Before I get to
brass tacks, I'd love to thank you all for keeping Tales from the
Restaurant frequented. After logging 15,000 views, I'd like to think
there's been an impact made on the general population from a true
representative of the industry. Thanks again.
Between my computer breaking and losing a good chunk of my photos and data (combined with searching for a more predictable occupation), it's been tough to schedule serious time to devote to the cause. But it's safe to say that my work isn't done, and my lack of updating isn't impressing anyone. I plan to return to the task at hand in full force.
That said, I
clearly haven't reached people like the shitheads who came in to eat
last Wednesday afternoon, so I certainly have a lot more work to do.
Let's take the gloves off.
I took a
reservation for 25 people who identified themselves as the “Turkish
Ministry of Health." It was around lunchtime, so I thought it
was going to be a typical, businessy 'in-and-out' sort of thing. One
of these days I'm going to simply know better. Until then, feel free
to step up, assume a firm grip on common sense and then use it beat
my thick skull in.
The group of
suit-and-tie clad cock jockeys fired strongly out the starting gate
by showing up an hour and fifteen minutes late for their reservation.
Anyone in my shoes would have rightfully canceled their reservation,
pushed the tables back to their original configuration, and laughed
politely as they strolled nonchalantly into an accurately
functioning restaurant business model. But as it happened, it turned
out we weren't that busy when they showed up. So we
pushed the tables back the way they were and sat them.
I don't know what
it is about professionals who show up from various embassies to eat.
It always takes place during lunch, 99% of the group is always
struggling with English, and the demands of the head honcho usually
take the staff on a Marco Polo themed tour of the dining room in a
futile search for the perfect table that often finishes right where
it started. And since they're all in suits, it occurs to nobody to
tell them off.
The table we had
happened to have arranged for them was about ten feet away from the
bar. According to the head translator of the Turkish Health
Ministry, this was a "GRAVE RELIGIOUS INFRACTION."
The dignitary
responsible might as well have reacted like we just exposed him to an
airless vacuum. I would rather choose to represent him as a fanatical
religious robot.
Acknowledging
one's religious beliefs and finding a solution isn't usually a
problem. But in the restaurant world, it typically throws a kink in
the works if someone conscientiously objects to your non-secular ways
of forcing them to eat in close proximity to sinners.
So one of the men
in the party casually suggested that the entire party move outside.
Fine.
The completely
vacant outdoor patio happened to be available on account of the
less-than pleasant temperature and the ostensibly ominous clouds
overhead. So my boss allocated four staff members to rearrange the
tables outside to accommodate them. Most people who want to spend any
extended period of time outside typically check what the weather is
going to be like while they're walking around the square.
If I had to guess
where the priorities of foreign dignitaries lie, the last thing on
the list would be "what the weather will be like at the precise
date and time that I would like to drag 20 foreign editors of health
policy outside of the
sin-minefield-that-is-the-bar-and-restaurant-where-we-made-reservations.”
As soon as the
Turkish Health Ministry got settled in, their particular God decided
that it would serve them right to open up the skies and shower them
in heavy rain.
You may very well
consider that by this time I was trying my hardest to suppress a
hearty grin while observing these horrible souls running for cover.
Thinking they would see the humor in it themselves, I immediately ran
outside to make peace and recover the menus. I meekly asked them all
for a modicum of assistance.
I asked them collectively, "Can you help me out and bring your menus inside with you?"
Our unspoken war of non-compliance continued as they each completely ignored me and ran inside, each
menu meanwhile disintegrating beneath the torrents of rainfall. Nine of the
paper-inlayed menus I was trying to save were destroyed by the rain.
So the men all ran
inside and proceeded to sit without instruction or guidance at their
original table, in complete defiance of their own religious double
standard. As if that wasn't bad enough, they sat down, demanded NEW
menus, and one of the men pulled me over to tell me an important
piece of information; they were all now hard-pressed for time and the
25 of them needed to have their lunches finished and paid for in the
next 40 minutes.
At this point, I
was furious enough to have reasoned a few counterarguments that would
have surely gotten me fired.
If timing was so
gravely important, why didn't you all simply;
A) SHOW UP ON TIME
FOR YOUR FUCKING RESERVATION
and also,
B) SIT THE FUCK
DOWN WHEN YOU ARRIVED instead of DRAGGING US AROUND BY OUR DICK HAIR
FOR 45 MINUTES LOOKING FOR ANOTHER TABLE THAN THE ONE WE SPENT 20
MINUTES ARRANGING FOR YOU?!?!
When I brought one
of the dignitary's briefcases in from the rain, he simply took it
from me and said casually,
“Well aren't we
just a big pain in the ass?”
To which I felt I
could only reply,
“Your words. Not
mine.”
Sure I'd had a few
responses prepared. But I also remembered how hard I could later
immortalize them here. I can only pray that someday, when I have some
high-powered jack-off job where I can dress as well as I please, that
I decide to go out and attend my reservation at a favorite restaurant
of mine. I'll ask to sit outdoors, and when I do, I'll look up at the
sky and wait patiently to see whether or not my deity of choice
thinks I'm a complete asshole.
And if I'd stepped
on enough harmless people by that point to get to where I was, I'd
grab some nails, a hammer, and some plywood and start building a
fucking ark.
