Hammer time...
What with one thing and another I forgot to pack my service cloth and apron into my bag before I left for work last Thursday. This was most disappointing, for so many reasons. With all the crap and crapola that I lug from home to work and back again, that is of no use to man nor beast (I'm looking at you here fold away Picnic Tool), it's ridiculous that I forgot to pack two of the most important items for any self respecting/self loathing waiter.
I delved into to my bag to retrieve my apron but came out with a quarter pound of cola pips, two moleskin books, about thirty pencils and the completely pointless, unless you are going on a picnic obviously, fold away picnic tool. I was annoyed by this oversight, annoyed because my memory is deteriorating at an alarming rate and annoyed because I hate not wearing an apron during shift. I feel terribly naked without it plus I need it's various pockets just to get through a shift with a degree of success, I mean where else am I gonna keep my cola pips?! I try not to use my trouser pockets during shift because when you are standing at a table about to take an order you don't want to be rooting around in them for a pen as you run the very real risk of looking like a deviant.
I can get by without my service cloth by borrowing one from a benevolent waiter chum or by gamefully employing some napkins, but I struggle without my apron. It's my trousers you see, they are, as LMM put's it, more than a touch MC Hammerish on it. It's what comes from being short of leg and generous of waist and whilst there are many outfitters for fellows of the tall and large variety I have yet to come across any catering for the vertically challenged chubby chap. It's a gap, a large gap at that, in the market that needs filled. But anyways my apron provided some cover from the baggy disappointments that are my trousers. Honestly I look like I have been amputated just below my knees. So not having my apron for cover was terribly upsetting.
I called the glorious leaders in the office, where else would they be, on the off chance they would have some new aprons in stock. They did! I was delighted as I had been saved from flouncing round the restaurant all night looking like an extra from an early 1990's hippity hop video. My delight and relief didn't last for long though when I was presented with this new "apron".
"What's this?", I asked of the long haired task manager as I held aloft a tiny piece of black cloth with the word Tiger, a brand of beer, sewn onto it in garish gold lettering.
"It's your new tiger apron. Grrrrrrr", replied the long haired taskmaster.
I was holding the offending apron up with one hand and peering at it like it was a used pair of jockey's that had been found down the back of the couch. It would be fair to say I was less than impressed.
"Tiger? Apron? It's barely a cloth let alone an apron. They used more material to make my boxer shorts for Ramsay's sake!"
This garnered quite a bit of teheeing from the assembled group of chums, both waiter and chef. Cheeky gits. Maybe not the best analogy though. But eventually I had no choice but to tie the bloody thing round my waist. It was so tiny I couldn't even tie it from behind which is the expected method. Meh, this was all so disagreeable and quite degrading too.
It barely came down to my crotch and didn't even have a pocket. I mean what is the freaking point? Who was it intended for, child waiters? Was it from a Fisher Price ,"My First Waiting Job" play set? Ugh. In order to minimize it's comedic effects at tables I decided the best approach to take would be to stand closer to the table thus affording the guests less of a view of it and the horror beneath it. And as a consequence a closer view of my crotch. Win win all round then.
Obviously this was unworkable as I discovered when I tried to take the order from a table of two. I was so close to the table that they practically had to double back just to look up at me. Now this didn't really bother me but when I nearly knocked over a wine glass with my protruding apron I had to abandon this stratagem. Before you ask it was new, ergo it was stiff. Honestly, your minds are in the gutter.
My chagrin was complete when one chum remarked that maybe the apron should say tabby instead of tiger and then "lol'd" to further add insult to my already very injured ego. Actually saying the word lol out loud is very disappointing from anybody over the age of twelve.
This was the waiter equivalent of forgetting your sports kit at school and having to do gym in your pants. Horrendous.
I will not be making this mistake again.
I delved into to my bag to retrieve my apron but came out with a quarter pound of cola pips, two moleskin books, about thirty pencils and the completely pointless, unless you are going on a picnic obviously, fold away picnic tool. I was annoyed by this oversight, annoyed because my memory is deteriorating at an alarming rate and annoyed because I hate not wearing an apron during shift. I feel terribly naked without it plus I need it's various pockets just to get through a shift with a degree of success, I mean where else am I gonna keep my cola pips?! I try not to use my trouser pockets during shift because when you are standing at a table about to take an order you don't want to be rooting around in them for a pen as you run the very real risk of looking like a deviant.
I can get by without my service cloth by borrowing one from a benevolent waiter chum or by gamefully employing some napkins, but I struggle without my apron. It's my trousers you see, they are, as LMM put's it, more than a touch MC Hammerish on it. It's what comes from being short of leg and generous of waist and whilst there are many outfitters for fellows of the tall and large variety I have yet to come across any catering for the vertically challenged chubby chap. It's a gap, a large gap at that, in the market that needs filled. But anyways my apron provided some cover from the baggy disappointments that are my trousers. Honestly I look like I have been amputated just below my knees. So not having my apron for cover was terribly upsetting.
I called the glorious leaders in the office, where else would they be, on the off chance they would have some new aprons in stock. They did! I was delighted as I had been saved from flouncing round the restaurant all night looking like an extra from an early 1990's hippity hop video. My delight and relief didn't last for long though when I was presented with this new "apron".
"What's this?", I asked of the long haired task manager as I held aloft a tiny piece of black cloth with the word Tiger, a brand of beer, sewn onto it in garish gold lettering.
"It's your new tiger apron. Grrrrrrr", replied the long haired taskmaster.
I was holding the offending apron up with one hand and peering at it like it was a used pair of jockey's that had been found down the back of the couch. It would be fair to say I was less than impressed.
"Tiger? Apron? It's barely a cloth let alone an apron. They used more material to make my boxer shorts for Ramsay's sake!"
This garnered quite a bit of teheeing from the assembled group of chums, both waiter and chef. Cheeky gits. Maybe not the best analogy though. But eventually I had no choice but to tie the bloody thing round my waist. It was so tiny I couldn't even tie it from behind which is the expected method. Meh, this was all so disagreeable and quite degrading too.
It barely came down to my crotch and didn't even have a pocket. I mean what is the freaking point? Who was it intended for, child waiters? Was it from a Fisher Price ,"My First Waiting Job" play set? Ugh. In order to minimize it's comedic effects at tables I decided the best approach to take would be to stand closer to the table thus affording the guests less of a view of it and the horror beneath it. And as a consequence a closer view of my crotch. Win win all round then.
Obviously this was unworkable as I discovered when I tried to take the order from a table of two. I was so close to the table that they practically had to double back just to look up at me. Now this didn't really bother me but when I nearly knocked over a wine glass with my protruding apron I had to abandon this stratagem. Before you ask it was new, ergo it was stiff. Honestly, your minds are in the gutter.
My chagrin was complete when one chum remarked that maybe the apron should say tabby instead of tiger and then "lol'd" to further add insult to my already very injured ego. Actually saying the word lol out loud is very disappointing from anybody over the age of twelve.
This was the waiter equivalent of forgetting your sports kit at school and having to do gym in your pants. Horrendous.
I will not be making this mistake again.
