Megorious

Here’s a Thanksgiving story that will warm you heart and soul…

A restaurateur in Southbank, Australia, used Facebook to track down a group of dodgy diners after they stepped out for a smoke and never came back.

The drama unfolded last week when a group of five young diners, after drinking at the bar, requested a table at the Southbank restaurant.

Over dinner, they worked their way expertly through the menu, ordered and drank fine wines and, after ordering dessert, slipped out “for a smoke”. They kept going. Leary (the restaurateur) was left with an unpaid bill for about $520, and little hope of recovering his money.

“It was then I remembered that when the group arrived, one of them had asked about one of our waitresses who was not working that night,” Leary said yesterday.

The waitress gave him a name and then he thought of Facebook.

“I searched the name and there he was, large as life,” he said. “And he was pictured with his girlfriend - the only girl who had been in the group. The site also gave me his place of employment, which was handy.”

But this wasn’t just your everyday, run of the mill bill dodging. The despicable dodgy diners were servers. Yes, servers stiffed their fellow servers. This was a wait crime of the most severe form.

Leary discovered that both the man and his girlfriend worked at another Southbank restaurant. Angered that it was workers from his own industry who had perpetrated the scam, he stormed down to the restaurant and confronted the restaurant owner, who promised to deal with the matter. Within hours, the restaurant manager arrived at Seagrass with the ringleader, who not only paid the bill, but left a generous tip for staff.

In the end, the shiesty servers got served — they were fired from their job.

Let this be a lesson to never turn your back on your own people. Also, if you’re going to commit a crime, don’t have a public Facebook profile.

I never worked at Applebee’s. I never referred to myself as “Applebuddy Ryan.” And I certainly have never eaten at Applebee’s.

All of the above things are of course not true. Despite my best efforts, the memory of my six months of waiting tables at Applebee’s so many years ago lingers in my cerebral cortex. Sadly….

An unsuspecting and clueless diner recently went to her local Applebee’s and when her “food” arrived it was accompanied by a “use by” sticker. That’s what she gets for ordering the chicken and broccoli fettuccine alfredo.

Valentine’s Day and National Condom Awareness week always coincide. Coincidence? I think not. I also think it’s a little silly to have a week dedicated to condom awareness. Aren’t we all already aware of condoms?

The two busiest days in the restaurant industry are Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day. Each come with their own annoying nuisances too. Mother’s Day is for shut-ins. For a lot of those mothers being treated to brunch this is the one day a year they get out of the house. Think of the mother from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. Mother’s Day is probably the one day a year her kids get her off of the couch. Valentine’s Day is for amateurs; the night when young couples try to act like adults. The girls get all dolled up in scarlet; the men take off their Red Sox hats and tuck in their striped shirts.

Last night was amateur night at Excelsior. What does amateur night mean in the service industry? It means the servers go in an hour earlier and work two hours later because the entire restaurant has to be converted to accommodate nothing but deuces. All those big tables that can seat six to ten people must be rolled away so that room can be made for all those lovey dovey couples.

My first table last night was the quintessential Valentine’s Day table. The girl was, of course, draped in scarlet but she stood out more than any other girl because of her fiery red hair. V-Day is obviously her day to burn bright. From the moment they sat down the boy could not keep his hands to himself. He was constantly holding and kissing her hands, which caused difficulty when attempting to take their order or even grab their attention. In fact, ten minutes after they sat, they had yet to order any sort of tasty and refreshing beverage. This posed a problem since Saturday Night Rules were in effect. Eventually they ordered cocktails but it was nearly half an hour after their arrival when they placed their order.

The biggest deal breaker on amateur night is wine. Many boys pretend to know what they are doing when ordering wine but the server can always tell that they don’t. Lucky for them the girl can never tell. Tucked stripe shirt declined my offer of assistance with the wine list and took the task on solo. The only problem is that Excelsior has a 40 page wine list with more than 1000 different bottles of wine from every wine region of the world. I watched from a far as he flipped and flipped and flipped whilst at the same time maintaining his controlling grasp on Scarlet’s hands. Eventually he gave up and asked me for a suggestion. This act is always clever on the guy’s part because it sends the message to the girl that the guy would rather gaze at her than waste time perusing the wine list. Naturally I referred him to my default wine, Caymus. He didn’t question me at all. Now Caymus, at $290 a bottle, is in the mid-price range. What? Did you think I was going to suggest a $40 bottle of wine? Please.

