forthwith, in other words tomorrow, and spread jam on that toast, metaphorically speaking that is, with stories of Canadians, Russians, Italians, a table of thirty singles and a woman who had never eaten fish. It was a delightful weekend all told. I'll be eating chocolate and spraying aftershave to mask the smell of my evil feet if anyone is looking for me. The shower can wait.

If you are looking for something else to do can I ask you to pop over to Desked and vote for our new banner.


Ta ta.

It was a very good Friday.....from what I remember.

Wine tasting?

On Good Friday?

Whilst every bar in the city, nay the country, was closed?

And me with a full service to do after?

Oh well, if I must.

It was sacrilegiously delicious.

Highlights being...

1. Alain Geoffroy Petit Chablis. So very drinkable without the need to pull faces.
2. Finca los Primos Barbera from Argentina. Nom nom nom. One day Robert Parker will use nom noms for wine reviews, until then it's just me. Good for you BBQ monkeys.
   
3. Ca Lunghetta Pinot Grigio. Not really a fan of Pinto G but this was really quite lovely. We tasted three the first which had no flavour, honestly I've had tap water with more going on in it (La Consulta) and another (La Casada) which was just a big stinky bottle of sugary water. Yak! But Ca Lunghetta Pinot Grigio was the Goldilocks of the three - floral, fresh and a must when the sun comes out.
4. La Mano Mencia Roble 2007, oh my now here's an oddity. This was the Curb Your Enthusiasm of the wines we tasted. Eh? Do you remember the first time you watched Curb? Did you get it? Did you really understand what it was all about? Did you just think it was a bit odd? But, like me, you stuck with it because whilst you were not quite sure what was going on and why others around you were ooohing and ahhhing you stuck with it because you were intrigued. That's what this was like. At first I was all like, "Yak it tastes like a dirty wet dog" and then I was all like, "Yeah it tastes like dirty wet dog, it's great!" It takes more than a mouthful to love it, but love it you will. Parker gave it 90 points.
5. But the outright winner, the one that caused much excitement and a clamor amongst the 3 of us to get to take the remaining content home was the 2006 Les Fumées Blanches, Sauvignon Blanc. Oh my. Oh my and I really mean that. Smokey, as the name suggests, with gooseberry flavours and a zesty thing going on this is just so lovely. Move over Ned, the French are back.....And for what it's worth Waiter Chum Number One got to take the bottle home and she got to go early too. I got hit upside my head and had to stay til close. But still, get it bought, get it drunk repeat til you fall over happy and with an inane grin on your face.*

*Manuel says, "Drink Responsibly"....tee hee hee.

And that's why we don't have a table 13....

Two waiters are clearing up at the end of the night.

"So what ya have?"

"Table of thirteen."

"Thirteen? Sweet."

"Nah not really...bit dull to be honest."

"Work party?"

"Leaving do, I think? The big fella in the middle with the hair...he was doing all the talking. Yammer yammer yammer all night long about what he wants done when he's away."

"Ooooh get him."

"Yeah and he was chuffing about with the food too."

"Eh?"

"Yeah messing about with it. I was all like are you gonna eat that or play with it dude?"

"What's that all about?"

"I KNOW!"

"Thirteen though, you must have made money"

"Money? You joking? Sake. They only ordered bread. Freaking bread man!"

"Bread? Just bread? Tough break man. Bet they had water with it."

"Aye you'd think so. No, they had wine. Money for wine but not for proper food. Mooks."

"Seriously?"

"For reals."

Waiters - been getting stiffed for centuries.*

image from worth1000.com

*even in made up stories....

And that's also why most restaurants don't have a table thirteen or ever set a table for thirteen - fear of getting stiffed.

When your words come back to haunt you......

So there I was waffling on about how accidents happen and about people need to be less litigious and how much nicer the world would be if we all just treated accidents as being just that. Eh? Remember how I was galloping about on my high horse looking down on the little people with their mouths open who demand financial recompense and handjobs for even the most minor of mistakes, boo-boos, and gaffes? Well that came back to bite me on the ass with no small amount of gusto.

Which was disappointing.

see how my own words cam back to haunt me...

I was down dealing with with my "surprise" table of thirty three Canadians, lovely people, when from the corner of my eye I could see the manager dealing with my other table of twenty European business people here on business (but they wouldn't tell me what this business was despite my many attempts to gouge it from them). You don't want/need a manger at your table at the best of times but even less so when it's check time. I made a dash, as much as any fat lad can dash, back to the bar to wrestle control of the situation from the manager.

"And Manuel will take that for you", says the manager and hands me the credit card machine.

