tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5209128342127946452024-03-12T16:53:20.276-07:00Tales from the RestaurantKing Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-37656845056687334472015-08-27T08:38:00.001-07:002015-08-27T08:38:25.608-07:00Having left the business; A RequiemMany of you might know that I left the restaurant business back in November of 2014. I had scooped up a regular sales gig, and the weekend/mid-week evening shifts were getting to be too much. The exhaustion was really getting to me, and I didn't have enough water for all the plants in my time garden.<br />
<br />
So I wrote an emotional resignation letter.<br />
<br />
Breaking up with the restaurant business was a hard thing to do. I knew that people in my restaurant grew to depend on me, and some of them I suspect started to kinda like me. My letter was filled with semi-professional Shakesperian-sounding tirades ("I would that I had the hours in my week, nay, the energy to continue to serve and prosper within these four walls), and it was overflowing with gratitude for the opportunity.<br />
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I felt weird about it, because restaurants are not places that people leave graciously. It's always a "good riddance" type of mentality that follows you out the door like a personal storm cloud. Certainly, that's how you feel after any given shift, but it wasn't the end of a shift; it was the end of four and a half years of service. It was the end of a chapter of my life.<br />
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None of this is to say that I wouldn't go back if I had to. To quote Ashton Kutcher, "I've never in my life had a job that I was better than."<br />
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If circumstances in my life permitted, I would absolutely go back, and I would rock it. But it's been over a year and a half, and I'm doing well in another area. So I end this blog for the time being, and take with me all of these experiences that I've had over the years, and will always keep them in my thoughts as I go out to eat in other restaurants.<br />
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Order up!King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-87068912695741881952012-11-16T21:11:00.004-08:002012-11-16T21:15:42.536-08:00The Flood<br />
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The beauty of
going out to eat dinner is that someone you can't see is taking care
of everything. You get to relax, you get treated like someone
important, and your meal magically appears in front of you without
you having to worry about cooking, doing a mountain of dishes, or
being stocked up on booze. It's an experience critically dependent on
what is left to your imagination.</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So when something
happens that could threaten the environment your food is cooked in,
it becomes absolutely imperative that the issue resolves itself. But
what's more important is that no restaurant guest ever finds out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I took one Tuesday
night off, and I assumed nothing when I came in on Wednesday morning
and began nonchalantly brewing coffee. One of the line cooks nudged
me as I did so, and I assumed his story chronicling the night before
was merely business as usual.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">As per usual, I
figured another cook conjured up one more stupid story not worth
hearing. I could hear it in my head already; some dickweed with a
Styrofoam allergy probably ended up bending the restaurant over
backwards, complaining his ass off when the CEO wouldn't come down
there and personally jerk him off over his own dinner. In layman's,
some douchebag probably insisted that his filet mignon wasn't cooked
as “Medium-Medium-Well” as he wanted it, and nobody on staff had the
balls to tell him off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Turns out it was
something a hell of a lot funnier.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">An unsuspecting
customer took a stroll into the restroom to take a leisurely piss.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">When finished her business, she did as all domestically trained humans do and flushed
the toilet. It took no more than ten seconds before the fragile
balance of plumbing and physics relinquished their cease-fire over
the Bull Run that was my restaurant's facilities.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">When you hit the
flush in a public restroom, you kind of expect that your shit and
piss disappears forever, never to be seen again in your current plane
of existence. You don't quite anticipate that your business will
return with a shitty, smelly vengeance, ready to ruin the evening of
every mortal within a fifteen-foot radius of everything you can
actively taste. I had been conveniently enjoying a night off in the
comforts of my own home while fiery feces and female sanitation
products exploded and rocketed throughout the restrooms and kitchens
of the place I spend 6/7 of my week selling to the general public.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">When I learned
what had happened, I immediately relinquished control of my
gastrointestinal reflexes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I remember
regaining control of myself, but for some reason I continued vomiting
for another 13 seconds. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">It might have had something to do with the way I perceive female hygiene. After all, I've never had a period of my own. Despite that, I know full well that the little tin buckets inside female restrooms are repositories for hygienic products, and I imagine that if I had to dispose of a blood-soaked tampon, I'd give that receptacle strong consideration before relinquishing the item to the depths of the public toilet. In fact, I'd attempt to further contemplate what manner of awful service I'd have to do to said product that would convince me to drown it in the toilet instead of laying it to rest in the designated public tampon receptacle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Either way, several of these misguided cotton rogues ended up in the kitchen that Tuesday. That very line cook ended up snaking the drain and sending them back to hell with a life-sized pipe-cleaner Excalibur right before heading back to the griddle to cook the same entrees these misguided females probably ordered without so much as thinking about that ten-foot radius where that fateful period happened. But I digress.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">When you take on
the yoke of a restaurant manager, you don't typically sign up for
these kinds of situations. You forfeit the kind of tip money you'd
make each holiday for a salary which is supposed to compensate you
for your ability to deal with certain higher-plane PR difficulties.</span></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">That said, the
look on my manager's face when this situation came to fruition was
somewhat priceless; Nothing like this had ever made its way into the
restaurant manager's handbook. Why should it? After all, situations
like these are precisely why waiters don't ever climb the career
ladder.</span></span></div>
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King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-5632468853645701542012-09-26T20:04:00.001-07:002012-09-26T20:04:51.266-07:00Turkish Ministry of Douchbaggery<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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. </span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
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<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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."</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So one of the men
in the party casually suggested that the entire party move outside.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
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<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.”</span></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I asked them collectively, "Can you help me out and bring your menus inside with you?"</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">At this point, I
was furious enough to have reasoned a few counterarguments that would
have surely gotten me fired.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">If timing was so
gravely important, why didn't you all simply;</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">A) SHOW UP ON TIME
FOR YOUR FUCKING RESERVATION</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">and also,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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?!?!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">When I brought one
of the dignitary's briefcases in from the rain, he simply took it
from me and said casually,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Well aren't we
just a big pain in the ass?”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">To which I felt I
could only reply,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Your words. Not
mine.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">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.</span></span></div>
King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-37611961664113037972012-05-05T12:31:00.002-07:002012-05-05T12:43:10.515-07:00The Tale of Baked Potato ManWhen you work for a period of time in a restaurant, you tend to get better and better at sharpening your wits in situations that require excessive damage control. Just last week alone, I called a woman with short hair "sir," I mistakenly brought a Diet Coke to a morbidly obese woman who had asked for regular Coke, and even went to hand a guest a pen to sign a receipt, but ended up accidentally flicking it end-over-end until it smacked him in the face. These situations can be fixed with a few well-placed words and a free dessert, but nothing can compare with the great mistake of letting a regular guest order something that isn't on the menu.<br />
<br />
Pretty anti-climactic, huh?<br />
<br />
Well then. Cue the "Baked Potato Man."<br />
<br />
This is perhaps one of the most odd people I've ever met in my restaurant career. Although there's nothing immediately wrong with him (or requiring rapid medical attention), you can just tell that when this man walks in with his uncombed Bob Ross hair, enormously thick 70's era rapist glasses, and a canvas sack that he wears around his neck, that there's no way he can be allowed within 500 feet of a playground.<br />
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<br />
<br />
After his last visit to my restaurant, a friend he was dining with told the waitress privately that she "hadn't seen him in about ten years, and he's apparently developed a....thing."<br />
<br />
Included in that is this man's ever loosening grip on the world around him. Here's why I think that.<br />
<br />
At my restaurant, we do not offer baked potatoes. At one point in time (a few years ago), baked potatoes were a viable option where I work for people who decided that they didn't want their potatoes mashed or "french fried." I suspected that because the potatoes were made in batches of 20-30 and were selling at a rate of about 1 per hour, it became economically unfeasible to continue to leave them on the menu.<br />
<br />
What people don't understand is that when you order a baked potato, you're ordering a specific kind of potato. It's usually a darker russet potato, a root vegetable which takes well to a convection oven and is usually not much bigger than your fist. These kinds of potatoes don't typically do well to mash, and fries are usually pre-made in 99% of restaurants. So when someone insists on being served a baked potato, I take absolute hedonistic delight in how the next 45 minutes plays out.<br />
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I usually explain a more concise version of this to the irate guest, and let him or her know that they're going to have to wait just under an hour (in addition to the time it takes to prepare the meal) for an individual Yukon Gold potato bigger than a college football to be cooked all the way through for them. And I usually mention as an afterthought that it'll taste like shit.<br />
<br />
Usually this is enough to not only deter people from straying from the menu, but from severely inconveniencing the kitchen. But not the Baked Potato Man.<br />
<br />
Instead, he just sits there and gives you what my coworkers and I have deemed the "Unibomber Stare."<br />
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I feel that whatever trauma this man suffered through rendered him unable to process that baked potatoes were nearly impossible to put in front of him. So he eventually wins every standoff with something like.<br />
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<br />
<br />
As a restaurant server, the absolute WORST thing you can do for your career and the well-being of your coworkers is to simply give into what I've deemed "Restaurant Terrorism."<br />
<br />
So I did. The first time it happened, it all played out exactly the way I described. Baked Potato Man was overjoyed that his baked potato arrived an hour after the rest of his meal. He spent another two and a half hours eating it.<br />
<br />
The next time he came in, I was determined to hammer the lesson home. I explained once again that we don't offer baked potatoes and told him that since the kitchen was exceptionally busy tonight, baking him a new potato would take perhaps over an hour. He reacted accordingly.<br />
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<br />
<br />
I went into the kitchen and spoke with the chef, who was a recent addition to the team. I let him know that this guy was a repeat offender, and to take as long as humanly possible to fulfill his obnoxious request. After that, I returned to the table to reiterate that I went completely out of my way to make sure his order was tended to with all of the care and determination we could muster. What I didn't know was that the new chef's pride was going to be a problem.<br />
<br />
A moment later, he interrupted me with a tap on the shoulder. I turned around, and he was holding a fully-cooked, regular-sized potato, adorned lovingly with butter and sour cream. A mere eight minutes had passed, and already here was the baked potato.<br />
<br />
Baked Potato Man was ecstatic. He dove into that potato like it was a sandbox at a playground. I took the chef off to the side and had a private discussion with him. Not only had he just encouraged this man to continue to order things we don't offer, he had undermined my authority at the side of the table and reduced my credibility to nothing (which probably didn't matter--this guy is deliriously obstinate). I bet that the next time this guy comes in, he'll bring all of his strange friends and will have briefed each one of them on how easy it is to get a baked potato at my particular restaurant.<br />
<br />
And I fear that if one day we decide to put our collective foot down and tell him that he can't have what he wants, I suspect I'll have a package in the mail the next day that will blow my arms off and may just kill me.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-18808634875141396502012-04-07T08:10:00.008-07:002012-04-07T08:30:32.653-07:00Stuff I drew at Work (Vol. 3)<div style="text-align: center;"><span ><u><br /></u></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2mtM9RdISbBAgbE00fz1hFOQqHpkMAEjyspRjCe8Y4tgBakaqlrnHFiG2NeRwH2MawioDUfE5l01TUXnriz2rUOKBjlWdBsvmy7exe_GJPM3LNuTtwSVn8TEQ0SIejq4wAAJfYe-yFg/s1600/IMG_1484.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; text-align: left; font-size: 100%; ">I've been really lazy. For those of you who still hold me accountable for updating this project of mine, thank you. In many ways, I'm really proud of you and humbled by your constant encouragement. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; text-align: left; ">Simultaneously</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; text-align: left; font-size: 100%; ">, I'm bewildered that you haven't yet capitulated to the modern era and started picking up vampire novels.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I'm working on a couple new stories for you to read (and suspend disbelief at), but while I do that, I figured I would show you a couple of things I drew while I was supposed to be working.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">The first one is a movie idea I had.</span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span ><u><br /></u></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-iW9Q6_b8WuwA7n6ErFXbnPlwvwPoXaOsSTcANxXlzXY2Oqjzcla9dePgwfl_kH6bqeYaSbH6bLYePrALNcaetlrvNTEd3ttBk-JK_zQhvnSTmPx125KqPppDoKuUP89FIn7_w4vnw/s1600/IMG_1483.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-iW9Q6_b8WuwA7n6ErFXbnPlwvwPoXaOsSTcANxXlzXY2Oqjzcla9dePgwfl_kH6bqeYaSbH6bLYePrALNcaetlrvNTEd3ttBk-JK_zQhvnSTmPx125KqPppDoKuUP89FIn7_w4vnw/s400/IMG_1483.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728679528483135218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a>Text: INGLORIOUS LOBSTERS ...They just came to kill some Nazis.</div><div><br /></div><div>It seemed like it could be a legitimate movie.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next one had me thinking about borderline inappropriate things a lobster could be doing. What's with all the lobsters you ask? I simply find it really morbid how lobsters are prepared for our dinner. I'm convinced that Darwinism will eventually come full circle, and lobsters suddenly won't be so defenseless anymore. I've seen 70-year-old lobsters that were over 16 pounds alive and in front of me. What's to stop an army of lobsters from growing to human proportions (or bigger!?), taking up arms, and storming the beaches against us? Nothing. That's where the idea for this next one came from.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2mtM9RdISbBAgbE00fz1hFOQqHpkMAEjyspRjCe8Y4tgBakaqlrnHFiG2NeRwH2MawioDUfE5l01TUXnriz2rUOKBjlWdBsvmy7exe_GJPM3LNuTtwSVn8TEQ0SIejq4wAAJfYe-yFg/s400/IMG_1484.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728680603271563202" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " />Text: LOBSTER JIMA ...A MONUMENT TO UNDERSEA PERSEVERANCE.</div><div><br /></div><div>This last one was a request from my sister.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sister; "How about you draw you and me running from zombies holding strange objects?"</div><div>Me; "Okay."</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgjDwqwPTW_jn0ZexWvdormBNiZnG4vNWjwelYPQfUiZGg1-g_K_lqHgf_d_hj4jTLpA9iBd0PRFCbhBMCtv3DcDxAn9vc15aj92WnuJR12KuRyzJNZLv2DwQMPYGS4kiuRnNkNexDw/s1600/IMG_1482.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgjDwqwPTW_jn0ZexWvdormBNiZnG4vNWjwelYPQfUiZGg1-g_K_lqHgf_d_hj4jTLpA9iBd0PRFCbhBMCtv3DcDxAn9vc15aj92WnuJR12KuRyzJNZLv2DwQMPYGS4kiuRnNkNexDw/s400/IMG_1482.