Last night was slower than expected though, mostly because Boston was encased in ice. Amateur couples came and went except of course for Scarlet and Striped Shirt, who were so engrossed with one another that they marinated for over three hours. Even when their entrees came they refused to unlock their bony digits. The food sat there for about twenty minutes before they touched it. Striped Shirt ate everything of course, Scarlet ate about a third.

But the biggest reason Valentine’s is amateur night has to do with tipping. The tips are shit, usually between 10-15%. (21% is the norm.) This is why wine is key. Servers have to jack the check up as high as possible: 10% on $400 is a lot more than 10% on $200. And no guy wants to look cheap on amateur night. That’s why you sell as much as possible. The guy will never complain or even ask about the price because there is no limit to his love. There is however a limit to his credit card.

At the end of the meal the $470 check must have been a bit of a shocker. You can always tell by the way the guy quickly glances over the check. He opens it, scans down for the total, and then slides in the plastic. The real amateurs will always flinch by reopening the check for a split second to make sure they saw the right price. There is nothing they can do though. They go home, (hopefully) get some action, then fret over their deficit in the morning.

Valentine’s Day makes no sense to me. Maybe it’s because I’m single and don’t believe in love or maybe it’s because I see no reason to spend so much money trying to impress a girl. There are plenty more romantic gestures than buying chocolate or jewelery or dropping $500 on dinner. Personally, I’d rather serenade a woman with Danke Schön.

A few weeks before Christmas I was fired from Restaurant L, the job that I held for nearly two years. I knew that my eventual demise was approaching. I was counting on it. I was pushing for it. It was four months in the making.

Some woman named Lindsay hired me at L. When I went in the very next day I learned that she had been fired. Her assistant, Mike, was thrust into the most undesirable job ever. Mike was a great boss though, probably the best boss I ever had in a restaurant. I had also never seen someone get so burned out. Mike was given no support in any way, shape, or form. He was always at the restaurant; usually working 80 hours a week. I was always impressed that Mike never dropped dead at work. But all good things must come to an end….

L never made any money. Never. The reason was that the nincompoops in charge didn’t know how to run a restaurant. Actually, they couldn’t even run Louis Boston, the poshly over-priced glorified retail store that excreted L. Mike’s exit was the result of pressure from his bosses to churn a profit. But it was never Mike’s fault. It wasn’t the fault of the restaurant employees either. And is certainly wasn’t the fault of Chef Pino Maffeo’s avant-garde cuisine. It was the fault of Louis Boston but they would never admit to that; so Mike was ousted…
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Work was dead last night. As a result we spent the majority of our evening quoting “Family Guy.” The few of us working just stood around outside doing absolutely nothing productive. Occasionally I went inside to check on my table (table singular) but then I would rejoin in the tomfoolery outside. Jack came out to smoke a cigarette and joined in the conversation. We didn’t talk about anything in particular at first but then the conversation turned to smoking. Actually the conversation turned to not smoking. Jack has been a smoker for years but he really wants to quit. We all told him the best way to quit smoking is to just quit cold turkey. That’s where the conversation turned ridiculous. Where did the expression “cold turkey” come from? What does it mean? And why is it so funny to a bunch of guys bored at work?

Cold turkey means to quit something, usually a drug, in a sudden and abrupt manner. We had no real theories as to the origin of “cold turkey,” though the idea of a turkey chilling in the cold was rather humorous for some reason. Eventually I wondered aloud if anyone had ever literally quit cold turkey. TED, for instance, loves turkey, whether it be fried, smoked, hot or cold. If TED ever became addicted to turkey in its cold state, in such a manner that an intervention was required, would he be able to shake his cold turkey addiction? How does one quit a cold turkey addiction? Cold turkey? See, the comedic possibilities are mind boggling!