I performed all the usual post meal niceties and checks. When the waiter asks you if you loved everything when you are paying the bill it is mainly to remind you that the service was top bloody notch and seeing as you have your wallet open and all that ahem cough-cough. But I wasn't really worried as it was a table of twenty so they would be liable to incur a service charge of 10%. Their bill was £671.00 at the last count, nice. God bless expense accounts and the associated gold cards that come with.

The woman paying the bill handed me her American Express card. We don't take Amex cards, who the hell does in this town? I made my usual little joke, "Ah sorry madam we don't take Amex.....Visa, Mastercard, Valentines, Christmas, Mother' Day cards are all good but no Amex." She chortled, politely, and called me a "character". I was hoping she meant somebody smooth and lovely but she was probably thinking more of Groucho Marx's cynical and sarcastic, Rufus T Firefly. Meh.

She reached into her wallet, purse, filofax thingy-ma-jig and produced another card. If you wanna know where all the credit has gone I suggest you take a peek in this woman's bag, she had more cards than Christmas. Seriously. Anyhoo she handed me her card and I slotted it into the machine but as I hadn't printed the bill I wasn't quite sure of the final total so I asked her to hand me her copy. Which she duly did.

I scanned the bill once, got the total and keyed it into the credit card doofer. I checked the bill again and realised that there had been no service charge added. At first my heart sank and then started racing as I wondered just how I would stab to death the manager, in a manic frenzy or slowly thus making the pain last longer. Now normally I fill the minute or two that it takes to process the credit card payment with inane but jovial banter. I did not fill the processing minutes with inane or jovial banter this time. No I just stood there seething and shaking with rage.

£67 for fuck sake! That's like a hundred of your US dollars, seventy four of your funny Euros and like 4000 of your Canadian dollars. Rage!

Sixty fucking seven quid, lost and gone. No hope of recovery. I said goodbye to the business people who were here on business and then turned to immerse myself in the task of clearing their shit up. It wouldn't have been shit if I had got my sixty frigging quid but I had been stiffed because the manager had forgot to put the service charge on the god damned bill, so it was shit. I muttered my plan of attack as I cleared the table. I was thinking that I would start by playing it cool, disappointed but mature and then crank it up to an almighty ruckus, maybe a brouhaha, but probably just a ruckus, it would really depend on his reaction.

But then my words came flashing back,

"There appears to be no such thing as an accident or genuine mistake anymore. Well actually there are plenty of accidents and genuine mistakes, it's just the reaction to them that has changed. It's all, "Woe is me"...."

Sake. So I just sucked in my cheeks and chalked it up. Plus the manager that omitted to put the service charge on the bill is actually the nicest person in the world, true story. Shouting at him would have been like shouting at the Andrex Puppy.

I really hate growing up and being mature about things. I'd much rather mess myself. Actually I'd much rather have the sixty quid. If I'm really being honest I'd rather have the sixty quied and mess myself......

The Mapping of the Waiter's Brain...

The scientific team here at Well Done Fillet have, without a doubt, just completed their most important work to date, The Mapping of the Waiter's Brain. Inspired partly by the mapping of a Cat's Brain and partly by the cruel and snide remarks of chefs and managers that all waiters ever think about is tips, our crack team of scientists spent untold minutes scanning and cataloguing the medulla oblongata of about 25 waiters. They were lured here with the promise of 15% wine, a hot meal and £15.00 in cash. The results were startling....

you really will need to clicky to make biggy....

Professor Hans Thatdodishes noted,

"Whilst tips do clearly form the central basis of the average waiter's brain we can see that there are many other lobes, glands and cortexes all playing a vital part in making waiters the fun and lovable scamps they are. And if we only knew how to remove the "you guys" blockage then maybe just maybe the world of waiting, restaurants and dining out in general would be a much more wholesome and pleasant experience. But we don't so "You guys", will just have to deal with it. Also the "cortex of nagging regret" is suppressed at all times with a cocktail of wine, whiskey and tax free loot. The short fuse is most likely to be blown when parties arrive late, usually within the last half hour of service, and state that they wish to have some,"late supper". This can lead to much swearing and an almost complete closing of the Commitment Spot. The short fuse can also be triggered by tardiness, poor tipping, rudeness, drunk chefs, drunk with power managers actually the list was infinite."

Thank you Professor Hans Thatdodishes! Your work is vital and one day will be rewarded with the Nobel Prize (once we get that little Korean difficulty sorted eh). The professor has already started work on his next project, The Mapping of a Guest's Brain. He is looking for volunteers who will work for a £6.95 voucher for a one course dinner, free dessert coupon and the change in his pocket. Already there are 15,000 applicants. Work on the mapping of a Chef's Brain will start after that. [You can insert your own joke here]

"There ain't no such thing as a free lunch"...oh really?