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728681205741329602" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a>The strange objects are in fact a rolling pin, a stapler, and a menorah.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways, I have a couple big stories planned for the next week or so, stay tuned!</div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div>King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-69597793570883633142012-01-22T10:33:00.000-08:002012-01-22T10:47:56.262-08:00Rape in the 'straunt<div style="text-align: center;"><span ><u><br /></u></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left; ">In the past two weeks, I've failed at a couple of crucial things at the restaurant where I work. Whilst some of these infractions were less severe (showing up for a shift with a slightly wrinkled shirt, not using tongs to retrieve a food item, exhaling casually onto an authority figure while severely hung over, etc.) some of them have had lasting ramifications that have made me wonder whether or not quitting my waiter job of three-plus years was a smarter decision than merely showing up for my evening shift.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>My first mistake was relatively innocuous; I responded sheepishly to the brand of questioning that the line cooks had devised for the evening.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVKU0HXE2GSpB8y4Enw5elbQdRWc9m5eIT3XB7uYwvgstzkbwdYDQWpaDwDAY9yn5QoeNBfSRffw-IPqYD6ZbQnGPBq16qV4mQ4Um6Zd0GcmwxJOffMzsyhrKt43XuQxl5TA9lVZJng/s1600/GF.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVKU0HXE2GSpB8y4Enw5elbQdRWc9m5eIT3XB7uYwvgstzkbwdYDQWpaDwDAY9yn5QoeNBfSRffw-IPqYD6ZbQnGPBq16qV4mQ4Um6Zd0GcmwxJOffMzsyhrKt43XuQxl5TA9lVZJng/s400/GF.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700526658166170722" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 306px; " /></a><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></div><div><br /></div><div>I did something waiters should never do with back-of-house staff. I used self-deprecating humor.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMT7NUoprnSHU-X0UuvoF7-L6vAg4N6twNZGcSi7f_A02sl-p5kdqKHcqKDWypfcz81a0SkwxMRAOZTKSBWS0M5P3I7EnfB2J3ouBdgl43b4JQFwjDhfkXhSJhc31H8r0UUZBLyuPiw/s1600/Small+Dick.dib"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMT7NUoprnSHU-X0UuvoF7-L6vAg4N6twNZGcSi7f_A02sl-p5kdqKHcqKDWypfcz81a0SkwxMRAOZTKSBWS0M5P3I7EnfB2J3ouBdgl43b4JQFwjDhfkXhSJhc31H8r0UUZBLyuPiw/s400/Small+Dick.dib" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700526974850617282" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 306px; " /></a><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></div><div><br /></div><div>I thought nothing of it until the contagious leper of a rumor I had kept at bay for a long time ironically turned around to embrace me. You see, one of the line cooks reached out towards me again a week later with a “genuinely concerned” “how come?” style of questioning. They wanted to know more about it. Instead of actual honesty, I proceeded to facetiously respond in a careless fit of unbridled ignorance. Observe;</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCrxLWd02E6ckg15cnsM53iezMo9jaFPbyo4IZqrR6-QA6lZMfsYUl1YpM1wPj0nkKK_sLmEYG-JG7QhlK-6Ay_hG9hvwzm1HckRVFfAFvlNZcbRbVPhc2Mjhb8ejuQ1ux7KLkyXgAA/s1600/Noticed.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCrxLWd02E6ckg15cnsM53iezMo9jaFPbyo4IZqrR6-QA6lZMfsYUl1YpM1wPj0nkKK_sLmEYG-JG7QhlK-6Ay_hG9hvwzm1HckRVFfAFvlNZcbRbVPhc2Mjhb8ejuQ1ux7KLkyXgAA/s400/Noticed.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700529093592239810" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 306px; " /></a><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></div><div><br /></div><div>At that particular moment, I had unknowingly committed restaurant suicide.</div><div><br /></div><div>The two Hispanic line cook brothers have since then been using every opportunity possible to wage pseudo-homosexual warfare on me every time I’ve entered the kitchen. I walked in two weeks ago and bent over to wash my face only to hear seductive whistling coming from behind me. I’ve leaned over to scoop ice for a beverage and felt an open hand smack my out-thrust ass. I’ve placed dirty dishes into the bus-bucket and immediately felt an unmistakably horny member grazing my goose-bumped femur. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next time I humbly asked the pantry for a side of caesar dressing and received a shallow dish full of human semen sprinkled with ground pepper. If I were to reach up for something on a high shelf tomorrow evening, I might very well experience full-on rape in public. But as a joke.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's restaurant humor for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>I might as well just quit at this point.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-70643517833204760002011-12-09T19:57:00.000-08:002011-12-09T21:00:32.917-08:00The Transition from Waiter to Salesman<div>Every successful waiter knows what it's like to be under-appreciated.</div><div><br /></div><div>That feeling of knowing that you'd do anything to please a total stranger is something that a career waiter can't just extract from his psyche like a skilled neurosurgeon. Many waiters find that they are able to make their living selling, but what is it that keeps a skilled waiter from making a respectable stipend as an actual salesman?</div><div><br /></div><div>Salesmanship is a logical next step up from the base floor of "Occupational Order Taker." It seems that anyone who can establish him or herself as a waiter could have potential as a salesman, and what waiters do (if they enjoy being tipped) is make alluring recommendations to enhance their guests' experiences. If you suck at recommending dishes and beverages, you become an order taker. So in essence, what makes the occupations of seller and salesman different?</div><div><br /></div><div>I've taken a long hiatus from regular restaurant work to actually DO sales, and I've since found it relatively unrewarding. The fact that family men, scholars, public servants, and circus folk can serve people and make a menial living and be treated similarly is both fantastic and comforting, but completely sucks balls. We all keep doing it however, because we find enough comfort in providing strangers dinner because it seems preferable to any other time-consuming, emotionally limiting professional endeavor.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's why people with decent jobs still keep a couple shifts waiting tables on the weekends.</div><div>When a guest sits down at your table, he or she kind of understands that you are there because you HAVE to be, and that servitude isn't ever glamorous. When a person complains about a dish you didn't cook for them, they're generally innocuous about it because in essence it's not your fault.</div><div><br /></div><div>I once knew a great lawyer who studied and worked hard to dominate her profession. She kept five shifts a week waiting tables because it was good money, and because it was comforting and equally tormenting. It ended up ruining her social life because the effort she put into selling was dominating her life as a good person in the legal profession. When an implacable ass-clown at one of her tables yelled at her on a busy night for messing up a slightly intricate order, she broke down in the back of the restaurant and swore she'd never come back. I remember asking her why she never cried in a courtroom for defending a family from the crazy heart-breaking rantings of a drunken father lying to save his shitty life, and to this day never got a comprehensive answer. Having left the waiting profession for good, she is doing much better.</div><div><br /></div><div>Life sucks as a middleman. The true power of it is that you find a way to make your customer's experience worthwhile. When a customer complains, you tend to establish yourself as a professional when you empathize with them and work to fix their every trouble. Either that mentality drags you into a deep dark hole, or it lets you believe that eventually you will find redemption as a "good person."</div><div><br /></div><div>Sales contains none of those ideologies. When you're selling a product, you're promoting value, gaining trust, and easing someone's mind. If you're falling short of any of these tasks, you're probably just a waiter.</div>King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-78163448795732820222011-11-08T07:16:00.000-08:002011-11-08T07:33:36.192-08:00Stuff I Drew at Work (Vol. 2)Here's the next installment of "Stuff I Drew at Work."<div><br /></div><div>I have a morbid fascination with lobsters. Because I find that they resemble giant undersea cockroaches that have mouths that look like vaginas, I find them quite terrifying. Despite that, they seem pretty defenseless. Their claws aren't that hard to get a rubber band onto, and they just sort of flop about until their undeserved fate as someone's dinner. Watching people eat them is another story--their shells and limbs are cracked and shattered while people suck the meat from inside their steaming carapaces.</div><div><br /></div><div>All I'm saying is that if lobsters can't really defend themselves by means of having some sort of evolved ability to fire laser beams out of their antennae, they should at least grow large enough in size to be able to wield firearms and combat armor, stand on their tails, and stroll up onto our beaches to kick a little ass.</div><div><br /></div><div>At least then I wouldn't feel so badly about eating them. It's this mindset that inspired my picture of the "Lobster Commandos."</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik15NTeJ6iC5AQ3ffTdJtplBgABEDn0RCnI9wzrgYgueS8I_qhN9Qvu_TyY-AUGGyOnxdQrujEQqWycTZ3ZYDAwfIEDVGWoGzTag-4eO7cc-jMqHEeVfgoA26GejYdjyCNj82Qhdtb3A/s1600/IMG_1276.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik15NTeJ6iC5AQ3ffTdJtplBgABEDn0RCnI9wzrgYgueS8I_qhN9Qvu_TyY-AUGGyOnxdQrujEQqWycTZ3ZYDAwfIEDVGWoGzTag-4eO7cc-jMqHEeVfgoA26GejYdjyCNj82Qhdtb3A/s400/IMG_1276.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672646684560513714" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Text; "Did someone order the surf n' turf?"</div>King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-10183878482534489062011-10-27T08:45:00.000-07:002011-10-27T08:53:25.084-07:00Stuff I Drew at Work<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />So I decided that when things get slow at work and I find myself standing around with my whole fist up my own ass, I'll do something productive for my awesome blog. Every so often, I'll be doing installments of "Stuff I Drew at Work."<br /><br />Here's the first one!<div><br /></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIlg_9a22BOdiclV71aKaB30Mi2tXSzfpk3Cf9VtyhI1VpOwD9vx2tfHHiSNNgsOp1Wdz5evF4z1W3DhTVCEv8SoV327LrDdDri3Vhyphenhyphen8zP5O3S_nklVN5YU6pUSICSoU4xYAWy1Hvnqw/s400/IMG_1275.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668200395079237138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Lobster - "No, YOU get in the pot."</span></div></div>King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-45383285979913833632011-10-12T08:37:00.001-07:002011-10-12T08:42:10.529-07:00A Long Time ComingIf you’re wondering why I haven’t posted any new restaurant tales in the last three weeks, you are probably reading this now for one of three reasons. Either you;<br /><br />A) Think I’m a fantastic writer who deserves the leniency and undying devotion of an anonymous audience in order to support his craft<br />B) Live with your parents, are unemployed, and really have nothing else to do<br />OR<br />C) Really hate me and are wondering whether or not this next post is a device being used to announce or predict my own untimely death (such as a suicide note)<br /><br />Great news, everyone!<br /><br />I’ve just been injured and unable to work. I’m not dead after all!<br /><br />I returned to work in the restaurant after ALMOST dying, and almost immediately found myself able to pick up where I last left off!<br /><br />Here’s the next installment. Oh, and for those who picked letter ‘C,’ I’m really sorry to have disappointed you.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Disgusting, Unsanitary Vermin</span><br /><br />If you’re a regular human being, you probably have a restaurant or bar (or even two or three of them, if you‘re me) that you really enjoy going to. These places are typically somewhere where you go to relax; you trust the cuisine, the atmosphere is ideal, and you are probably on a first-name basis with the people getting you loaded.<br /><br />That said, there are certain things you may see when you are there which you are more likely to overlook.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhawG4K7-f7Act6bbgHMG9dgz830xV8BBd25V8BkrkCks3qUgubZml9646HmfauTiK4Lyys38Y15Faw6OBCuQIjRqXPKQWxGzN54V1te8KMj83BHLix7K6H2opz99Brr0fCXfM7CX8z5w/s1600/Egg+Shell.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhawG4K7-f7Act6bbgHMG9dgz830xV8BBd25V8BkrkCks3qUgubZml9646HmfauTiK4Lyys38Y15Faw6OBCuQIjRqXPKQWxGzN54V1te8KMj83BHLix7K6H2opz99Brr0fCXfM7CX8z5w/s400/Egg+Shell.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662630860169628114" /></a><br /><br />Depending on your tolerance for the locale, you may adjust this particular preference to taste.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4LRAHNyWsif1zm13-66HkVfGleXlf9UuC0WJnxIvgxfEWKHb7kS0__XkMEOUBarIXSwOFTRiRz4_9edD2-zzxkj731YpjtvsnuW4m-VMGkabsB2i63fsin9m3GFQdZYuVUvf-VSG3w/s1600/Conscience.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4LRAHNyWsif1zm13-66HkVfGleXlf9UuC0WJnxIvgxfEWKHb7kS0__XkMEOUBarIXSwOFTRiRz4_9edD2-zzxkj731YpjtvsnuW4m-VMGkabsB2i63fsin9m3GFQdZYuVUvf-VSG3w/s400/Conscience.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662630973945309922" /></a><br /><br />If you’re an established regular at that place, you probably wouldn’t send the whole meal back. After all, you’re on a first name basis with Hugo the owner, and his feelings would be pretty hurt if he knew you weren’t happy with your croque monsieur.<br /><br />The situation changes however, when you’re not a regular patron of a particular restaurant. Not only will you look at everything under a microscope, you’ll be more encouraged to be critical (especially if you’re at a function on someone else’s dime).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyFLAMMXKvHSEZb4mxeaBIpAs_bcoxwj_sNOzSwNKQ2ov0xXmMq13IihdTSEdxGEIyPNgqRu_Ofnj3hh4n3QmcjxnS8f3FAS3-1w_SQ2vtgxNFhG4BymiHh_aDtLg0Krd2kO6hKI5DAA/s1600/Detective+Paint.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyFLAMMXKvHSEZb4mxeaBIpAs_bcoxwj_sNOzSwNKQ2ov0xXmMq13IihdTSEdxGEIyPNgqRu_Ofnj3hh4n3QmcjxnS8f3FAS3-1w_SQ2vtgxNFhG4BymiHh_aDtLg0Krd2kO6hKI5DAA/s400/Detective+Paint.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662631084969437602" /></a><br /><br />In one particular instance, I was helping a fellow waiter of mine clear the tables at which his party was sitting. One of the patrons abruptly grabbed me by the arm.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBN7Wmhldpq7yy9NSGyNn0ZRcr48NGRRPHOap5ZonK4iX_YjuX-RD-dL6PX8ieN782aG_vFY9MIWW8PIGoaxPXlnvsUmJhz_j3LIxanCCqTqZD7lKwZ-P2oqLlP-SUgp-U5fIQDycfrg/s1600/Just+Saw.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBN7Wmhldpq7yy9NSGyNn0ZRcr48NGRRPHOap5ZonK4iX_YjuX-RD-dL6PX8ieN782aG_vFY9MIWW8PIGoaxPXlnvsUmJhz_j3LIxanCCqTqZD7lKwZ-P2oqLlP-SUgp-U5fIQDycfrg/s400/Just+Saw.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662631181902961490" /></a><br /><br />Oh boy, here it comes...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87chZpvwqls0dP-VrCMmag4HoNaOJvLUBUEw8vNJAfplR0Xkk3AkOo35V6SEnAhcRi6BRS-J3QcC1xCzO0MFHeh_3gxLhcT3ZK31H9sjyqILoLD1zkc-EqgQO3azC4KeuuA0F5l0wEQ/s1600/A+MOUSE.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87chZpvwqls0dP-VrCMmag4HoNaOJvLUBUEw8vNJAfplR0Xkk3AkOo35V6SEnAhcRi6BRS-J3QcC1xCzO0MFHeh_3gxLhcT3ZK31H9sjyqILoLD1zkc-EqgQO3azC4KeuuA0F5l0wEQ/s400/A+MOUSE.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662631369375635762" /></a><br /><br />Mice are nothing new to me. Mice tend to sneak into homes and restaurants all the time. They whiz around at lightning speed, constantly terrified to be discovered by humans. They’re the very reason why all restaurants are required to store their food at least six inches off of the ground at all times.<br /><br />But most folks don’t know that.<br /><br />Most people will see a mouse and then immediately classify the restaurant they’re currently in as a dilapidated cesspool of rank filth, unworthy to even be judged by 3rd ½ world standards.<br /><br />So I decided to ease this woman into the realm of restaurant reality. Our conversation ensued as follows;<br /><br />Woman: “Aren’t you going to do anything about it?!”<br />Me: “I don’t think so. That mouse is way too fast for me to even attempt to catch it. Best we can hope for is to let management know, set out a few more traps, and hopefully we’ll catch it by morning.”<br />Woman: “That’s not good enough. Do you pass health inspections here?”<br />Me: “Ma’am, not only do we pass government health inspections, we ace our monthly company inspections, which are much more rigorous than the FDA requires. I suppose if you had to wonder about the occasional mouse, let’s just assume that the mice conveniently hide when the inspectors show up.”<br />Woman: “That’s ridiculous.”<br /><br />At this point, I decided that I should at least make the faux play at placating her. So I feigned concern.<br /><br />Me: “Did you happen to see where the mouse went?”<br />Woman: “Yes! It ran that way.” (Points somewhere)<br />Me: “So you’re saying it ran away from you?”<br />Woman: “Yeah…”<br />Me: “So in that case, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”<br /><br />With that, I turned and walked away with my stack of dirty dishes. I had a feeling this lady was infuriated with me and my color commentary, and that my incendiary words had inspired her to take her complaints to the next level. To my surprise, she didn’t mention the mouse to anyone else. The managers never caught wind, the server at her table was never told and as far as I know, the secret stayed between us.<br /><br />This outcome could have been for several reasons. The first one that jumps to mind is that restaurant guests are fairly used to being placated. If they complain about something, restaurant staff are all pre-programmed to make sure that person gets whatever they need to buy their silence. When that doesn’t happen, the fragile illusion the customer has comes crashing down. When the realization surfaces that his or her complaints are falling on deaf ears, the customer will begin to take a tally of what they like about that establishment, knowing that the restaurant staff are not necessarily motivated to bend to the whims of the customer’s grievance terrorism.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-72516006185999291802011-09-01T10:04:00.000-07:002011-09-01T10:12:55.549-07:00The Stanley Cup StoryI've been putting off telling this tale for some time, so I figured I'd better publish it before it got too late/I forgot it.