For lunch today I had a cold turkey sandwich. It was delicious. Is it possible that my cold turkey conversation last night foreshadowed my lunch today? Probably not. I can have a turkey sandwich anytime I want. It’s just a coincidence that I bought cold turkey from the deli two days ago. Although, if I had been mindful at the time I was devouring my sandwich, I might have realized that this was foreshadowing what was about to happen to me. I wasn’t, and what happened to me next was quite the surprise.

I left the apartment for school. I descended the stairs fiddling with my iPod, not paying attention to anything besides my music selection. Four steps before the bottom of the well I looked up. Perched outside the glass door of my apartment building was a turkey.

Last weekend it was quite beautiful and warm. The highs Saturday and Sunday topped 70 degrees. Some might even say spring finally sprung but we lapsed into a winter remission yesterday. It rained and got down to near freezing last night. This morning it was even colder and I awoke to snow. SNOW! Later the snow turned back to rain but the winds picked up and the high temp soared to a whopping 37 degrees. So yeah, it got cold.

I stood on the fourth step in awe of the giant turkey just a few feet in front of me. In addition to being cold, the turkey, who I named Freedom, seemed confused. Freedom was also in my way. I had to go, but there was a 4 foot tall turkey blocking my door. I didn’t know if Freedom was simply lost or if he was there to avenge his brethren who I just so happened to devour on toasted bread with mayonnaise.

I pushed the door open slowly and Freedom moved aside. Across the street, two immigrants watched and laughed at the cold turkey while smoking cigarettes. If someone invents the cold turkey burrito tomorrow, I’ll know who. I cautiously exited the building as Freedom cautiously moved away. I thought about going back upstairs for my camera, but I needed to get to school. I didn’t want anything to happen to Freedom though. It would be a shame if he got hit by a car this far away from Thanksgiving. I thought about what I should do and the only option was to call Brookline Animal Control.

DISPATCH: Brookline police…
RYAN: Uh, hi. I thought this was animal control. I wanted to report an animal on the loose.
DISPATCH: What kind of animal, sir?
RYAN: Umm, a turkey.
DISPATCH: A turkey?
RYAN: Yeah. Is that weird?
DISPATCH: Where did you see it?
RYAN: On Freeman street, near the intersection of St. Paul.
DISPATCH: Are you sure it’s a turkey?
RYAN: Pretty sure.
DISPATCH: It’s not a duck? -
RYAN: No. Definitely not a duck.
DISPATCH: - or a peacock?
RYAN: (pause) Um, are there normally a lot of peacocks in Brookline?
DISPATCH: Sir, I don’t have time for pranks.
RYAN: This isn’t a prank. There is a turkey standing ten feet in front of me.
DISPATCH: Ok sir. Turkeys are wild animals, it’s not that uncommon to see them.
RYAN: Ok.
DISPATCH: Turkeys are protected animals.
RYAN: Oh. I didn’t know.
DISPATCH: How does he look?
RYAN: Cold. And wet.
DISPATCH: Sir…I meant, does he look disturbed?
RYAN: Um, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a turkey before, let alone a disturbed one.
DISPATCH: Well does he look dangerous?
RYAN: Um… No. He looks delicious!
DISPATCH: (slight laugh) Don’t worry about him, he’ll fly away soon enough.
RYAN: Uh, I didn’t think turkeys could fly.
DISPATCH: No, they can.
RYAN: Are you sure?
DISPATCH: No.
RYAN: Now Freedom is in the street.
DISPATCH: Excuse me? Who?
RYAN: Freedom. He’s in the street.
DISPATCH: Who is freedom?
RYAN: The turkey!
DISPATCH: Sir, don’t name the turkey.
RYAN: Why not?
DISPATCH: Is there anything else I can help you with?
RYAN: No. I just wanted to tell you about the cold turkey.
DISPATCH: Ronnie!? Is this you?
RYAN: Huh?
DISPATCH: Very funny. Calling about a cold turkey the day I quit smoking.
RYAN: Uhhh…
DISPATCH: I’ve got work to do. (hangs up)

This is a story from The Restaurant in The Store on The Street in The City. Most names have been changed, not to protect the innocent but to protect me, the storyteller. No one is innocent.