"There ain't no such thing as a free lunch" was a phrase popularized by the sci-fi writer Robert A. Heinlein. Now I know nothing about the man except for that one fact but I will wager he never worked a split shift on a Friday in a restaurant in Belfast. Because if he had he would have indeed discovered that there is such a thing as a free lunch and quite possibly dinner too and even a voucher or forty for the next visit.

If he was to work such a wonderful and fun shift he would have to agree that his initial statement was indeed incorrect unless followed up quickly with the following stipend, "unless of course the waiter drips a teeny weeny drip of water or wine or gravy on your table or Gordon forbid the kitchen chaps are ever so slightly slow getting the food from the kitchen to your fat tum tum. Then your lunch is free." Not quite as catchy but accurate.

It's a fucking shameful state of affairs.

"Me wants free stuff!!", they cry, sometimes literally, as the food falls from their mouth as they maybe waited a fraction of a minute longer than they probably should have to get their coffees. Even the most slightest of quibbles, criticisms, or pea in it's pod out of place, perceived or otherwise, is liable to produce an avaricious response from even your most unassuming of guests.

There appears to be no such thing as an accident or genuine mistake anymore. Well actually there are plenty of accidents and genuine mistakes, it's just the reaction to them that has changed. It's all, "Woe is me" and my day/night/brand new never been worn before made in the mountains of Lithuania by blind monks and costs more than you'll ever earn in your life time Mr Waiterman sweater is ruined. It's funny, not funny ha ha I should add, that in nearly twenty years of active service as a front line plate schlepper I have yet to spill, or even heard about a spill, that landed on a regular everyday shirt purchased from The Gap or Next or Gord damned Primark. It's always Armani or Gucci or one of those fellas.

I lived in the countryside and I know what bullshit smells like and it sometimes smells of red wine and cheap aftershave.

I spilled wine on a woman on night, a teacher as it happens, and she went gaga, ballistic, off the deep end. Now it was an accident and she had every right to be upset and annoyed. I was upset and annoyed too but at least I wasn't honking of cheap Cabernet Sauvignon. But yes she had every right to be be absolutely pissed with me. She calmed down after a couple of minutes when she realised that there was only a tiny bit of red wine on her sleeve. I tidied up her table and reset it and made everything all lovely again. I issued her with a new bottle of wine. I got her details and told her to bill us for the dry cleaning. I assured her that we would comp the bill for HER food. She was pleased and all seemed well.

But when I went back to the table a moment later she had changed her mind and was insisting that we furnish her table of 30 with free wine and as well as her food being comped she wanted a further discount on the entire bill. I chortled at the mere suggestion of it and got the manager who found the whole situation less chortley than I. She was firmly told that under no circumstances would she be getting any more wine or discount. She puffed out her cheeks and as casually as you like said, "Heh...it was worth a try."

And it's that attitude that irks me the most, the get the arm in attitude. It sucks and it is just another manifestation of the, "fuck you, you owe me" culture, the "where there's blame their a claim" culture. Yes you are within your rights to make a fuss and be annoyed if things go horribly wrong but you are entitled to the deeds of the restaurant and the first new born of the head chef, not that would really want that, nor does the waiter have to wear sack cloth and ashes for the rest of the service.

It's annoying that those who make the biggest and loudest fuss will always be compensated the best for any error on our behalf no matter if it's genuine or not just to shut them the fuck up. But those who just push their plate away and say little or nothing get exactly that, little or nothing. Well no more, I will fight for the meek, the quiet and the genuine. Not for the brassy, loud and vulgar sorts that mess themselves at the teeniest sight of blood on their steak or drop of gravy on their brown shirt.

Society is in a mess and it's thanks, in part, to the subscribers to the "fuck you, you owe me" culture. Meh.

And before you ask, yes it is lonely up here on my high horse. Now I must gallop off, there's a certain broadband supplier that owes me for two days down time.

Wonder what I can nail them for..........

The problem with Brendan...

"Brendan!", I shrieked with all the panic of the residents of an Indian Ocean island facing into the unforgiving horror of a Tsunami. I am a little dramatic it has to be said.

Except it wasn't a Tsunami, it was Brendan. Brendan is a Tsunami all the same, a Tsunami in a musty greeny browny sweater and much like a Tsunami he leaves you washed out, utterly devastated and wishing you had just stayed at home. And he was rolling towards me and I had no chance of escape.