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<br />A friend of mine who works in the kitchen at an undisclosed restaurant told me about some relatively inhumane conditions he once experienced. He regaled me with the intricacies of slaving away in the unfurnished armpit of "Satan's Ass, Indiana" where the Fahrenheit temperature rivals Stephen Hawking's IQ.
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<br />In the restaurant business, food is typically required to be cooked. As a restaurant owner, you would do well to understand that factor and then take care of your kitchen employees...unless the nearest air conditioner was further away than the nearest alternative form of employment. If that was the case, you’d have nothing at all to worry about.
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<br />But if your employees were melting (And you hadn’t happen to have Frosty the Snowman working the grill or the Wicked Witch of the West on the steamer), you’d take action to ensure your kitchen’s steady success. As a kitchen supervisor, you would do this by granting your kitchen prospects their minor wishes!
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKEkWHeIvbUspDV5k1_VZATb8eTPxoJOQoIPnRhtVXauv1kMXeWEqwnz_IuYYZD6bZYxThzlZtBtJoGp1PJkxEYFUuTFqeJ-ZjsBPmrV9w0N5QhVcpVYVukDjPCPgTm2dX_mDa4RSiQ/s1600/Chef+Fan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKEkWHeIvbUspDV5k1_VZATb8eTPxoJOQoIPnRhtVXauv1kMXeWEqwnz_IuYYZD6bZYxThzlZtBtJoGp1PJkxEYFUuTFqeJ-ZjsBPmrV9w0N5QhVcpVYVukDjPCPgTm2dX_mDa4RSiQ/s400/Chef+Fan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647438604906142194" /></a>
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<br />One of the line cooks at my place of employment had caught wind of a rare and secretive moment; the Stanley Cup was being presented for a private party in the next building over.
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<br />Because the local hockey team had recently won this highly coveted trophy (and being the die-hard hockey fan that my cook friend was), there was simply no way in this plane of existence or the next that he was going to let this opportunity slide right by him.
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<br />So he nonchalantly asked for a ten-minute break.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisac1psUe_Xkat7esBrI6qy8PhWR4KwnfergtX_bKmucctP0vD7GCpoxOGlKxoHd0P8QMZEGY01sUr3J3nVII7opQbDfhQMto-VuUraUjswtmqjKRp2-_hWfEtb_Cf5N-nUcuwKJq0iA/s1600/Groveling.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisac1psUe_Xkat7esBrI6qy8PhWR4KwnfergtX_bKmucctP0vD7GCpoxOGlKxoHd0P8QMZEGY01sUr3J3nVII7opQbDfhQMto-VuUraUjswtmqjKRp2-_hWfEtb_Cf5N-nUcuwKJq0iA/s400/Groveling.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647438975376934578" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcBko5IvdkzBvBB2J3kqPBniQSlM2MYgnZcsrgRZY-SZu_f85trLwirKze3WPmf5eJ3ouq7to_w0aYUkhz0yiWey3ht3G3__C_GsevB2KIz7rrafHkpQvx55rNtd5hhIFORzwHy6r0w/s1600/Chef+rolling+eyes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcBko5IvdkzBvBB2J3kqPBniQSlM2MYgnZcsrgRZY-SZu_f85trLwirKze3WPmf5eJ3ouq7to_w0aYUkhz0yiWey3ht3G3__C_GsevB2KIz7rrafHkpQvx55rNtd5hhIFORzwHy6r0w/s400/Chef+rolling+eyes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647439509393211234" /></a>
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<br />So my cook friend left on his pilgrimage. He would not fail.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_RFTql3Ar3v1_Cxr8bSV64gijSXPsgflnE-aZnykdaRPnK2TUKKn6LUp_Zia2oEwB5XdKc1hgxEVfz84wSYPU0bTNyRIpBnr1XnIILF_OhnFbzHICSkBobShfOHz9xgcJBLGcc1WMQ/s1600/Woooo%2521.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_RFTql3Ar3v1_Cxr8bSV64gijSXPsgflnE-aZnykdaRPnK2TUKKn6LUp_Zia2oEwB5XdKc1hgxEVfz84wSYPU0bTNyRIpBnr1XnIILF_OhnFbzHICSkBobShfOHz9xgcJBLGcc1WMQ/s400/Woooo%2521.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647439598023442498" /></a>
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<br />Now I can’t really imagine what lengths someone would go to in order to get the one thing he or she wants more than anything. I wasn’t particularly clear on the details of how my cook friend was able to gain entry to a private event and lay his hands on something that less than 1% of the population of the Unites States and Canada get to ever be in an enclosed room with. So I decided to fabricate everything after this sentence.
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<br />My cook friend approached the door man in his greasy apron and told him flat out he was here for the event. The doorman asked for his name so that he could look it up on the guest list. My cook friend gave him a fake name, and when the doorman looked down at the list to search for it, my friend whipped out a concealed frying pan and bonked him upside the head.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeI-Cgf_zd7dy4iQd39R80J0nj2OHiSPXqNZJjlXBba4x33CxH8u-0CcZ_Y82IOP2c4-t0MdYW9txzCfJbraFhaEhc1i4Q-JoqEyWJ8zQKynw-o8ob64hVuYlVGgmSx9fwsdiCT3DzA/s1600/Bonk%2521.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeI-Cgf_zd7dy4iQd39R80J0nj2OHiSPXqNZJjlXBba4x33CxH8u-0CcZ_Y82IOP2c4-t0MdYW9txzCfJbraFhaEhc1i4Q-JoqEyWJ8zQKynw-o8ob64hVuYlVGgmSx9fwsdiCT3DzA/s400/Bonk%2521.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647439687678541506" /></a>
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<br />As soon as the doorman fell to the floor unconscious, my cook friend proceeded to step over his body and make his way into the room.
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<br />Upon entry, my cook friend spied a foreign dignitary with a monocle and holding a fancy cocktail, chatting with other well-to-dos about how barbaric hockey was. My cook friend walked up to the dignified gentleman and made a wildly inappropriate comment about his grandmother’s cleavage, causing not only several old-timey exclamation such as “well I never!” and “I do say, good sir!” but also for the gentleman’s monocle to fall dramatically into his drinking glass. In the ensuing confusion, my friend grabbed a bottle of exorbitantly expensive champagne which had been displayed prominently at the small table’s center and made a wild dash toward the Stanley Cup.
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<br />After roundhouse kicking a security guard out of the way, my friend uncorked the champagne with his right eyelid and without haste, emptied it into the Stanley Cup. In one smooth motion, he hoisted the cup over his head and dumped its contents directly into his face.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-lROiM7FhyItgnQz0uFFjU8AEhXXaoFbwXEHLxcr48Vgkv7pfBYLLf8WueOTrsQRLQRsyL6uYNMQDpHE4BEsjj9MRnPR90I4BmujzO4BxHgQeGVWOWxtYxnBg_mNIWv1QHLF1Wb00A/s1600/Stanley.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-lROiM7FhyItgnQz0uFFjU8AEhXXaoFbwXEHLxcr48Vgkv7pfBYLLf8WueOTrsQRLQRsyL6uYNMQDpHE4BEsjj9MRnPR90I4BmujzO4BxHgQeGVWOWxtYxnBg_mNIWv1QHLF1Wb00A/s400/Stanley.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647439790346335298" /></a>
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<br />And that is how my cook friend was able to hang out with the Stanley Cup and somehow not get arrested and fired.
<br />King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-12348556762030427802011-08-18T00:23:00.000-07:002011-08-18T00:31:53.785-07:00The Waiter TestSo it’s been a while since I decided to update this blog. I’m not okay with that. But here it is.
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<br />I've got some news, however;
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<br />Recently, the management at the restaurant where I work decided to implement a thorough test for all of its current employees. For many of the new hires, the test was significantly difficult.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzDecZ7J-Zi9dPrdjWMKB2GSm_A4JiHaqvfXmmMqhOPA-IxbJIkK6EnfwhmxWbKDysT16O8E918VoBNBQddL88LMXDmBW1IW480UavE41nmH_p1sXiYFbBDrcGVlkG-u_MoftsiO3Ig/s1600/1st+Perro.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzDecZ7J-Zi9dPrdjWMKB2GSm_A4JiHaqvfXmmMqhOPA-IxbJIkK6EnfwhmxWbKDysT16O8E918VoBNBQddL88LMXDmBW1IW480UavE41nmH_p1sXiYFbBDrcGVlkG-u_MoftsiO3Ig/s400/1st+Perro.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642093787928333426" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggsrKhUIxD3YAnWen_4Umtw6Gy6RAsp75Pr5BMMV0_iekp9yoCzd191FcMQUbs8fuIpy3XICKXxMsnn78a81KFOumeNRPDfT-lU9bvenExYRH7JoVvX7GvWG9Ey9wO9008tXVPNjfo3g/s1600/Conclusive+explanation.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggsrKhUIxD3YAnWen_4Umtw6Gy6RAsp75Pr5BMMV0_iekp9yoCzd191FcMQUbs8fuIpy3XICKXxMsnn78a81KFOumeNRPDfT-lU9bvenExYRH7JoVvX7GvWG9Ey9wO9008tXVPNjfo3g/s400/Conclusive+explanation.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642093909837507474" /></a>
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<br />For the rest of us, the test was incredibly easy.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9kkG4MKVwIRL9E2eEJ9HSzba5fVND6SSl86oT4a2NgQ6qLvOR__HiX8lZAUlqF5b-VtCps2w68Sb5ed7MVs8xoWoQdAPFSazzglGHbUT074wgjARstKUfNIrL_-aFb2IFXZ0anvDOyQ/s1600/Explanation.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9kkG4MKVwIRL9E2eEJ9HSzba5fVND6SSl86oT4a2NgQ6qLvOR__HiX8lZAUlqF5b-VtCps2w68Sb5ed7MVs8xoWoQdAPFSazzglGHbUT074wgjARstKUfNIrL_-aFb2IFXZ0anvDOyQ/s400/Explanation.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642094007058241522" /></a>
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<br />Although it broke my heart to watch the newer portion of the staff racking their brains to find the complete compendium of ingredients in the lobster melt, I was infinitely appreciative that nobody actually asked me to take the test yet. Whether that was intentional or not, I was ultimately grateful that the management didn’t need to have documented proof that I had the ability and the know-how to sell a shitty bottle of wine to a throng of old ladies.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkjfeOzRsxCfOMcdvQZvD9JwLtKm8BBYvBXNAAsEr8OVssVJ3Kg7WAAe3cdFLnJcIyy26SxkLJ3OHk7A3Jn26cor0YrCF8wmvnY0okgQBHYjs_98RJNGGmR7ITU83xOmusaX3RjLTjw/s1600/Beringer.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkjfeOzRsxCfOMcdvQZvD9JwLtKm8BBYvBXNAAsEr8OVssVJ3Kg7WAAe3cdFLnJcIyy26SxkLJ3OHk7A3Jn26cor0YrCF8wmvnY0okgQBHYjs_98RJNGGmR7ITU83xOmusaX3RjLTjw/s400/Beringer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642094155205986722" /></a>
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<br />The saddest part of all of this was that someone eventually found out that I never took the test. So they sat me down and put one in front of me.
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<br />How bad could it be?
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5EBk0Z267yMPyORXsAAcNqLz9_rooy9ONJRgkS5LPBQo2YtECOxGBMBa38He7LUFBZ0Olv5MBFxDkYDqlfYQF8Hh60heXpYra4OGZiAB_1K0nVa00vo4AuGBnzsnDHnEBUUtLgukkw/s1600/Questions.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5EBk0Z267yMPyORXsAAcNqLz9_rooy9ONJRgkS5LPBQo2YtECOxGBMBa38He7LUFBZ0Olv5MBFxDkYDqlfYQF8Hh60heXpYra4OGZiAB_1K0nVa00vo4AuGBnzsnDHnEBUUtLgukkw/s400/Questions.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642094240452770290" /></a>
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<br />I was determined to bang the test out at quickly and exit the restaurant at my earliest opportunity. I trained dozens of employees throughout my tenure. I showed plenty of waiters how to operate terminals and serve food. I taught countless men and women about the inner workings of kitchen etiquette. How hard could this test have possibly been?
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMaU3oJ98rTrDRKoU_OacCP7JPYtUTn7IjX8hyphenhyphen2TpVvpZgnEwf1FCLEiKiah9rL8gNw8bK7yUDaD7g-JwOcqn0msFkiyt0ZRauOC7uFhj0KSxtzXtMuOvSTb8UYijnYQiewwyQK7BFw/s1600/Hazards.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMaU3oJ98rTrDRKoU_OacCP7JPYtUTn7IjX8hyphenhyphen2TpVvpZgnEwf1FCLEiKiah9rL8gNw8bK7yUDaD7g-JwOcqn0msFkiyt0ZRauOC7uFhj0KSxtzXtMuOvSTb8UYijnYQiewwyQK7BFw/s400/Hazards.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642094396369906706" /></a>
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<br />I was shit out of luck. I didn’t know the majority of the answers. The information would have come more easily to me if I had slept in that day and dreamt the answers up. So I scribbled in a bunch of subtly fictitious answers.