The Players:
Ryan - the storyteller
Mike - the boss
Kate - the roommate
Andrew - the Brit
Hugo - the disaster
Chef - the angry perfectionist

Hugo is a very nice guy; he used to work at The Restaurant, then he left but then came back. All that matters now is that he doesn’t work at The Restaurant anymore and here’s why.

First you have to understand that Hugo is a walking disaster, much like the hurricane from which he got his name. Isn’t it funny how people end up with IRONIC names? For instance Kate’s name rhymes with late and she is always late. Hugo is a named for a hurricane, which was a major natural disaster, and Hugo (the man) is a walking (and dropping) natural disaster.

In the few months since Hugo has returned to The Restaurant he has single handedly reduced the inventory of glassware. In any given week seven glasses might be reduced to chards at The Restaurant; Hugo is responsible for six of those seven. And Hugo usually breaks the glasses in groups, not pairs. He can’t break two; it has to be at least three. It’s never a good sign we he’s holding six red wine glasses by their stems in one hand.

There are 30 tables in The Restaurant totaling in 61 seats (figure that one out) and before Hugo started working there for the second time there were around 80 sparkling water glasses; now there are around 40 glasses, so few that we can’t even set the entire dining room. Other glasses have suffered too, not just the sparkling water glasses. As of Thursday there were five martini glasses, six white wine glasses and eight red wine glasses. If there are more than five people in The Restaurant at the same time that want martinis, you’re screwed.

Besides his ability to break everything, Hugo also gets flustered very easily. For those of you not familiar with service industry lingo, this is called “in the weeds”. Hugo is always in the weeds. If I has nine tables I am deep in the weeds, Hugo is weeded at around three. If Hugo gets any more tables he’ll just ignore them in hopes they’ll go away. They don’t.

Now on to why Hugo no longer works at The Restaurant, but to understand how his demise was met you have to understand the insanity (and genius) and anger that is CHEF.

Chef works from 8am-11pm, goes out until 4am and then goes home to make himself dinner; he doesn’t actually get to sleep until around 5am. Chef is a perfectionist with a violent temper; well he never resorts to violence in the kitchen but he has stabbed someone before. Chef is somewhat irrational and often asks the impossible but in these instances you just have to say, “Oui Chef!” and hope he doesn’t stab you. Chef won’t stab you but he will threaten you in hopes that you fully comprehend him. Let me sidetrack to a quick thrashing I got from Chef one afternoon when he was cooking lunch for his wife and some of her friends. Chef has just prepared an amuse bouche (a palate pleaser) for their table and he was telling me what the amuse was so that I could run it to his wife’s table and regurgitate what he told me to them.

Chef: This is the fucking amuse bouche for my wife’s table.
Ryan: Oui Chef.
Chef: Spicy tomato water!
Ryan: Spicy tomato water.
Chef: Avocado!
Ryan: Avocado.
Chef: Fried bread!
Ryan: Fried bread.
Chef: SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! SPICY TOMATO WATER!
Ryan: (Silent.)
Chef: REPEAT WHAT I FUCKING SAY!
Ryan: Ahh…Ķ.spicy tomato water!
Chef: AVOCADO!
Ryan: Avocado!
Chef: FRIED BREAD!
Ryan: Fried bread!
Chef: What are you waiting for? FUCKING RUN IT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! Go! Go !

The above is very normal and you just have to learn to not take it personally, no matter how bad it could possibly get. Chef is a nice guy and outside of work is pretty sane. He’s just an obsessive-compulsive angry Italian perfectionist in the kitchen.

This is where Hugo couldn’t hang. Thursday morning the dining room was starting to fill up and we were short one food runner; this means the servers need to run more food than usual. Hugo had just taken the order for an eight-top and was writing the ticket; we hand write tickets because our computer system is ancient and writing tickets eliminates most errors. Chef was screaming for a runner, and Hugo was ignoring this. When Chef caught Hugo it was ugly. It sounded a little something like this: “What the fuck are you doing? When I fucking call for a runner you come! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? YOU FUCKING RUN FOOD WHEN I CALL! I DON’T CARE WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE DOING! DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME? IF I EVER CATCH YOU NOT RUNNING FOOD AGAIN I WILL FUCKING STAB YOU! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

Hugo took it as well as can be expected said “yes Chef” about a dozen times and then went back out into the dining room. Then Hugo decided he didn’t want to take this anymore, grabbed his stuff (helmet for his moped, bag) and headed downstairs to tell Chef to “fuck off” and clock out. This was a mistake and it got bad. I was standing at a table on the patio taking an order and I, along with the guests, could hear Chef yelling at Hugo. It got so bad Mike had to drag Chef into the office. The last thing I heard was Chef screaming, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY KITCHEN!”