I do not like Brendan or his visits to the restaurant as Brendan has a problem.

the Gatling Brendan Machine Gun....

It's not, just, his frighteningly large collection of sweaters that dogs appear to have slept in nor is it his constant misinterpretation of the waiter/guests relationship (I really didn't need to know about his recent bowel trouble) nor is it his complete inability to regulate the level of his voice (he's like Cillit Bang's Barry Scott crossed with Dinny Byrne), he is so loud that the last time he ordered the lamb the kitchen had it started before I had even written the order up.

No Brendan's problem is so much more annoying than any those. They could be considered little foibles, eccentricities, quirks if you will by comparison to his major malfunction. For you see Brendan suffers from tourettes. Not the "feck, girls, arse and bum" type of tourettes that one might witness in the street from the jovial chaps who sit on park benches ruining the view for the rest of us and not the type of tourettes that gets you your own documentary show on channel four either.

Brendan suffers from that most manly of diseases - the inability to respond to a simple question with a simple answer. He is relentless. Unbearably so. Like a Gatling machine gun he fires out the lamentably poor one liners and putrid puns hitting everyone that comes with in close proximity. Dining with him must be like eating with an unfunny Rodney Dangerfield.

"Ah good evening Brendan, how are you?" I asked with an obviously weary tone.

"Sure aren't you looking at me?!", he says all boomy and at the same time lilty. I mean what does that even mean?

Ignoring him I carried on with, "Table for two is it?"

Brendan looked to his left and then to his right, mimicking Travis Bickle, and says, "No, there's forty of us!"

Asshole.

And so it continued for the rest of his two hour plus visit.

"How would you like your steak good?"

"In a pan"

Asshole.

"Would you like to taste the wine?"

"Noooo leave it there and I'll ingest it without tasting it."

Asshole.

"Did you enjoy your meal?"

"Noooo" says he beaming up at me with his plate emptied and quite obviously he had gone round the edge of it with his finger too the dirty beast.

The thing is you don't even have to ask him a question to get a silly answer/comment. For example cleaning an empty table near him is like a red rag to a fat musty greeny browny bull, "Ya missed a bit" he says whilst laughing like he is on stage at the Oscars.

Asshole.

The thing is I blame myself for encouraging him. The first time I served him he was already known to waiter chum number one who said he was an okay sort of chap. I took this at face value and listened to his boring little stories and tedious puns and even faked laughed at all the right places too. He has taken this as a green light to continue. Which is frankly disappointing.

But it gets worse.

He cant sit in his seat in the standard position the way most adults do, that is to say looking forward at the person sitting in front of him. Oh no our Brendan sits at a jaunty and carefree angle that allows him to see and comment on anything and anybody in his eye line and his eyes are always moving. I happened to seat a seemingly quiet table of three women beside him on his last outing thinking that this would calm him down a bit, I was sure that he would reign in the hilarity horses around strangers.

Not a bit of it and within twenty minutes it had become one table of five instead of a two and three. Oh yes Brendan is quite the ladies man and the fact that he was with his wife didn't seem to concern him. He was buying drinks and insisting on paying for their dinner. They politely declined but he insisted saying that he was a banker and could afford it. I had to ask him again what he did for a living as I was sure he had said something else.

He knew what I meant.

Apparently he was transfered North from the Dublin office. I wonder why! If familiarity breeds contempt then aloofness will restore respect. Either that or a few fake "I'm sorry we're full" will.

The Greatest Breakfast Ever....

Sunday, I love a Sunday off. My Sundays off are few and far between so I like to make the best of them when I am freed of the horror of sticky fingered children and Todd the Toucher and his lecherous eyes and peculiar shuffling.

"Make the best of it" mainly involves sitting, eating, occasional moving and copious amounts of scratching. I heart Sundays, I really do. But as much as I love a good Sunday scratch and sniff I do wish I could spice up my breakfast, do something new. So it would be fair to say I both whooped and hollered with excitement when I came across these fantastic little fancies yesterday.

Waxy Dan, a fellow bon vivant, blogger and sometime twitterer put me on to the best thing to happen to breakfast since watching Frank Bough whilst eating a black pudding and egg sandwich. Dear sweet and joyful readers I give you the bacon cupcake....

don't they just bring a tear to your eye?
they must taste like how you would imagine an angel to taste
a pig angel that is....

Bacon? Good.

Cupcakes? Good.

Bacon Cupcakes? Well that's just artery clogging, early death producing, cholesterol raising heaven in paper sleeves right there. If someone good rustle me up a batch and courier them to me I would forever be in your debt.

Seriously.....

Hat tip Waxy Dan and The Domestic Geek.