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<br />As if on 3-day cue, my manager approached me to screen the answers to my test.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QhfO_K7TkQ0KXnu77N_bKljlEnZeuSTYCiNdxHkoRvPi8BCf2OfxItnFgk7xsg-9wVa1gchuGXPz1QWQ5fZDx8juPke83zzuSbEjHvkixPvqPrjhv7sTbNo-GQ8SYHImsvTex437gg/s1600/3-day+cue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QhfO_K7TkQ0KXnu77N_bKljlEnZeuSTYCiNdxHkoRvPi8BCf2OfxItnFgk7xsg-9wVa1gchuGXPz1QWQ5fZDx8juPke83zzuSbEjHvkixPvqPrjhv7sTbNo-GQ8SYHImsvTex437gg/s400/3-day+cue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642094515114580450" /></a>
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<br />I was so definitely boned.
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<br />…Or so I thought.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMCJvmxm9Das1aXTeOdtnE8I5wEPns5m5hiz5JkwDgyYLU9pbJ2FkbA3Z03COjwYYH8JC5KWD8t4f7YvWT1ul3BQ-zGIgkue7cIHBNx87EhTRJhimEuYKdhW-49Us-JiM1Vn6tVIEHA/s1600/Ending.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMCJvmxm9Das1aXTeOdtnE8I5wEPns5m5hiz5JkwDgyYLU9pbJ2FkbA3Z03COjwYYH8JC5KWD8t4f7YvWT1ul3BQ-zGIgkue7cIHBNx87EhTRJhimEuYKdhW-49Us-JiM1Vn6tVIEHA/s400/Ending.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642094627843873602" /></a>
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<br />What the hell...
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<br />...They believed me.
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<br />And I'm still employed.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-69776034316039404632011-08-03T23:05:00.000-07:002011-08-03T23:34:07.599-07:00Beringer - White ZinfandelIn many instances, there's a wine on every restaurant's list that doesn't really deserve to be there. It's like warning someone that the knife you're about to hand them is sharp. You know it could cut you if you misuse it, but that's the only thing its meant to do.<br /><br />In this case, I have spared you all a decent post because I've been attempting to start the newest ongoing joke in the restaurant/service business.<br /><br />In case you're curious, take a look for yourself and invite your happy self on down to the facebook group I've created to tout this new mockery of culinary libation.<br /><br />...if you <a href="http://www.facebook.com/groups/243441042345448/">have the guts.</a><br /><br />The jokes begin with "Beringer - White Zinfandel" and end in a slogan that you, as the potential VP of marketing, have designed. The catch - you know your product is mediocre. Have fun!King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-57617069839927883342011-07-17T22:57:00.001-07:002011-07-19T12:31:33.894-07:00The Meal ScheduleWhile in any given restaurant’s employ, your dietary schedule will inevitably change. When your job consists of either cooking food for thousands of strangers or carrying meals to people at times when society suggests meals should be taken, you tend to become immune to the callings of traditional human hunger.<br /><br />According to the undisputable law of Wikipedia being right 100 % of the time, most Americans typically have breakfast between 7-8 AM.<br /><br />In direct comparison, restaurant work has convinced me that the first meal I should have every day should be no earlier than 2:30 PM. A solid craving for a full dinner usually hits me at about midnight.<br /><br />So in some restaurants, there’s something like a bowl of candy or a some fruit or mints for the customers near the entrance that the host staff and servers usually snack on when nobody is looking.<br /><br />My restaurant doesn’t have that.<br /><br />It’s actually for this very reason that I had such disdain for this random drunk lady leaving my restaurant at standard dinner hours this evening.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyHuLRIgYqgsy5HR6zt0FFAXkR2jlhKsQ549Be8739GaJNEG2B05TPJdcqhVYoScOY1BdLPVLdWgxSBflkqBaXFLSUDrB7CSEMqZPnD4lZaNzKj6XA9Ydu-wCFaCrN-qNo18RbREoEg/s1600/Candies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyHuLRIgYqgsy5HR6zt0FFAXkR2jlhKsQ549Be8739GaJNEG2B05TPJdcqhVYoScOY1BdLPVLdWgxSBflkqBaXFLSUDrB7CSEMqZPnD4lZaNzKj6XA9Ydu-wCFaCrN-qNo18RbREoEg/s400/Candies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630567603339648690" /></a><br /><br />My nearby host friend placated her by attempting to rummage through the desk drawer looking for someone else’s Altoids. After he encountered mild difficulty (and by mild I mean major), I decided to cut in briefly.<br /><br />In an effort to placate her by offering an alternative something-for-nothing deal, I asked her this;<br /><br />“Would you like a free toothpick instead?” <br /><br />She seemed unmoved by my offer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZMJqF0oGEwKf0dGoilsnpy1B9ear55NcgCJec-p68qiEzTjShVYeS_NTPjqiTKnDtR0lK35cbge3OfnOJMhFaMIn0XMkqRa0-wOErlHzxzs9JPXd2FiHJCOB_EQ8MB4Xy52Kdonh2sg/s1600/Photo+Drogas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZMJqF0oGEwKf0dGoilsnpy1B9ear55NcgCJec-p68qiEzTjShVYeS_NTPjqiTKnDtR0lK35cbge3OfnOJMhFaMIn0XMkqRa0-wOErlHzxzs9JPXd2FiHJCOB_EQ8MB4Xy52Kdonh2sg/s400/Photo+Drogas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630567685506815186" /></a><br /><br />I tried to make the toothpicks seem more candy-like.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd31AU8aG6XPco3pinhHsafWSpXXCuM6dut7sSSbHPvRU541asmrf7_GedEKnJiTcgNMUnT6nNIJUvr2L3jsIitk6S_3PVtpEkUNj1SXTeVTyXd0bUSCzh_rYo9KD0G-idkfivckdgog/s1600/Toothpicks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd31AU8aG6XPco3pinhHsafWSpXXCuM6dut7sSSbHPvRU541asmrf7_GedEKnJiTcgNMUnT6nNIJUvr2L3jsIitk6S_3PVtpEkUNj1SXTeVTyXd0bUSCzh_rYo9KD0G-idkfivckdgog/s400/Toothpicks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630567782045132818" /></a><br /><br />This woman then looked at me as if I had just told her I was planning on raping her grandmother.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GFdMp0b344eg7IvGqCp9yJCZEkvDPHw1xc8uwDDNniJfy8PgBDfJifAP3ufDhbMOQdc9ACHCc9cUeGY8UFedOFaQOFiiZvvpW03D6hlvMnN5F6Gc-DcH0h-nYD1uM_Tbzws9zQnYKw/s1600/The+Look.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GFdMp0b344eg7IvGqCp9yJCZEkvDPHw1xc8uwDDNniJfy8PgBDfJifAP3ufDhbMOQdc9ACHCc9cUeGY8UFedOFaQOFiiZvvpW03D6hlvMnN5F6Gc-DcH0h-nYD1uM_Tbzws9zQnYKw/s400/The+Look.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630567856695181058" /></a><br /><br />I laid the sarcasm on thick, as I imagined that any sane person would do when confronted with a preposterous request.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Pf9oKTU5jp2ZRx-i9IggOcssn4cMZPzdT6VIEKW1APA_CJq36SQpml5kPFztpamMxfdt3JSspkJC71rKLvoK_DZ6cvHP6-NBT74SfwJxReGTHocvktt1MadmN7BlX0yO77TV6o4mBg/s1600/I+Reckon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Pf9oKTU5jp2ZRx-i9IggOcssn4cMZPzdT6VIEKW1APA_CJq36SQpml5kPFztpamMxfdt3JSspkJC71rKLvoK_DZ6cvHP6-NBT74SfwJxReGTHocvktt1MadmN7BlX0yO77TV6o4mBg/s400/I+Reckon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631148271918131202" /></a><br /><br />Ultimately, I got away with it. Using sarcasm or subtle shaming of the target is a great way to get people in the restaurant setting to leave you alone. I’m proud of myself for being able to delicately pull lines like that off. It can get you out of something, or in my next post, IN to something. Like a room with the Stanley Cup in it.<br /><br />…But that’s a story for another time.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-73369037261186924762011-07-01T07:29:00.001-07:002011-07-01T07:34:45.684-07:00Would THIS Surprise You?On a regular busy Wednesday in the city, not too many requests fly over your head. Customers making absurd inquiries is pretty much par for the course, but this one request in particular actually caught me off guard.<br /><br />I had a table of four, and the guest of honor had just finished being nominated as a Nobel Laureate in economics. He himself was in good humor, but one of his female counterparts (after her meal’s completion of course) had asked me to do something rather unorthodox.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYWRfFvQvgbPRdgxdNOoR_GgD2EUWP43VfbfJPjn6B7VJ2lFW8U7RU3tyj4YWP1a6tqC86I5pWN2orMh9Arfbl6X-PokJ7f_1IZB-30huB4gBebjMPkDhDFlHGviC1tEG0DIUql-WrQ/s1600/Steam+it.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYWRfFvQvgbPRdgxdNOoR_GgD2EUWP43VfbfJPjn6B7VJ2lFW8U7RU3tyj4YWP1a6tqC86I5pWN2orMh9Arfbl6X-PokJ7f_1IZB-30huB4gBebjMPkDhDFlHGviC1tEG0DIUql-WrQ/s400/Steam+it.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624391130618930258" /></a><br /><br />Being a seasoned server, I pondered her request as I brought her wine bottle back to the kitchen.<br /><br />Should I have;<br /><br />A) Attempted to remove the label and presented it to her through the application of my own talents?<br />B) Brought the bottle to the kitchen and hoped they had the time/patience to remove the label with expensive kitchen equipment?<br />C) Lied to her about our restaurant’s inability to fulfill her request and sent her home with the original bottle and a polite single-handed birdie?<br />D) Bludgeoned her in the face repeatedly until she stopped moving?<br /><br />For those of you who selected D, you’re the worst two dozen people I’ve ever met. Please consider a job at your local post office.<br /><br />For those of you who selected A, imagine you don’t have fingernails.<br /><br />For those who chose B? You might have to figure out how far you’d need to cram said wine bottle the rest of the way up your pussy. That lady just told you how to do your job. And you let her get away with being ridiculous.<br /><br />For everyone who chose C, you’re normal. You’ve selected the outcome that required not only the most tact, but the least amount of effort necessary to satisfy both involved parties. You are an ambassador to the restaurant community.<br /><br />For the B squad, you clearly have no idea what it is to approach the kitchen with a ludicrous burden. Cue the absurd request;<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGeCHGVbWb9hD49YCgxNoBo8bdkcI8MyVHm3KV3701p4JuG28U6oQl35j0D5IEjKS2p_lq00_Msu19yTiX6k9C7STehMWl19Mdpco4HcA8NWo1XwBLvaP_7pC_BusSTqsqn0-ATAO-6Q/s1600/Odd+Kitsch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGeCHGVbWb9hD49YCgxNoBo8bdkcI8MyVHm3KV3701p4JuG28U6oQl35j0D5IEjKS2p_lq00_Msu19yTiX6k9C7STehMWl19Mdpco4HcA8NWo1XwBLvaP_7pC_BusSTqsqn0-ATAO-6Q/s400/Odd+Kitsch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624391406449396402" /></a><br /><br />Here’s what line cooks typically think of your request.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dG_QZ2_P_Jd-wSpIlQmENvv6UywtyE-fLNyXiROV22B0e-tcQl-6mDeMqYhDWMdkkrl6obK6cYeLcEUfek_Dzkvzv-xWCjicyB2fu3qNTwk4w_IWwBoks7cuMeuyzmEGlN6CQDJCfQ/s1600/Kitchen+Fecal.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dG_QZ2_P_Jd-wSpIlQmENvv6UywtyE-fLNyXiROV22B0e-tcQl-6mDeMqYhDWMdkkrl6obK6cYeLcEUfek_Dzkvzv-xWCjicyB2fu3qNTwk4w_IWwBoks7cuMeuyzmEGlN6CQDJCfQ/s400/Kitchen+Fecal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624391514574100706" /></a><br /><br />So let’s make sure we have the right answer.<br /><br />I pretended like I brought the bottle back into the kitchen and argued with the staff for fifteen solid minutes. The truth is, any waiter who isn’t hated by 100% of his or her coworkers would know better than to ask an absurdly lofty favor of people who are like family. So I came out with the wine bottle and handed it back to her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_1TV5nbTLbDhC23_zcSbEKwlLYNtWa24FK3yBJcyv66EL7RDBxXlI63MKZaoPLPEYTJJyYORcERI8LVW7ZO_3d0k3l8xSUEelslf76x5hbNC7g5bmUSekJ8yH9inyL3WroprPa9_tA/s1600/Rebuttal.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_1TV5nbTLbDhC23_zcSbEKwlLYNtWa24FK3yBJcyv66EL7RDBxXlI63MKZaoPLPEYTJJyYORcERI8LVW7ZO_3d0k3l8xSUEelslf76x5hbNC7g5bmUSekJ8yH9inyL3WroprPa9_tA/s400/Rebuttal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624391611243321554" /></a><br /><br />…and just as I was bringing the full arsenal of reasons I thought her request was ridiculous, I realized that none of it was necessary.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLeN95lOmuCqMfO2vq35rihxU30DM-hOuY4tQarT9H-sAawy3RS8U7fd3bO94Rxo_90WFLs_lOdikT4WrLYNFX6Nt4Jb1ezOGzm2aMufa5ZAMcwtqbgS6EqMBuvP_mbfrO9Ic9Issnw/s1600/Wait+a+minute.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLeN95lOmuCqMfO2vq35rihxU30DM-hOuY4tQarT9H-sAawy3RS8U7fd3bO94Rxo_90WFLs_lOdikT4WrLYNFX6Nt4Jb1ezOGzm2aMufa5ZAMcwtqbgS6EqMBuvP_mbfrO9Ic9Issnw/s400/Wait+a+minute.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624391720100269842" /></a><br /><br />I could have ended this 20 minutes ago.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYNJv24964_6VyUm8CgGlHUsrp5NZbAYAuWinU02q-GA68WFhTTwJDG-02ieTQK802GEUmQsRRtgOkvicCZoT83P7iINe6XQfxheFC4-DyUL9MneS5eB7gALHcQWkYq_PyADmb-Bu-Q/s1600/Take+it.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYNJv24964_6VyUm8CgGlHUsrp5NZbAYAuWinU02q-GA68WFhTTwJDG-02ieTQK802GEUmQsRRtgOkvicCZoT83P7iINe6XQfxheFC4-DyUL9MneS5eB7gALHcQWkYq_PyADmb-Bu-Q/s400/Take+it.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624391829162769010" /></a><br /><br />It made me realize that for even considering this ridiculous request, I was being as dumb as she was.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-70042476439891996852011-06-15T22:23:00.000-07:002011-06-15T22:31:08.553-07:00A Waiter's PassionMost waiters aren’t career servers. It’s a duality ever present in the service business--the money is instant and just good enough so that you can spare a little cash to fund your true passion. But the fact is that the longer you lean on that crutch, the more dependent you become at the waiter’s job. In a perfect world, the more time you spend honing your craft becomes inversely proportionate to your dependence on your waiter identity.<br /><br />…which makes you very vulnerable to the whims of various clueless assholes.