Hugo left at 12:45pm, just as we got busy. Andrew, who had the day off, was eating lunch at the bar with his wife. Mike went over and told him what had just happened; Andrew and his wife could hear Chef’s screaming from the basement kitchen. “Well I say it could have been a lot worse dood. Ryan could have quit and you would have been stuck with Hugo. Cheers.” And Andrew took another swig of beer.

The concierge from the Ritz called Saturday morning to make a reservation for 3 or 4 people for 1:00 PM for Bono and guests. U2 is in town doing some shows and he must have heard how great Pino’s little avant-garde restaurant in the Louis Boston building is. Maybe Trent told him. Our biggest problem is not accommodating Bono but where to put him so that he can enjoy his lunch without anyone bothering him. It would be best if he could go unnoticed all together. I suggested the lounge, nobody uses it and it’s pretty friggin nice but he’d have to eat on our strange coffee tables. Actually we don’t have coffee tables; we have these solid metal pieces with wheels. They look like carts from an airport and they probably cost 10,000 dollars each. Now I’m not great with tools or even a comb but I could build these things for about 50 bucks, maybe less. The lounge at L is new, it has some interesting chairs and a big, comfy red sectional couch that’s in the shape of, you guessed it, the letter L. You kind of sink into the couch and the tables are really low and eating in there is not very simple. The Bono might look kind of funny sinking into the bold red couch trying to eat his tuna summer rolls but I imagine not as funny as when he is playing diplomat overseas in those silly sunglasses.

Obviously The Bono wouldn’t want to eat there, in fact the only people that I’ve seen eat there since we put in the lounge is the owner of Louis Boston and she’s always really drunk. That’s Debbie, she’s great. She drinks sparkling water and wine and eats at L everyday for lunch and many days for dinner. She’s a great tipper, she’s always entertaining and she always has an open bottle of wine with her name on it. And by name on it I mean we take a sharpie and write “Debbie”.

We just got a full liquor license this week; before we could only serve beer, wine and cordials. Now we have upscale liquor. We’ve been experimenting with drinks all week and Thursday night, our first night with liquor, our first customers to try out the booze were Debbie, Maria (the VeePee of Louis Boston) and Mario Russo (world famous hair stylist who has a salon inside Louis Boston and charges $200 just to sit down with him). The three of them and two other guests were all there, sprawled out on the L shaped red sectional, chugging back martinis. All of them, sans Debbie, were going to see U2 that evening. Debbie complained to me “They didn’t invite me.” to which I replied “You too huh?” Debbie LOLed all over the place but in her defense she had been drunk since before noon.

L is lacking hosti but we do have two. One of them is this melancholy girl named Julia. Julia doesn’t talk much, she doesn’t like to answer the phone and she doesn’t know the table numbers. Julia does however shine when it’s time to stick the picture frames that read “reserved” on tables. She’s also really good at saying “No” to people. It’s great to watch her tell someone “No,” like they’re a dog. A rich dog but a dog nonetheless. Saturday morning she was marking tables when she approached the bar, where Mike, our GM, was making martinis for the employees to try. Julia asked “Mike, where are we going to put The Bono?” Her delivery tickled us all deeply. I chimed in with, “Its Bono. His name is Bono, not The Bono. He’s not an entity.”

Some celebrities are humble in public, like Mr. Reznor. Other’s are not, like Andy Dick, who has been to L before and had his picture taken with the servers. Then there is The Bono, who, if you turned the letter N on its side would be The Bozo. This past Saturday was the first Saturday in two months that it didn’t rain and the first day in over 10 days when it didn’t rain, you see we’ve had a nor’easter problem here lately. This May has been the coldest and wettest in 40 years but Saturday it did not rain. It was a beautiful day and we were busy as hell. In the midst of all the chaos The Bono came and went faster than a virgin on prom night. He was upset that Pino wasn’t at the restaurant that day because Chef was in New York appearing on CBS’ The Early Show.

