Curt is still allergic to shellfish

Well Hannah tells me I have to post on my blog. I think it's so I'll stop talking at her to tell her the silliness that have been my nights at work. She even went so far as to lend me her laptop so I can post while they watch tv. Riding high on my sugar rush thanks to her homemade gluten free cheesecake I feel invigorated and especially chatty.
I am now out of training at the french joint in the heart of Buckhead. The vests are turning out to not be the worst thing ever. The lack of pockets on my apron however is a real pain in the ass. The vest has plenty of pockets but since I am not built like barbie I have an abundance of room in the chestular area and not so much in the waist area. Any necessary things I may put in my inside vest pockets like washcloths, crumpled splenda packets, wine keys, cough drops and a watch well these just make me look like I have a small lumpy dog wrapped around my waist. The waist looks stuffed full while my chest fits like nothing has since I was a 13 year old flat chested girl. The uniform is the biggest cock block I've ever seen. Better than a grandmother for zapping your self esteem. The only other really weird part is having to carry a pager for the kitchen to reach you. I usually tuck this into the waist of my pants so I don't confuse it for the vibration of my cellphone. This usually works out well until the hostess gets happy with the buzzer while you're at a table. I nearly dropped a bottle of wine on my table this afternoon when it started to buzz as I bent over at the waist.
I have had some awesomely weird tables in my many lunch shifts these past two weeks. The best one being my first table Sunday. I was folding napkins when the hostess seats a middle aged man with a puffy gray David Hasslehoff mullet. He was with a very trim, very made up brunette. The doop (the paper that tells me their name, how many reservations they've made before, when they sat etc.) said they were a recommendation from a local hotel concierge. Awesome, so that means they're too lazy or think they're too busy to make an actual choice on restaurants and blindly go where someone tells them to. This bugs me, who is so important they don't have time to be adventurous, this friggin' guy. I glance at the top of the doop, the last name is french, ok no big deal. I greet them and welcome them, give them the whole deal about how our water is filtered a whole song and dance basically asking them in they want sparkling or flat water. After some debate they and by they I mean he told me what they wanted. I turned and told the new server assistant what they wanted while I went to go do something in the back. As I came out the s.a. told me I'd told him the wrong kind, they wanted flat water not sparkling. Oops, well it's just water, no big deal. OH BOY was I ever wrong. When I went over to let them know the specials, he literally puts his hand up in a stop motion while I'm talking and interrupts me. He points to the water glass in front of him and says "You brought me sparkling, I OBVIOUSLY asked for flat. If you can't understand my accent because I'm french tell me now"...The brunette accompanying him looked pained. My mouth nearly fell open, I understand you're a dick. Prick is the same in Swahili, Vietnamese, English or French. A dick is a dick no matter what language, a dick with a stupid haircut is especially annoying. If you're this picky about your water this is going to be a VERY painful table. I smile and tell him it was a simple mistake, one that I will not repeat. I manage to tell them the specials even they they're not listening. The inspection of each others cuticles was far too engrossing. Did I mention they were sitting side by side at a four top table? Yeah, I hate that. If you're going to be that couple that insists on sitting in a 4 top booth, don't be so lovely that you need to sit next to one another and whisper,it's wierd. You're adults, not 4 year olds no one cares what you have to say it's ok to sit across from one another. You're not exactly communicating confidential nuclear secrets here. So he orders the hanger steak, but it's not that easy no, of course not. Mister frenchyhoff wants it Black and Blue. "Do you know what that is?" "Yes sir I am familiar with that temperature." WHY would you want your HANGER steak Pittsburgh? You're an idiot. "Good, because you didn't understand me before, blue is VERY rare, cold and rare. Do you understand?" Diiiiiiiiiiick. I nod and smile and write "temp-D bag" on the slip of paper in my book.Not only B&B he wants the sauce on the side, of course. His lady friend orders the salmon. It's too early on a Sunday to play your psychic friend ma'am I need to know which salmon? I ask her what temp she'd like her salmon and she just stares at me. I know this means she has no idea what this means, I think she's probably only eaten her salmon smoked or from a can. I kindly tell her salmon usually comes medium rare or even medium, and would she like that? Then I get the idea to talk her into the Salmon and eggs, to just avoid this whole fiasco, after 3 recooks the night before I didn't want to make the managers run anymore redcards. Salmon and eggs is smoked and always good I tell her. "Oh fantastic, sauce on the side please". Sauce on the side is health conscious I understand but it's really annoying and the cooks hate it. So after their entrees come out I do a check back. I had mentally prepared for the fussing I was sure to hear. Frenchyhoff complained that his steak was dry and asked me if they cooked it in the sauce and then cooked it off. What sauce, the Bearnaise sauce? I think not. I smile and since I was tired of listening to his lispy french bullshit I tell him that the sauce and the steak are cooked entirely separate. I didn't mention that a hanger steak is known as the butcher steak for a reason as it's not fatty and if you PITTSBURGH it, it's going to be dry. It's not a ribeye or a NY strip, there's not enough fat to make that great. Needless to say when I saw the 13% tip I wasn't really upset.
For every super nightmare table you get there's always one table you thank god for. The one that saves your average for the night and bring you to your minimum for the night. "Dear Lord, please let me make at least X amount tonight. Thank you for this job and your hair sure looks nice today". I'd just gotten rid of a table of very nice black ladies who were a pleasure to serve, but verbal tippers and bitched about the price. Our place isn't exactly cheap... So my last table is a party of 3, possibly 4. One man asks me for a Dewars and water, the other man asks me for a high gravity beer. I recommend a delirium Tremens a nice ale and nicer at $9 a bottle. Then their friend rolls in and informs me he wants wine but he doesn't know much about it. If I'd known what I found out by the end of the meal I would have pointed him to another bottle of wine and not a safe tasting $32 bottle of wine. He then proceeded to tell me he wanted west coast oysters, big salty oysters. Well...if you're looking for salty oysters East coast are generally saltier and firmer albeit it smaller. No, I want BIG big oysters. I laughed and let him know I'll pick a good one for him, how many would you like? He wanted a dozen for himself, and his friends could split a dozen. Awesome, with the apps and the wine and the drinks their bill was $100 before their entrees. They were in a great mood and a really easy table. I waited on them and finished my side work while joking around with them and the final bill was $200 dollars. As I pick up the signed check they ask me if I had a tongue ring. Why yes, yes I do. Then one guy asks me laughing if I wanted to ride in a Bentley. I laughed and said I'd ridden in one before and although they're nice I didn't really like them. I completely thought they were just being silly. After the wine man (who drank 3/4 of a bottle himself)left his credit card I dashed out to give it to him. They were getting into their car from the valet...a Bentley. They left me $50 and ended my night on a very happy note. They definitely made up for the verbal tippers and I made my minimum for the night.