<br /><br />A good friend of mine (who is a very good waiter, but a much better musician) was taking diligent care of a party of 5 middle-aged business types.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRbJI0ROIa7R1aDDthWs8CG7udRZfxYY-bGwFn676VlDVAUrjTPHpiQTndGg-vm2kNvXa6xneVESl1vudAkKtwBm5L9Td25fFJZzwR5w4GqyRNZEcZ9aSOxF1VEBRGX_63yzxRYag5w/s1600/Awk+Convo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRbJI0ROIa7R1aDDthWs8CG7udRZfxYY-bGwFn676VlDVAUrjTPHpiQTndGg-vm2kNvXa6xneVESl1vudAkKtwBm5L9Td25fFJZzwR5w4GqyRNZEcZ9aSOxF1VEBRGX_63yzxRYag5w/s400/Awk+Convo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618684285385869618" /></a><br /><br />These five were having the kind of inebriated fun normally reserved for those who feel they’ve earned it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3IH81S46gFoch-VVxt8-sZDWgxtKF8uyJzDQTnmAqEUAmotCmxzczVCXYxw3xzC_cPZ07kozj0XigRGkSQA32DO14H_Zs-ZNfZOoqyDG62l-7AzmgCXzbZ-YSOeRcdgO6vPJNjJU_Q/s1600/Mornoically.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3IH81S46gFoch-VVxt8-sZDWgxtKF8uyJzDQTnmAqEUAmotCmxzczVCXYxw3xzC_cPZ07kozj0XigRGkSQA32DO14H_Zs-ZNfZOoqyDG62l-7AzmgCXzbZ-YSOeRcdgO6vPJNjJU_Q/s400/Mornoically.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618684390853619394" /></a><br /><br />My friend resigned himself to cleaning up their drunken mess, housing the same dignity he put forth since the beginning of their interaction. Suddenly the apparent leader of the group, at the peak of his hedonistic tirade, decided to indulge himself just a little further. He asked my friend what he did for a hobby outside of his waiting career.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgquDgeiY7Z56ZqJZRfHC_8Z9SF52D2iidKijmGuCqpIpNMtn7ZLsumsNnPMF7b9cNR3po6nJUZ7fw4OCQoM0CuaCTSSG10Ncub9jFoRcvW8EkIgoRYQe79161RVHadI362LFr0hZA7zA/s1600/McCann+Prelimernary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgquDgeiY7Z56ZqJZRfHC_8Z9SF52D2iidKijmGuCqpIpNMtn7ZLsumsNnPMF7b9cNR3po6nJUZ7fw4OCQoM0CuaCTSSG10Ncub9jFoRcvW8EkIgoRYQe79161RVHadI362LFr0hZA7zA/s400/McCann+Prelimernary.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618684512966977842" /></a><br /><br />So the patron did what he thought would keep a dominant sway over his cronies. He mocked him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTq3MC6v5jl_9I2Bw50rsjh8oVTGswiEIRvpQdiEmlI3CQz1PX312ruCYhFRR-Fgnn7K3gTxdzZ2ULTM6uzAFc11imtg2LDV0QK-OMcJu5lZXFair-8mJYWlfHDqAc0GUu1zSNis6puw/s1600/Rich+Yet.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTq3MC6v5jl_9I2Bw50rsjh8oVTGswiEIRvpQdiEmlI3CQz1PX312ruCYhFRR-Fgnn7K3gTxdzZ2ULTM6uzAFc11imtg2LDV0QK-OMcJu5lZXFair-8mJYWlfHDqAc0GUu1zSNis6puw/s400/Rich+Yet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618684638252029186" /></a><br /><br />To someone who has tasted the fruits of his own labor, nothing could have been more insulting. My waiter friend just then was prompted to show the kind of restraint that would have blown Job’s soul out of his chest.<br /><br />He took a deep breath and let him know as tastefully as he could, what he felt.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubEZ-iAiMQ-V7SEWED4hNhS_vnf3UruJigNZJ9dF1reZJjdRUwjXmDxvbxOXP6fr7twQFZRqMSc-CKB4Phwn1dTl9iIJTmjV_WCg15Ufk7HL8NHicwy3N13Indpjwogpoov-fiu9R9w/s1600/SIR.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubEZ-iAiMQ-V7SEWED4hNhS_vnf3UruJigNZJ9dF1reZJjdRUwjXmDxvbxOXP6fr7twQFZRqMSc-CKB4Phwn1dTl9iIJTmjV_WCg15Ufk7HL8NHicwy3N13Indpjwogpoov-fiu9R9w/s400/SIR.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618685510965420802" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZd2Lb4rUSGiCY1T-fIUZoOg4Zb4dbxn6jbbb5LxJTcZqpGbSn-8ZseGekkNAMMf0M7kbpDCGoZfdRe6GjjHkTd-3sk_ulsLiFqNKkXoEiON90MEzixb9eOYh9GQlCNu8bjAaqdmLlYA/s1600/McCann+Works+Hard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZd2Lb4rUSGiCY1T-fIUZoOg4Zb4dbxn6jbbb5LxJTcZqpGbSn-8ZseGekkNAMMf0M7kbpDCGoZfdRe6GjjHkTd-3sk_ulsLiFqNKkXoEiON90MEzixb9eOYh9GQlCNu8bjAaqdmLlYA/s400/McCann+Works+Hard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618685790131079442" /></a><br /><br />It’s easy to mock someone who looks like a pepper shaker who brings you your free refills. If you think you’re in a better place then someone who is starting from the bottom, then you’ve forgotten where you’ve surely started. Some servers are the kinds of people who chase pipe dreams for our amusement. Others of us are the kinds of waiters and waitresses who take that kind of off-the-cuff smarmy comment and use it as fuel for the rest of our lives.<br /><br />I personally can’t wait to see what kind of road trip my friend will fuel with that one comment alone.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-81051591602997434902011-05-30T21:35:00.001-07:002011-05-30T21:37:15.960-07:00The Rapture ApproachesThroughout the neighborhood, plenty of people have been rather adamant about the notion that the rapture is a real thing that will destroy us all, we sinner scum. But has that stopped people from coming out to eat and being compassionate?<br /><br />It did not.<br /><br />At every table I purposefully introduced myself thus;<br /><br />“Welcome. I am Devon. As opposed to what you may have heard, we will be serving dinner throughout the duration of the rapture.”<br /><br />If further silence pursued;<br /><br />“…want to get lit up?”<br /><br />Oddly enough, people bit. Old ladies got cocktails, young men got draft beers, and middle-aged people drained the reserves of Campari and soda water. With their parents in tow.<br /><br />It led me to wonder--do religious deadlines make an important enough sales opportunity for hard working service staff?<br /><br />It probably helped when Y2K was a huge deal. It probably will help me for the coming 2012 debacle.<br /><br />The rapture became a point of humor at every opportunity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX0AXfo2KaBG6MLIyj2k8dYyKDkow2DuV0fy2oNTI3eCKhAHTTGJ-bMTR1mVcLN5tEyJ4TSoxbWzRkIbuS4uhrnAf9Yh_gXEClMIcePjjq8371XXU5R26Bt0Eu_Jya9jDV_F-00C-2A/s1600/Judgement.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX0AXfo2KaBG6MLIyj2k8dYyKDkow2DuV0fy2oNTI3eCKhAHTTGJ-bMTR1mVcLN5tEyJ4TSoxbWzRkIbuS4uhrnAf9Yh_gXEClMIcePjjq8371XXU5R26Bt0Eu_Jya9jDV_F-00C-2A/s400/Judgement.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612734329050902178" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcs6Xj193kehKMtEXjUDe1R1MU77O02Rt9nJZmHliF2oP6d3Ipa1U0GlOzkx7PtfwUhoqvhzOMERttnp_YgVFQyVscD9nspc8wuXD2FEagSE8aLLaKw98Up1qGPA6qY6JiFCaqBghJQ/s1600/Happy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcs6Xj193kehKMtEXjUDe1R1MU77O02Rt9nJZmHliF2oP6d3Ipa1U0GlOzkx7PtfwUhoqvhzOMERttnp_YgVFQyVscD9nspc8wuXD2FEagSE8aLLaKw98Up1qGPA6qY6JiFCaqBghJQ/s400/Happy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612734430690226738" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWpjDbfE0ZlGq-kaLxd_UDyiGE4T-KFXv-vCpCVpnNeO2z3fAM8qjbbukY8dt9gZjM01JLWQRhXL_j_oY7pm9iNvU1AeR_yAsnoFo_EnIK5eo6JiGRAIJeBf-sIYTDicvRlJjNUBJow/s1600/cREEPY.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWpjDbfE0ZlGq-kaLxd_UDyiGE4T-KFXv-vCpCVpnNeO2z3fAM8qjbbukY8dt9gZjM01JLWQRhXL_j_oY7pm9iNvU1AeR_yAsnoFo_EnIK5eo6JiGRAIJeBf-sIYTDicvRlJjNUBJow/s400/cREEPY.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612734528859827394" /></a><br /><br />The amount of impious mockery I was making on a day when the earth was predicted to end probably wasn’t smart. If for some reason the rapture were to happen, I was doing enough damage to say to the powers that be “please strike me down first.”<br /><br />I was actually a bit relieved when the power didn’t fail and the earth didn’t start quaking at my feet at 6pm.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-3455694397739790702011-05-16T14:31:00.000-07:002011-05-16T15:10:08.015-07:00Greener PasturesIn the service industry, there are one of two paths - You can remain in its throes and ultimately try to improve it, or you can quit and get a ‘real’ job.<br /><br />I spoke with one of my bartender friends tonight who dropped a 900 megaton bombshell on me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlz2UPRkbUXM7ssAFJgTImDnf-6PVYvgILYiCdEaE8jckfSdFn3QuAob4QUc4MJcGkP4DwT7hIhEsgewIl04oVLrMRKDrlK-Cmqb1kdcyzCyVo9ixa4mCvRDDSc_QIuEspyT4zSVwjtQ/s1600/Greener+Pastures.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlz2UPRkbUXM7ssAFJgTImDnf-6PVYvgILYiCdEaE8jckfSdFn3QuAob4QUc4MJcGkP4DwT7hIhEsgewIl04oVLrMRKDrlK-Cmqb1kdcyzCyVo9ixa4mCvRDDSc_QIuEspyT4zSVwjtQ/s400/Greener+Pastures.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607439203692853522" /></a><br /><br />After I sat in awkward shock for a few minutes, I began returning to life proper by using things like adjectives to express my emotional disposition. I was taken aback by the notion that someone in the service industry that I knew, trusted, and formed a relationship with was suddenly not going to be there anymore. Although I tried to sound as not gay as possible, I let him know that he was the only reason I came to his bar in the first place.<br /><br />It got me thinking about how my shift went that evening.<br /><br />The first table I waited on was a thug date. In my heart, I knew that assuming how patrons were going to tip me based on their outward appearances was how one ends up reserving a space in hell. But I did it anyway. As servers, we all do. I reacted from afar accordingly.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQLCY9M4WHQuy1YqqYoXrxCGmq5gkJYcOmpD533Gi94cxdlwKm9Swtbnojb1cPk_e1PND_NGCrrUJVxK5akDOvN0z_5V8-lvFGeAUQSnYtMQB3dat7q2hX_m-EyEmkxudJ0vUy1_X5w/s1600/Oh+Great.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQLCY9M4WHQuy1YqqYoXrxCGmq5gkJYcOmpD533Gi94cxdlwKm9Swtbnojb1cPk_e1PND_NGCrrUJVxK5akDOvN0z_5V8-lvFGeAUQSnYtMQB3dat7q2hX_m-EyEmkxudJ0vUy1_X5w/s400/Oh+Great.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607439296600530514" /></a><br /><br />As a rule, I don’t let it affect my service, but the sad truth is that stereotypes wouldn’t exist if they weren’t fueled by some sort of truth. I felt myself giving up inside as I brought over their tap water.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHO42QnLNinPNlPXx7VK728p6ZC1P1HG_1y7PGGpaiGu48rOkDl49pM7Iqhy8rCe_rgVOaEJGdDV5KXC8glnWSdFSYWRp8wvUce1NvyXVKECegO3A3gr0F9rFJa13e0PP5bmPinLFhA/s1600/Graph.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHO42QnLNinPNlPXx7VK728p6ZC1P1HG_1y7PGGpaiGu48rOkDl49pM7Iqhy8rCe_rgVOaEJGdDV5KXC8glnWSdFSYWRp8wvUce1NvyXVKECegO3A3gr0F9rFJa13e0PP5bmPinLFhA/s400/Graph.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607439382620244546" /></a><br /><br />They got a whole lot of food and amassed a significant check. It totaled perhaps 80 dollars.<br /><br />After his meal, the gentleman grabbed my arm and handed me the book containing his payment. He shook my hand and said “I left you a 20 dollar tip. You’ve been great, player.”<br /><br />It floored me. I had had no premonition of this situation, but I continued my shift as usual. It was actually by percentage one of the best tips I had all night.<br /><br />My last guest was an older, well-dressed black gentleman who looked very familiar. He was by himself, and was generally in good spirits. I put in his order for dinner and chatted with him for the last hour the restaurant was open. Turns out he was a World War 2 veteran who on D-Day charged up the beaches of Normandy. He went on in his life to work several low-paying jobs scrubbing floors and serving people. After that, he quit it all and moved on to establish the first syndicated African American bank chain in the country. He developed real estate and became a developer for some of the most prestigious office buildings and high rises around. I <a href="http://www.google.com/#sclient=psy&hl=en&source=hp&q=marvin+gilmore&aq=f&aqi=g4&aql=&oq=&pbx=1&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.&fp=4d6f6ce8c32f4f53">googled him</a> after my shift, and it completely checked out.<br /><br />The one thing he wanted to impart upon me as my last customer of the night was that there was nothing you couldn’t do if you simply worked hard. After seeing my bartender friend that evening telling me about his hard work paying off, I began to wonder when my time would be.<br /><br />It gave me a small epiphany. Since people can get stuck in the service routine doing the same thing for years, the hard work that you do isn’t entirely without advantage; you gain the knowledge it takes to transcend where you are and perhaps apply that knowledge to a higher pursuit. It might be towards opening your own restaurant, or it might be so that you take sales knowledge to a different line of work. You might even leave altogether and go into real estate or piñata manufacturing because you’ve learned that you can no longer tolerate serving.<br /><br />I recently took on another full-time job, and will be applying myself on multiple fronts until I completely burn out. Or get super rich.<br /><br />Time and hard work. Seems fitting that those two concepts came together for TFTR’s 50th post. Thanks for reading!King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-73923273439049645232011-05-09T20:51:00.000-07:002011-05-10T11:28:01.888-07:00How Good Waiters Become CatsAny good waiter has spent time developing a sharpened instinct and a way of moving that comes into play often enough in the daily grind. I was talking to a bartender I know recently, and she told me a story about how she was carrying glassware and managed to drop one of her easily-breakable objects while in transit. Instead of being able to catch it or somehow lessen the fall of her glassware, it simply bounced off of the floor and landed unharmed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOHVNkJEhUFNtDxrZ0wlyISh8dFd8UfGLtq2vQnA1yJFOSo3le0lLaxAUnjiUcmMJOZ_VSCS7_4JmQo9M0ExLCUKK8dITm7m5geSB4aswUBUQ7jTSiVTv83TZS3araT7D9Ejb6_kscjA/s1600/Glass+Bounce.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOHVNkJEhUFNtDxrZ0wlyISh8dFd8UfGLtq2vQnA1yJFOSo3le0lLaxAUnjiUcmMJOZ_VSCS7_4JmQo9M0ExLCUKK8dITm7m5geSB4aswUBUQ7jTSiVTv83TZS3araT7D9Ejb6_kscjA/s400/Glass+Bounce.