The Bono took forever to order, every time Dora, the server who waited on him, went back to the table Bono and company were not ready. I was on the patio and in the weeds all afternoon long. It never really stopped for me. I was waiting on Debbie, who was drunk, and her husband, Mark, and daughter, Samantha, and some of their friends. Once they were all done they just sat and drank sparking water and I was able to relax some. By this time Dora and Kristian (the other server inside) were in the weeds. I asked Dora what she needed and she asked me if I could see if table 55 (The Bono and guests) were ready to order. I approach Bono’s table and ask if they had any questions about the menu or if they would like to order. “We’re going to need a few more minutes.” said The Bono. I replied “Oh, you still haven’t found what you’re looking for?”

A few weeks ago I purchased an electric pepper mill from The Sharper Image. My original reason for buying it was that I thought it would be cool to have an electric pepper mill handy at all times at work, not to mention it’s just cool. Perhaps the dorkiest thing I have ever done?

I found many different prototypes on the net and I settled with the one from sharperimage.com. When it came in I filled it with black pepper and slapped in 4 AA batteries. It’s really neat. It has a light at the bottom, you know incase the power goes out. Now truth be told the appearance of the mill weighed heavily on my purchasing decision. I mean look at it… What does it look like to you? I named it SGT Pepper and brought it down to the CCG.

The first person at CCG to see SGT Pepper was Steve, the prep cook. Steve is a family man who believes highly in his faith. He goes to Bethany South, you know the place with those ridiculous crosses.
STEVE: What is that a dildo?
RHINE: Yes. It’s a dildo. I thought I would bring a dildo to work for a change.
STEVE: Well, that’s what it looks like.
RHINE: Yeah, I know. I…Wait. How do you know what a silver bullet looks like?
STEVE: How do you know it’s called a silver bullet?
RHINE: I’ve seen Lesbian Anal 2

Amazing.

Now a lot can be said by the sexuality of cracking pepper. Titus, aka sexual chocolate (a name Tyler gave him) enjoys watching SGT Pepper at work.

TITUS: (To Mahi Mahi.) Danielle, grab it. Here. Just grab it.
MAHI MAHI: No. I’m not touching that thing.
TITUS: Just grab it.
MAHI MAHI: No.
TITUS: It has fingerprints all over it. Wipe it clean. Slowly.

Now Titus can be dirty, but that is just who he is. Mahi is not the only one either. Lacey and Lindsay were both afraid to GRAB the pepper mill.

TITUS: Lacey, you and Lindsay should fight over this.
LACEY: No.
TITUS: Here, just grab it for me. At the top.

Anytime a table gets a salad we are suppose to offer fresh pepper. We should just have the pepper mill on our person when running the food.

RHINE: Would you care for some fresh pepper?
LADY: Sure.
RHINE: (Pulls out SGT Pepper from his apron.)
LADY 1: What is THAT?
RHINE: It’s our pepper mill.
LADY 2: Oh. Is that what that is?
RHINE: What did you think it was?
LADY 2: I’ve just never seen anything like that before.
LADY 1: I have.

Women reacted fairly amused to the whole idea of fresh pepper. Naturally anytime I offer pepper to a table I think of the SNL skit with Rob Schneider. Freshn de peppea?

Not only do we have a very phallic pepper grinder sitting on top of our server station but we all carry it around the dining room and beyond with no reservations. In fact when running several plates you have no choice but to stick it in your apron. And boy does it stick out. Oh my my my. It can be very intimidating. You ask your table…

RHINE: Fresh pepper?
PATRON: Sure.
RHINE: WHAM!
PATRON: Nom nom nom nom nom…

I really think it scares some people. It is best not to reveal the grinder until you have confirmation from the table that they want pepper. If you just whip it out they might get scared. You know Chilis doesn’t grind pepper out of a stainless steel cock.

Just the other day I saw Joan (pronounced Joe-Anne) carrying the eyesore through the dining room and some other table saw it and they both burst into laughter. Yeah, you just know.

Yeah!