Why does it sound like we're in a submarine?

Good Thursday? It's the start of patio season and I'd like to address the issue of camping. squatting. table renting. riding the glorified lawn chair. God love Torontonians (Torontonites?) they can drink some beer at 12 on a Thursday. Good lord were those some cheap ass bankers. A section FULL of Prada bags, designer sunglasses, veneered teeth, blackberries, and not a smart (Or personable) patio-er in the bunch. If you plan on sitting on a patio all day that's fine, in fact it's encouraged. If you plan on smoking like a freight train, griping about how you don't get laid, informing everyone at the table how you shit gold and you and only you invented not only fire, but also the condom, the English language, post it notes, and the internet please, do close out your bill or don't ask to speak to a manager at the mere MENTION of giving you your bill actually you know what, don't sit in my section. I love love love working outside, I really do. Nothing makes me happier than the sun on my face. One thing I love more than working outside is getting to sleep in my car on my break between splits. I commute 45 minutes to work everyday and the idea of working 13 hours without a true break makes my brain dribble out my ears but it does happen. If you're going to keep me waiting on you please, tip me more than 10% on your business AMEX. Please, yes your English accents are charming but your Prada bag, Gucci sunglasses and that huge rock on your finger tells me you know how to spend money. I've never been talented in the ways of encouraging people to get the hell out. If you have tips on it please, let me know.
I suppose I should explain the title. As I was walking through (more than elbowing my way and pushing little 100 pound girls aside) the bar I got to the server station and realized that horrible clanging and pinging was coming from the sound system. I swear it sounded like we were on the Kursk. I said "What the hell is that god awful noise, I'm expecting us to spring a leak soon" I was informed we were in fact listening to pink floyd. I may be shot for saying this but I really think they're overrated just like I feel the same way about Radiohead. So aside from loving my stoner co workers I love love love our cooks. Not only do they defend me when the closers get their panties in a wad about cutlery they also do just about anything I ask. Including hugging me when I look pissy, and throwing food at me while making some awesomely dirty jokes. If you've not experienced the server brand of sexual harassment you're missing out.

Can you smell what Environment Canada is cooking?

Excuse the recent plague of spelling errors in my posts, many of them have been from my phone which is surprisingly stupid despite it's misnomer and "smart phone". Moving on the Iphone in conjunction with Yahoo! tells me the forecast of Toronto next week features sunny skies and highs of 13 degrees Celsius which may or may not be greek to many readers. To me this translates to 55 degrees possibly 65 degrees based on the inaccuracy of environment Canada and....PATIO SEASON!!!! I'm currently scheduled for 2 12-5 straight through doubles next week. While officially illegal by Ontario labor board standards I've not heard a single server in Toronto complaining about these shifts. It means 12-14 hours on continuous serving time in the sun! For Canadians the chance to make some vitamin D and be paid for it is like mana from heaven.
In Atlanta working on the patio meant mosquitoes, sweating, 2 months of enjoyable work and potential heat stroke not to mention the possibility of the legendary pop up storms. These storms could and would blow the shingles off a house as well as all the cutlery off a patio table in a matter of minutes. Here in Canada patio season means $$ and the promise of constant business. Last year I was downtown for busker fest. The busker fest is a sort of street fair in which talented street artists from all over the world come to Toronto to show their talents and (if I'm not mistaken) all their profits go to charity. I walked around last year in awe of the sheer amount of bodies on the streets. I saw the amount of people at restaurants near the site of the festival and marveled at their business. This year I'm working at one of these destinations. I am both excited at the prospect of making money and dreading the stupidly long shifts. The idea of DYING to get in the back to gobble down whatever leftovers you managed to bring with you after last night's drunken cooking escapades or whatever remnants you can salvage of the lunch you ordered 3 hours ago is not really pee down your leg exciting. Sure, you can order food but the guarantee of 10 minutes to each lunch is a myth, much like the female organism or a tax return. The only thing more cut throat than a server near rent time is a hostess with a wait for the patio.

YAY SUMMER!