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604930723958166578" /></a><br /><br />That could have been a one-in-a-million circumstance, but most service staffers usually muster a snap-second “Oh-shit-something-is-going-terribly-wrong” coping mechanism which prompts us to react in a very particular way before we even know what we’ve done.<br /><br />In any restaurant, your trip through the dining room will have customers throwing out their chairs suddenly to go to the restroom, small children tearing around without looking where they’re going, people swinging coats on in grandiose manners, other servers racing around corners, people gesticulating wildly, and all other sorts of wild, unpredictable nonsense. And you’ll usually be holding plates of food and trays of drinks. And you’ll be making that trip forty or fifty times in an evening.<br /><br />In this environment, you’ll eventually become what I refer to as a “Cat.”<br /><br />You can tell when someone is new to the service industry. He will look like there is nothing more terrifying than carrying multiple plates. He will pace through the dining room at 3 feet per hour until reaching the table. And his eyes will have never left his payload.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSBD2gSdX2BXQ8KD5VFyGdFgil61Hffu-pb8O5arf836UzybcsKVjx0q2Eo0wXCKaUIxSZfRxT0sInYpvQz2OsMLKLV75LtAkcW7gp5R4cRtxJFVb4S6VFOFioWCv70jf-YCoq5Mlkg/s1600/Food+Runner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSBD2gSdX2BXQ8KD5VFyGdFgil61Hffu-pb8O5arf836UzybcsKVjx0q2Eo0wXCKaUIxSZfRxT0sInYpvQz2OsMLKLV75LtAkcW7gp5R4cRtxJFVb4S6VFOFioWCv70jf-YCoq5Mlkg/s400/Food+Runner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604930835508216418" /></a><br /><br />Taking the story from the beginning a step further, I was carrying six pint glasses in a 6-rack formation back to the dish room. The middle glass slipped out from the bunch and hurtled perilously to the floor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpsQ019QQZcaUb-m1kVqRJBi_wf7Dn0e5Y5XHNGhePv2tyhslpUg8gCkrPa6yRQBL-7xMHCVeU746QfMg6vpoaX1Nm-0tl6UO-fikY9ecI8Qg8T7wFOgRq5ESNa3Du4jH_H_KbdaYTAA/s1600/Glass+Drop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpsQ019QQZcaUb-m1kVqRJBi_wf7Dn0e5Y5XHNGhePv2tyhslpUg8gCkrPa6yRQBL-7xMHCVeU746QfMg6vpoaX1Nm-0tl6UO-fikY9ecI8Qg8T7wFOgRq5ESNa3Du4jH_H_KbdaYTAA/s400/Glass+Drop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604930938955497842" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU50-i34PT32Rg77yy6gLJXot26YEf-SsgK9gG2ckD8XYamuyfsprlixbePJtxgyr4aKbDlDlUSegp4DaCLD5f6Dp1hQLu48ZbT3UQpNoqJG48EhijjhZ1ztEIT2RTc-G5Lu6aI1A3bw/s1600/Oh+Shit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU50-i34PT32Rg77yy6gLJXot26YEf-SsgK9gG2ckD8XYamuyfsprlixbePJtxgyr4aKbDlDlUSegp4DaCLD5f6Dp1hQLu48ZbT3UQpNoqJG48EhijjhZ1ztEIT2RTc-G5Lu6aI1A3bw/s400/Oh+Shit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604931045888889490" /></a><br /><br />Without even thinking, I scrunched the remaining 5 glasses in my hands together for safekeeping and used my right toe to kick the glass back into the air.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0URLFQo-2PNmmQoXpZLATqgBSeUXtIwEIcbctpF5UP4wQizpqxBhf4f2bZlXSiBZ4ytNpcxfuyUM9KwrjY-Hvw92hAIqOXtKJsQFuyBeFMz9qjHSL1N9LiCz-WZC1v4WMDil-dpDGg/s1600/Pint+Glass.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0URLFQo-2PNmmQoXpZLATqgBSeUXtIwEIcbctpF5UP4wQizpqxBhf4f2bZlXSiBZ4ytNpcxfuyUM9KwrjY-Hvw92hAIqOXtKJsQFuyBeFMz9qjHSL1N9LiCz-WZC1v4WMDil-dpDGg/s400/Pint+Glass.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604931224740073762" /></a><br /><br />I hopped about 6 inches off of the floor, and snatched the glass midair between my ankles.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeFehAp9-BWZPlMGiVzkDPlLNvZdHhfR5r1UGTRLgq8vzJsjrcC3XRSjEXdbRlv52WaOGlTKOiUGrcIWTK87bP4xwKtaa8eyRsxe-HAE-FQImAoxNCwazGVyUNiPFhlJEW6bTPHv_Ug/s1600/Picture+It.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeFehAp9-BWZPlMGiVzkDPlLNvZdHhfR5r1UGTRLgq8vzJsjrcC3XRSjEXdbRlv52WaOGlTKOiUGrcIWTK87bP4xwKtaa8eyRsxe-HAE-FQImAoxNCwazGVyUNiPFhlJEW6bTPHv_Ug/s400/Picture+It.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604931409669467730" /></a><br /><br />After I landed, my brain caught me up on what I had just done on adrenaline-fueled instinct. Immediately after that, my first reaction was to look around frantically and say;<br /><br />“JESUS LORD GOD TELL ME SOMEONE JUST SAW THAT!!”<br /><br />It was an immensely satisfying moment. Probably made more intense by the fact that I had just prior been on the verge of failure.<br /><br />Another cat I know had the pleasure of serving a mean, senile old man. I don’t know what it is about old people, but after a certain age most of them tend to want to interact through awkward close-range grapples.<br /><br />When your server is carrying a tray of iced teas, you as a customer would probably think to get his attention with a wave or an “excuse-me” if the situation is somewhat urgent. If you need another beverage, any of the above methods may apply. This is a picture of the standard hand-wave.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ_bf3Hiondxkrrt_S6RSHJQIX6aw9kpnZfCP_BpXISBxAL6lh2v8rHT66GDQbLE2daJ2Im9O9STL-8dosQ8pdEPAHcHPwxwNUWaTDZOrOiXVcZObhnxbtuUgfrap8gO8SmsptwEfTg/s1600/Waiter+Summon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ_bf3Hiondxkrrt_S6RSHJQIX6aw9kpnZfCP_BpXISBxAL6lh2v8rHT66GDQbLE2daJ2Im9O9STL-8dosQ8pdEPAHcHPwxwNUWaTDZOrOiXVcZObhnxbtuUgfrap8gO8SmsptwEfTg/s400/Waiter+Summon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604933421722398226" /></a><br /><br />This gentleman, who had been ill-mannered since his arrival, saw his server (who I will remind you was at the time carrying a tray of iced teas), and grabbed him by his tray-carrying arm.<br /><br />My friend almost lost his beverages but because of his sharp reflexes, he was able to release himself from the death-grip and counter-swing his arm to stabilize the tray. Many of my server friends might have suggested that he accidentally “lost” the drinks all over this grouchy old man and let him get what he deserved. What was so urgent that he had to physically grab my friend and nearly caused a big accident? He just wanted to begrudgingly demand his check.<br /><br />You can always tell when someone works in this business if they say "Behind you" whenever they walk by outside of your field of vision. It's because he or she is a trained cat.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-39592797051758084742011-04-23T01:17:00.000-07:002011-04-23T12:22:38.258-07:00A few tales NOT from the restaurant. Brace yourselves.For those of you who have been following me since I began this God-forsaken husk of an alcoholic's excuse for a terrible skeleton of sense-making crap-ridden waste of magical dragon's unicorn barf of a blog, congratulations!! You've made it past my worst sentence ever.<br /><br />I will now take a swing at rewarding your attempt at progress by providing you with some sort of reason why I've spent the last two and a half weeks not faithfully publishing readable material on a website which I still maintain the illusion that you are somehow a dedicated fan of.<br /><br />I hereby promise you this;<br /><br />I have worked harder than ever on creating a mural below which chronicles my recent adventure in the non-restaurant world. And if I could have possibly contemplated a better use of my time, I might have dismissed that very notion in favor of making my personal Iliad into a somewhat contrived YouTube video blog. The reason that I haven't done that is that I've observed individual strands of grass that have made photosynthesis seem vastly more interesting.<br /><br />My tale begins thus.<br /><br />It all started when I took a flight down to Cityville, State-Ohio to visit my slightly estranged brother. The week progressed somewhat normally; we met up and got hammered. I imagine that I made a bad impression on his friends.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQz1K_zwz74EK0bTppzwbA2qAC3jaUsdC7QOPQYfWJaBu-YnbxIQTmglUDGw9r2RjU0WH-H4j7VAUSWpdTBP4G3M9nd7CpKUNV7FNhZD2vJN1WXbnbhOSo5D5SgBOLWvVhdyEJMWn9w/s1600/Throwing+Up+on+U+St.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQz1K_zwz74EK0bTppzwbA2qAC3jaUsdC7QOPQYfWJaBu-YnbxIQTmglUDGw9r2RjU0WH-H4j7VAUSWpdTBP4G3M9nd7CpKUNV7FNhZD2vJN1WXbnbhOSo5D5SgBOLWvVhdyEJMWn9w/s400/Throwing+Up+on+U+St.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598738379525192226" /></a><br /><br />While attempting to catch my own barf between my extended fingers, I briefly contemplated refraining from generally continuing to make a complete ass of myself.<br /><br />By lunch the next day, I had thoroughly pulled myself together. But back to the main plot;<br /><br />Being of slightly similar age, my brother and I found time to catch up on the many significant plights of our generation; we conversed about such topics as which kind of high-five was more effective (Top-Gun or dual-palm), argued about why Wisconsin deserved (or did not deserve) to be a state in the first place, debated the illegalities behind urinating on shrubbery, and refuted the idea behind spoons being a musical instrument. We ended up playing Roshambo for quarters, and vice versa.<br /><br />...I don't quite remember the outcome of that particular event, but either way I went home sterile or with a fresh-cleaned load of laundry. At one point however, I decided drunkenly to make my way back to my brother's apartment where he so generously volunteered to quarter (and not Roshambo) me. Drunk I so very was.<br /><br />Well, I wasn't so much "drunk" as I was "stumbling down the street with my dick hanging out contemplating where to put my urine."<br /><br />In retrospect, it made me seem rather vulnerable.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMcRDmwLmoITSCPYSeGVxoxKBiEffA4MP4-EM6911IAB6eHiZ3Ro1MEg8iP34zE7QixJybPMBazOJ49zlSf56y6LqO7WOayQCp5JVe_Ct13AZFMs-7YpTjFDUM-0LNQuJVHcqjdWFnw/s1600/Throwing+Up+on+U+St+pt+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMcRDmwLmoITSCPYSeGVxoxKBiEffA4MP4-EM6911IAB6eHiZ3Ro1MEg8iP34zE7QixJybPMBazOJ49zlSf56y6LqO7WOayQCp5JVe_Ct13AZFMs-7YpTjFDUM-0LNQuJVHcqjdWFnw/s400/Throwing+Up+on+U+St+pt+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598728579243780706" /></a><br /><br />I presumed the locals took the hint because at one point, a hostile black man began to follow me. He expressed his distaste for my presence through various unmistakable actions. He was very much armed, and offered up no shortage of racial epithets and profanities to further intimidate me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJ_nBxKqthAIayoVxCDrPVxf52QUwf8aQIR3o8Qe9kvkRkqPyIxxVBTG62ql49oYa_j11odxofEkM-OD_l4psK_LWmaMq7zWFwh0j9lsfG-gFBn8YyT4oXMQTjIV9Ok7ZNxlyyYG5SA/s1600/Running+Crazy+Man.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJ_nBxKqthAIayoVxCDrPVxf52QUwf8aQIR3o8Qe9kvkRkqPyIxxVBTG62ql49oYa_j11odxofEkM-OD_l4psK_LWmaMq7zWFwh0j9lsfG-gFBn8YyT4oXMQTjIV9Ok7ZNxlyyYG5SA/s400/Running+Crazy+Man.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598728751411478882" /></a><br /><br />"WHITEY GOT A DEATH WISH!! I' KILL YOU WHITE BOY!! GET OUT O' MY HOOD!!" he screamed, chasing after me with several people in tow (seriously not kidding).<br /><br />After slamming the door on him safely and having him and several other black men (whom I presume he knew personally) politely express their distaste for my particular pigment (with added emphasis received bluntly on the front door of my brother's apartment for the better part of five excruciating minutes), I decided to try to take the edge off by getting some sleep for the next day's flight back to my home town.<br /><br />I waited with my present company at the airport terminal for several hours. Two hours turned into three hours, which became four hours, which eventually evolved into an indeterminate length of time which likely rivaled the length of the latest "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie. The only decisive plot difference was that the mustache on the face of the overweight Hispanic woman sitting to my left substantially rivaled the one which belonged to Orlando Bloom. Compared to William Turner, the woman next to me actually resembled a conquistador.<br /><br />Instead of boarding a plane back here to continue my restaurant blog, I was hindered by the announcement made by the relatively confused airline officials. Apparently, our plane was delayed, but on its way without flaw.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdhsiOKA0YuE4b4Q9h-2i6MTEf5jJmLP4BKRcx_YpqRCdSFBHwPzVLs8VyWBE5yKGYBPFVyvtiusMsndWlUCwnMQhlwUsK32xf9YCcgMg_-oJw0DXw9_eYeCStUZhWRUFKNfVWCSoJA/s1600/Air+Tranny.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdhsiOKA0YuE4b4Q9h-2i6MTEf5jJmLP4BKRcx_YpqRCdSFBHwPzVLs8VyWBE5yKGYBPFVyvtiusMsndWlUCwnMQhlwUsK32xf9YCcgMg_-oJw0DXw9_eYeCStUZhWRUFKNfVWCSoJA/s400/Air+Tranny.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598728872000900114" /></a><br /><br />...until lightning struck it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9QtfBy41JVPKkPt8JJRI8yRFi51oe1psw7xx7Uh1y0KqxK0_wIyJBPDEvpEzaIItzDRlDrtO4WJYGmItC-q0nK879GEgVg9RKVgw0gOeDrRQXVt9h9aS19l4yfVXIk5rncxRIGb1mQ/s1600/Lightning+Strike.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9QtfBy41JVPKkPt8JJRI8yRFi51oe1psw7xx7Uh1y0KqxK0_wIyJBPDEvpEzaIItzDRlDrtO4WJYGmItC-q0nK879GEgVg9RKVgw0gOeDrRQXVt9h9aS19l4yfVXIk5rncxRIGb1mQ/s400/Lightning+Strike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598738199569751266" /></a><br /><br />Because the airplane's damage was without repair, we had to be assigned an alternate flight which took off the next day.<br /><br />In general, airports and airplanes turn average people into complete shlong-jockeys. If Mother Theresa's connecting flight was for some reason delayed, she'd probably find a way to twist your testicles into a bowline knot until you defecated an entire pterodactyl to carry her by her God-blessed neck hairs all the way to her glorious destination. She might have even had to utter an f-bomb while waiting in line.<br /><br />I vastly prefer waiting tables to dealing with airport drama, but I digress.<br /><br />Because my two cohorts and I were forced to wait the storm out in a nearby hotel instead of getting into another thunderstruck maladroit airplane upon a moment's notice, we collectively reasoned that MORE BOOZE was the only logical answer. <br /><br />The nearest source of our precious alcoholic commodity was over two miles away, but I remained steadfast in my psychological pursuit to HAVE IT. So I volunteered.<br /><br />In my coterie, I was the only male. I had the strongest muscles, the leanest figure, and the hardest resolve. Although I audibly reasoned that I was the fittest person to lead the expedition for more booze, I was ultimately ousted as the most sober. Reverse psychology is NOT to be trusted.<br /><br />So I went for a 2-mile run to the nearest liquor store.<br /><br />Besides the fact that my charitable booze run capitulated with me sprinting through the unknown swamp in the dead of night, my journey was devoid of necessary foot-travel accessories such as sidewalks, or any guidance in the form of visible light. Plus I actually witnessed wolves crossing my path. I shit you not.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8kq7DRIDGhbneLneh6Hf3gU5H7ZkPmUgWnTtsvQScZ-N4-rBbMgMGm018eNd66R_GJrPCH8prJ4cPW7hf7yFHzdte-qCjM6DqcfhSvQdkMdM7k7UzZDKTrlSX8sYHCNdyfLEJZFHFWA/s1600/Wolves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8kq7DRIDGhbneLneh6Hf3gU5H7ZkPmUgWnTtsvQScZ-N4-rBbMgMGm018eNd66R_GJrPCH8prJ4cPW7hf7yFHzdte-qCjM6DqcfhSvQdkMdM7k7UzZDKTrlSX8sYHCNdyfLEJZFHFWA/s400/Wolves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598729222597383666" /></a><br /><br />Ultimately, I made it across the swamp. I had survived the better part of two miles devoid of civilization (though conversely packed with canine predators) and had turn around and run back with the county's finest Sobieski vodka and Fanta-brand grape soda. The promise of purple drank (minus the codeine) that I fully brought back to that hotel across the swamp empowered me as a heroic human male, and ultimately solidified my rank as a savior for those who would have only exerted slightly less by taking a nearby elevator to the downstairs hotel bar. By spending less, I was championed by the two over-traveled companions with whom I traveled.<br /><br />And then at 4 AM, we boarded our non-lightning-tainted flight back home, where we slept for the better part of an entire day. And it was all worth not working in a restaurant for a whole blessed week. Strangely enough, being broke and chased by wolves and hostile locals was the strongest motivation for heading right back to the instant money of the alternate weekend/evening shift.<br /><br />More to come.<br /><br />It'll be restaurant related, believe you-me.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-6810347610598926172011-04-08T12:47:00.001-07:002011-04-08T12:48:25.508-07:00A little sexism never hurt anyone (in this business, anyway)On principle, advocates of gender equality should never go out to eat. Throughout the liberal arts educational process, the agenda of social justice plays a huge role; we’re taught that we shouldn’t discriminate, and that everyone should be treated equally.<br /><br />As a server, if you don’t take advantage of those differences, you’re a moron.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiuUu9RUYNRnSZgUrnaj4s0fGEWwG3MjONXImROroyW4TLdViu4KeoP2bHiPzGeDK-UXz_utpwyFPNQ6vpoXCzBL9ikhAWtjrhP4IqrD0cipSdvCy68dUbEVPKG9nVVOWW9RzCovlOQ/s1600/Gary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiuUu9RUYNRnSZgUrnaj4s0fGEWwG3MjONXImROroyW4TLdViu4KeoP2bHiPzGeDK-UXz_utpwyFPNQ6vpoXCzBL9ikhAWtjrhP4IqrD0cipSdvCy68dUbEVPKG9nVVOWW9RzCovlOQ/s400/Gary.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593301813532998258" /></a><br /><br />If you have nothing that makes you interesting, you’re not going to make much money. If you take charge of the things that make you unique, you’ll find your bank account increasing. Even the relatively common characteristic of just being attractive enough can earn you lots of money.<br /><br />If you’re a male, imagine going out to eat and having a good-looking waitress not only take your food order, but also acts like she’s interested in you. It may be a ruse, it may not--what matters is that when coupled with good service, you’re a variable in an equation that should amount to a rent check.<br /><br />When that’s what it comes down to, you’d be a fool not to undo an extra button on your uniform, or what I do when I get a group of old ladies--simplify my humor and flirt my ass off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Vfb91py-0MrBSCKF6D_omXjQ3AP7961Tu1G7BAQYKB3_q8t5V5ml9rkWArqfiQMMVzt9NnXVQ0Hgqa_gCLZ3XyS0SnAAgumlLZaLgD-SerW_vhG05tPEeIElEzO5MckfEb9LdKS4CQ/s1600/Two+Beauties.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Vfb91py-0MrBSCKF6D_omXjQ3AP7961Tu1G7BAQYKB3_q8t5V5ml9rkWArqfiQMMVzt9NnXVQ0Hgqa_gCLZ3XyS0SnAAgumlLZaLgD-SerW_vhG05tPEeIElEzO5MckfEb9LdKS4CQ/s400/Two+Beauties.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593301881237649122" /></a><br /><br />This isn’t to say that I don’t try hard to earn my living with the other patrons. However if you seat me with a few old ladies I can instantly become an instant expert on canasta and daytime television.<br /><br />Take what happens to someone I know on a regular basis.<br /><br />This particular waitress gets large parties every so often, and they will often tip her immensely on top of service charges without fail. She does it by doing what I affectionately refer to as “Working it.”<br /><br />When she gets groups of businessmen, she immediately finds the host of the party and begins to treat him like she was just hit with cupid’s arrow. On one occasion, she even warmed up to a lonely guy at someone else’s table and he ended up giving her twenty bucks as he left for “making his night.”<br /><br />I guess in my business, you’ve just gotta work with what you’re given. I’m still learning that part.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-35405735530873864502011-03-24T12:49:00.001-07:002011-03-24T14:50:37.822-07:00The Restaurant GeminiA restaurant is a business where you are required to market your personality. Although this is true in many jobs, one distinguishable trait about restaurant employees is that the personality they market to strangers drives them to become the opposite of the person they portray.<br /><br />I’ll clarify.<br /><br />A slick businessman might find that his success in his job is credited to the same traits that make him cunning and shrewd in his personal life.<br /><br />A waiter who goes into restaurant work with a shining and upbeat personality may find himself trying to escape that personality in his off-time by being miserable and emotionally taxing around others.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7YlggR9jxymSprQ2akGrN4hW_JTl9AWm-u-5QDs4avOR9MQ-FTjJLENh1DUr440lERH0OcgvHU4MQE-MIxsTkWDrmtsU4LS-1PkyEsM5qW089HexxrTc4fkB0LIE1x58StXm6eT38OA/s1600/Elephant+Poop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7YlggR9jxymSprQ2akGrN4hW_JTl9AWm-u-5QDs4avOR9MQ-FTjJLENh1DUr440lERH0OcgvHU4MQE-MIxsTkWDrmtsU4LS-1PkyEsM5qW089HexxrTc4fkB0LIE1x58StXm6eT38OA/s400/Elephant+Poop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587736156099007826" /></a><br /><br />It can also go another way.<br /><br />I remember last summer, a group of my coworkers and I were having a particularly bad evening. There had been large parties right after big functions, there were lots of mistakes made, high-strung management figures had been laying down the discipline, and in general, nobody was in a very good mood. The whole lot of us (totaling about fifteen people) had just been asked to leave our favorite after work watering hole for a combination of reasons, and we proceeded to drunkenly stand outside of the bar, continuing to gripe and smoke cigarettes like a discombobulated group representing every role ever played by Clint Eastwood.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfv9Ub6vA3E3iIDB6jYAG9EGmRnXPT2WMijeQdZTw00DcXvyMdo_FZsF63cjUJA0Kn1kjF55S8V_6t79wn5arG47gdIw726KasjyMlzPyAKg0pFFsBLD04RK5Rdde7ZP3SozBX6rCBQ/s1600/Gang+of+Clints.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfv9Ub6vA3E3iIDB6jYAG9EGmRnXPT2WMijeQdZTw00DcXvyMdo_FZsF63cjUJA0Kn1kjF55S8V_6t79wn5arG47gdIw726KasjyMlzPyAKg0pFFsBLD04RK5Rdde7ZP3SozBX6rCBQ/s400/Gang+of+Clints.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587736243447136946" /></a><br /><br />Before long, some Irish girls randomly walked by and asked us for directions to a bar that was nowhere near that location.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1BojYlVdyHSyrnRhPah8UqMQgnDB0EJUD4Pe3IqGZbGW07vxdKuQ7MRUEPwXD-hGBkELnDxgw96mxIgiXYQcHQaQBkAkFXWVWYwZYZT5kJhByky1LbBacknKDz69WeUr0fxh8G1FYg/s1600/Irish+Girls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1BojYlVdyHSyrnRhPah8UqMQgnDB0EJUD4Pe3IqGZbGW07vxdKuQ7MRUEPwXD-hGBkELnDxgw96mxIgiXYQcHQaQBkAkFXWVWYwZYZT5kJhByky1LbBacknKDz69WeUr0fxh8G1FYg/s400/Irish+Girls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587736317428511218" /></a><br /><br />Because I was drunk and hazy, the above picture is the only memory I have of what the Irish girls looked like. They probably were not walking stereotypes as I portrayed them, but I do remember them telling me they were from Dublin. I do not remember them singing loudly or talking about Guinness, but I think I might have made an inappropriate IRA joke. My friends and I decided to direct them to a form of transit where they could get home (or wherever they were staying), but we were very drunk. And I don’t think we helped them very much.<br /><br />Suddenly, a gang of punks walked by us to interrupt our being “helpful.” They started being more “helpful” by flirting with the Irish girls better then we were. Since we were all still kind of angry and their “help” was being better received, we became irate.<br /><br />We squared off with the group of kids who were raining on our international flirting parade. They had tight clothes, jean jackets, and weinery haircuts. We liked our odds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtRUm8_lOeH5DlwgpR40RD1u9LwXWJsAUXlHxL_OZLdRTVyHlFDEYMUXzxFrLw-FciSCTuKoXyCW8rQGbgeFBSwMoioJ7y9Rhoymff3BwEMP9HqbOQ1bAsOY878ZTB89cVDKcgHctyw/s1600/Standoff.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtRUm8_lOeH5DlwgpR40RD1u9LwXWJsAUXlHxL_OZLdRTVyHlFDEYMUXzxFrLw-FciSCTuKoXyCW8rQGbgeFBSwMoioJ7y9Rhoymff3BwEMP9HqbOQ1bAsOY878ZTB89cVDKcgHctyw/s400/Standoff.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587736403696883954" /></a><br /><br />Needless to say, being outside of the restaurant after it robbed us of our patience, personality, and clemency, we weren’t an agreeable bunch of fellows. Our Nepalese food runner ended up swinging a chair around like a battle axe, one of the crazy female waitresses shoved one of the people over a poorly-placed flowerpot, and our Northern Californian hyphy-gangster bartender damn near dropped someone with a head butt. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukLYg4mzkD3su696higudMOVTWiiPN2UvOvkKNYxDri5mDnJ3p6sKhyphenhyphen-KCuPYHJyHrGpoSI2Cxc1F5YfFNx5g7qsbvdhGiWI_PzkJ7VOI346gV4ZXzxyCBKkphOgpVuLtazXHqXajdQ/s1600/Brawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukLYg4mzkD3su696higudMOVTWiiPN2UvOvkKNYxDri5mDnJ3p6sKhyphenhyphen-KCuPYHJyHrGpoSI2Cxc1F5YfFNx5g7qsbvdhGiWI_PzkJ7VOI346gV4ZXzxyCBKkphOgpVuLtazXHqXajdQ/s400/Brawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587736580926649746" /></a><br /><br />At some point, the Irish girls left in terror, never to be seen again. The staff of the bar came out to tell us that the police were on their way. We took off, and so did they. Strangely enough, a few of the opponents were parked right in front of where we were parked. We approached our car, and they stood ready.<br /><br />Instead of a fight (which we fully expected in rebuttal), we squared off again while my buddy reached into his pocket. He pulled out his keys and unlocked his car. As soon as it happened, both parties entered their vehicles and left. It was incredibly anti-climatic.<br /><br />We left. I guess both parties just needed to blow off some steam. After all, we were all probably working doubles tomorrow at different restaurants.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-54838156656937757712011-03-15T13:58:00.000-07:002011-03-15T15:49:57.900-07:00A Happy MediumI was reminded of something as business in the restaurant wound down late last night. I was waiting at the front, thanking restaurant guests as they left. One woman in particular left and then re-entered about ten seconds later. She looked to be in her mid fifties, had grayish hair, and probably wore a fanny-pack. Or didn't, I don't know. Even if she didn't actually have one, something definitely made her seem odd. She stared at me for a few excruciating seconds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55bzzTXXwsSJHmgN2CoimXVcU9jUB1XjgrtNrw580utEKyK5GE3G140SpgudNs9NkyIsi4ZPvMqBaQnazJjMVByZmhfyiZG7tzFMJzN4VH9pznGAZ0-FNxnKEQ-xig_VvRvutWkpE3g/s1600/Confrontation+Lady.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55bzzTXXwsSJHmgN2CoimXVcU9jUB1XjgrtNrw580utEKyK5GE3G140SpgudNs9NkyIsi4ZPvMqBaQnazJjMVByZmhfyiZG7tzFMJzN4VH9pznGAZ0-FNxnKEQ-xig_VvRvutWkpE3g/s400/Confrontation+Lady.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584439203103419794" /></a><br /><br />After a prolonged stare, I decided to re-break the silence.<br /><br />Me; "Coming back for a second dinner?"<br /><br />Her; "No....there's someone smoking right outside and I don't want to walk by him."<br /><br />In situations like this, I realized that sarcasm is not only a necessary way to cope with odd people who go out to eat, but a fantastic security blanket. I let the conversation progress naturally.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8NpF8i2xKicLOi8Cz6D8VC9h75iwbYgVHNIrdJOGGkUZ1OvedngOkeB2iD9mAZuG-h5cOQi5vWLcLXSCx8794DXGfnFEg0enRc4nfvhyphenhyphenJrAI2WWTq3Y5GAwGd3xqHKqIlCUgrrD55A/s1600/Another+Way.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8NpF8i2xKicLOi8Cz6D8VC9h75iwbYgVHNIrdJOGGkUZ1OvedngOkeB2iD9mAZuG-h5cOQi5vWLcLXSCx8794DXGfnFEg0enRc4nfvhyphenhyphenJrAI2WWTq3Y5GAwGd3xqHKqIlCUgrrD55A/s400/Another+Way.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584440291819460930" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKyR1Lohi5iYcsd_yj_YcNI879JG8rd83cfb8LU4O1foMfANKcCmecg_PCItK1Wt3U0SaCHUghUpUUixFw5ykf6wKaQgZYjxqQY7lKNOasR5qSQ1v_bJr8Fdn7_PdA-916gkcuO-dSg/s1600/Explained+Elevator+1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKyR1Lohi5iYcsd_yj_YcNI879JG8rd83cfb8LU4O1foMfANKcCmecg_PCItK1Wt3U0SaCHUghUpUUixFw5ykf6wKaQgZYjxqQY7lKNOasR5qSQ1v_bJr8Fdn7_PdA-916gkcuO-dSg/s400/Explained+Elevator+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584440381736091362" /></a><br /><br />Instead of offering her a sensible solution, I decided to push against the boundaries of her ridiculous needs with equal and opposable force.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaavSmwr8yKJ2d00W1UNwMZtoQ6gIIRqJffPtlJ38dBJ7zsAq4nXDcZuDgm7IN3coAV7-Ie09lCMRWfpwihmafSZw9oshwCv97dsZPMPsWpfx7wgPitWE55XdLBXiP9qztrQympI7oKQ/s1600/Explained+Elevator+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaavSmwr8yKJ2d00W1UNwMZtoQ6gIIRqJffPtlJ38dBJ7zsAq4nXDcZuDgm7IN3coAV7-Ie09lCMRWfpwihmafSZw9oshwCv97dsZPMPsWpfx7wgPitWE55XdLBXiP9qztrQympI7oKQ/s400/Explained+Elevator+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584442149376568802" /></a><br /><br />I knew there was something off about this woman. She even continued having a conversation with me about how to solve the cigarette-smoking problem after I proposed that she instead take a fire elevator that smelled like fish instead of just walking out the front door. Then I remembered that I had waited on her before...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOE_ORdSPDuP7d_jOTHbS0y5vN9tdRORgXH7yOfXuY0SuB8Ds_ZOHcL9bGURANeoF01_NgBPPuyUdZctB-cN7wOkz3gDy3Vbir91q5S6qNW-CKv_zsHGQKoMCAqYNrlNmM9qQ6dykXpQ/s1600/Receipt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOE_ORdSPDuP7d_jOTHbS0y5vN9tdRORgXH7yOfXuY0SuB8Ds_ZOHcL9bGURANeoF01_NgBPPuyUdZctB-cN7wOkz3gDy3Vbir91q5S6qNW-CKv_zsHGQKoMCAqYNrlNmM9qQ6dykXpQ/s400/Receipt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584442402827968562" /></a><br /><br />Granted she probably didn't react as drastically as I portrayed her in the dramatic recreation posted a half-inch upward, she definitely freaked out about having to touch receipt paper.<br /><br />Me; "Now if you'll just sign your credit card receipt, we'll be all--"<br /><br />Her; (Disgusted look) "I'm not touching that."<br /><br />Me; "Why not?"<br /><br />Her; (Throwing her hands in the air) "Haven't you heard the news? There's a chemical in receipt paper called CHT that gives you cancer!"<br /><br />Me; (Audience participation--choose your favorite line)<br /><br />A - "I don't watch "Hippie News."<br /><br />B - "In that case, I probably have 8 cases of cancer in my index finger alone."<br /><br />C - "Then why did you use a credit card? Or is that same chemical even more abundant on American currency?"<br /><br />(Please post your vote in the comments)<br /><br />The truth is, I don't remember what I said to her on that particular occasion. All I know is that on both occasions, I employed subtle sarcasm to help keep me from rolling my eyes and saying something that would inevitably get me fired. With most people older than 40 who have little else to worry about than hypochondriac cancer, your best bet is to feign some kind of concern while subtly implying that they are overwhelmingly easy to make fun of.<br /><br />When you go out to eat, you'll do well to notice if your server is making fun of you. If you have a request that is extremely particular but are mildly afraid to ask it, see how your server reacts. If he or she reacts with an extremely acute attitude of concern but offers grandiose solutions, you're probably being made fun of but don't realize it. Joke's on you.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-85878519925841822242011-03-01T22:02:00.000-08:002011-03-01T22:16:02.973-08:00The Importance of Saving BaconYou’ve probably been to a restaurant at some point in your life. If you haven’t, then one item on this list is true about you;<br /><br />A) You’re a liar<br />B) You’re bedridden<br />C) You have no knowledge of the order/eat/pay/leave process<br />D) You’re indefinitely imprisoned against your will<br /><br />I had the pleasure of waiting on a fellow a few weeks ago who I felt embraced the letter ‘C‘ on the above list. He was a gentleman in his late fifties who came in with his eight-year-old son.<br /><br />Everything was going normally. The older gentleman asked me to add some crushed bacon onto his salad, so I obliged him. I pressed the button on the terminal for ‘bacon,’ and thought nothing of it until I handed him his check. He summoned me over.<br /><br />Him; “I didn’t know the bacon was going to be three extra dollars.”<br /><br />I had never rung it up before, so I responded somewhat innocuously.<br /><br />Me; “I didn’t either."<br /><br />Nobody had ever asked me for it.<br /><br />Thinking that would be the end of it, I started walking away. He held out a hand to stop me, and motioned for me to take the check presenter back. His next question floored me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyHWSTntUmN1I4nx7Kw15leQbx8ylLrbR5yThBfYXrClX0f9Rb_cfodl64AcFsc2Xzkrd5z-y56KYi5YKcNyRokbVDEJl0GuXmKVjDK5UBqwcwd2VSTE2l63tIVKs5Xm18tfpkWMFqQ/s1600/Old+Guy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyHWSTntUmN1I4nx7Kw15leQbx8ylLrbR5yThBfYXrClX0f9Rb_cfodl64AcFsc2Xzkrd5z-y56KYi5YKcNyRokbVDEJl0GuXmKVjDK5UBqwcwd2VSTE2l63tIVKs5Xm18tfpkWMFqQ/s400/Old+Guy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579359513114642210" /></a><br /><br />Not only had I never before rung up a side of bacon, I’d also never been stunned silent by a diner’s request. Have you ever gone to a restaurant and said to your server, <br /><br />“I don’t want to pay that much. Can you make my dinner cost less money?”<br /><br />I’m guessing that if you’ve ever gone out to eat for dinner, you’ve never actually tried to negotiate the final cost with your server. If you have, I’d like to know if it worked.<br /><br />So I began to rationalize it like this;<br /><br />If I got his bacon removed from the bill, he might use the extra couple of bucks for tipping me.<br /><br />If I didn’t remove it from the bill, he might write an angry letter to my boss and get me reprimanded. He might even become irate and use swearing.<br /><br />Given the infinitesimal amount of money in question, it wasn’t really worth NOT trying. I compromised with nobody in particular and asked my manager to REDUCE the price of the premium-top-notch bacon.<br /><br />My boss didn’t really care.<br /><br />Boss; “Maybe he’ll think a dollar is more manageable.”<br /><br />In most restaurants (including fast food joints), adding bacon costs extra. In a nicer restaurant, it's probably more likely that you'll pay as much for two slices of bacon as a gallon of regular unleaded. At its cheapest, you'd probably pay just as much for a losing lottery ticket. You're essentially choosing what you feel more comfortable gambling with; small bills or a mild heart attack.<br /><br />So I brought the check to him amended. I let him know that the prices of bacon were now “apparently negotiable” and that I hoped that his check was now “more reasonable.” I gave him a smile and a wink.<br /><br />Apparently satisfied that he saved two dollars, he paid and left.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-520912834212794645.post-89633669106116352662011-02-16T11:06:00.000-08:002011-02-16T11:10:05.227-08:00Valentine's Day - A Dynamic of LoveValentine’s day means something entirely different to a service industry employee than it does to a person who has never waited tables. It’s for that reason specifically that I’ve never had a successful relationship with a non-waitress.<br /><br />The woman I’m seeing now is a server, and we sat down together and had a conversation about Valentine’s day. We both decided with little debate that we were not the type of people to celebrate the festivities of the occasion. In a heartbeat, we unanimously made a decision that would make most women throw a violent tantrum.<br /><br />We both wanted to work instead.<br /><br />This is how the average person sees Valentine’s Day;<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvTY-Qs_1z8aXGIMwo3IutKKIqyDXLnFBHVx8oLOW4gV_1foSjFMnOB17VsUwHVEtiq5uBlBR5uvD5Ui0UXfxO0S_90qQXqnfZrtYz5ormGuktrBEp_KZtJLsk-PGgAOvhyCKZNcKpDw/s1600/Valentine%2527s+Day+Love.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvTY-Qs_1z8aXGIMwo3IutKKIqyDXLnFBHVx8oLOW4gV_1foSjFMnOB17VsUwHVEtiq5uBlBR5uvD5Ui0UXfxO0S_90qQXqnfZrtYz5ormGuktrBEp_KZtJLsk-PGgAOvhyCKZNcKpDw/s400/Valentine%2527s+Day+Love.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574366145464654706" /></a><br /><br />This is how a seasoned waiter sees Valentine’s Day;<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ksAhiXEGZdti0g8ExoVWtKYlz3Sll084F5_fZBY_PWglyVsDi6ltF6I1SdfWhBNBDg5GNyhjg5AfYSly_yflsTY-lVpCBcl_d8ADHZgwGT7V5TvcxaS7n47zPSchoWeRhDsA6K7jWQ/s1600/Valentine%2527s+Day+Money.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ksAhiXEGZdti0g8ExoVWtKYlz3Sll084F5_fZBY_PWglyVsDi6ltF6I1SdfWhBNBDg5GNyhjg5AfYSly_yflsTY-lVpCBcl_d8ADHZgwGT7V5TvcxaS7n47zPSchoWeRhDsA6K7jWQ/s400/Valentine%2527s+Day+Money.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574366232990508066" /></a><br /><br />It’s really very simple; There are precious few holidays where you can show up to work for a full shift and leave afterwards with an entire month’s rent in your pocket. Let’s analyze all of the reasons why this happens;<br /><br />Reason #1 - The restaurant is busy.<br /><br />The fact that it’s a holiday means that people want to celebrate it. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule (Flag Day, Labor Day, Kwanzaa), but Valentine’s Day is one of the major reasons that people take each other out to eat. There are countless couples that come in, and they all need people to do very basic things to give them what would normally be an unacceptably mediocre dinner--they are enjoying each other’s company, and could very well not give a damn if you actually served them a plate of kangaroo testicles in lieu of an actual dinner.<br /><br />Reason #2 - The first date dynamic.<br /><br />Let me illustrate this one;<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha4mCmhuL5ZGbgQae-42C2Pxg2GJ-drdCBxpolyghHga8qvgH4smW3AVrL7Uv1cBb-A7bD5NPPTiZSc1bVT27b1PpnJ8or8CWgp3hTOBp9BSYCLcPO4atKR87MjU5pTfwrWK-Ibig-Bw/s1600/Valentine+Date.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha4mCmhuL5ZGbgQae-42C2Pxg2GJ-drdCBxpolyghHga8qvgH4smW3AVrL7Uv1cBb-A7bD5NPPTiZSc1bVT27b1PpnJ8or8CWgp3hTOBp9BSYCLcPO4atKR87MjU5pTfwrWK-Ibig-Bw/s400/Valentine+Date.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574366322139932978" /></a><br /><br />For many people, Valentine’s Day is an opportunity to take someone out and not be alone. For these people, the rules of rational expenditure tend to fall to the wayside. They will buy things like expensive wine, dangerous flowers with sharp points on the stem, and Justin Beiber concert tickets. For a server, this mindset makes it much easier to ring up higher check totals.<br /><br />Reason #3 - Good tips are a guarantee.<br /><br />At the end of each couple’s dinner, the server’s tip is generally given with regard to the sliding scale of ‘How much I want to impress my date.’<br />The very least you might be given is around fifteen percent, but at that rate, the man paying the bill could care less if he were on a date with a bearded manatee. Furthermore, he’s probably not even expecting a post-date hand job.<br />At the other end of the tipping scale, I’ve observed gross over-tipping to the tune of 50-75% of the check total. The kind of guy who tips this well is on a date with a girl whom he is convinced makes Kim Kardashian look like an accordion-playing hobo. He’s hoping to somehow involve incense and candles into his post-date sexual encounter, and his friends will eventually grow tired of hearing about how great his date went.<br /><br />Knowing all of this, I was pumped to go to work on Valentine’s Day. I even called ahead to see how many reservations there were at the restaurant I work for. This is what my boss told me;<br /><br />Boss; “Devon, you’re not on the schedule.”<br />Me; “There must be some mistake.”<br />Boss; “Nope. We have a full floor, and you’re not on it.”<br /><br />I reacted accordingly.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0B-f9Ty5gjJ_CV5-SVNQhgV6Vj9mvlAF_ytn3Ptx61y7eB4SrBzZ32XkU-5BUP0Y1Cu-1_MD_IDvB-hSDQsnuGCMMALlQLbIwnCAqZqJs8vf3qnTqKH6ApMR3dm6-01Pxry2Iyr4YQ/s1600/Surprise.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0B-f9Ty5gjJ_CV5-SVNQhgV6Vj9mvlAF_ytn3Ptx61y7eB4SrBzZ32XkU-5BUP0Y1Cu-1_MD_IDvB-hSDQsnuGCMMALlQLbIwnCAqZqJs8vf3qnTqKH6ApMR3dm6-01Pxry2Iyr4YQ/s400/Surprise.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574366714584030562" /></a><br /><br />I hadn’t had a Valentine's Day off in four years. I didn’t know what to do with it.<br /><br />So I went out to eat.King Devon the Magnificenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15752581778373500487noreply@blogger.com3