Debt On

A man sat down in the restaurant today. From the moment I went to the table, it seemed he knew he was special.

“Get me three virgin daquiris, please. You know, that means with no booze. And put a little whipped cream on top!”

At the time I was waiting, though I fancied myself a bartender. That he told me how to make the drink already insulted me.

When I came back, he got into it with me about the salmon.

“Now, I notice you have this salmon here that’s stuffed with dungenous crabmeat,”

“Yes, that’s very popular.”

“Now, you also have a salmon served with a northwest berry sauce.”

“Yes. That one is roasted under a cedar plank.”

“Well, could I have this stuffed one with the northwest berry sauce?”

“Sure,” I said. The chefs doled that stuff out like it was water. “I’ll just bring you a side of it.”

“Okay. So I’d like that. Oh, wait, can I have it poached?” The restaurant was slammed and not a damn thing on the menu was poached. I already knew what the chef’s answer would be.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “but the restaurant’s very busy right now. It would be difficult to make that kind of exception.”

“Well, can you just ask them?” he demanded.

I walked away and groaned. I was busy. Not completely weeded, but this wasn’t helping. When I ran back to the kitchen, I looked around for a chef to say to, “can you poach a stuffed salmon I know you can’t right now just say no,” and the chefs were not in a position to answer such stupid questions. I decided I didn’t need to even ask, the answer would just be “no.”

When I told him so, he got kind of pouty and disappointed. I had to apologize a few times. But I thought to myself, this menu has over fifty items. Deal with it.

“Well, I’ll take the stuffed salmon. But.. that’s not farm raised salmon, is it?”

“It is,” I told him.

“Really, but it says here, ‘Atlantic Salmon from Chile’.”

“Yes, but you’ll notice that Chile is a Pacific country and couldn’t possibly have Atlantic salmon unless it was farm raised.”

He got all pouty and huffy again. But he still ordered the salmon. The stuffed one, with the northwest berry sauce.

“And I’d also like this crab and shrimp salad.” I wrote down “combo salad,” it was another very popular order. “Do you know this menu by heart? I mean this one right here,” and he put down his menu and pointed it out to me. My “certainly”s and nodding head wasn’t enough to confirm to him that I probably did, indeed, get his order right the first time. I really hate being patronized.

“And make sure the dressing’s on the side,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“And also we’d like the fried shrimp platter.” I scurried off before he could point to that, too.

After a while I brought out the food, exactly as he’d ordered it. Stuffed salmon with a side of northwest berry sauce. Crab and shrimp salad with the dressing on the side. Fried shrimp platter. It was about this time that he ordered another virgin daquiri. I checked on the table several times and was told everything was fine.

When he cleaned his plate – and I mean he ate every bite on it – he called me over.

“Now, this daquiri you brought me has booze in it. And I said, ‘no booze.'”

“If that’s the case, sir, our bartender should be fired. I don’t think he would do that.”

“Well, he did. So just take that off my bill. Also, the salmon you brought wasn’t stuffed at all. You brought me the other one, the one served with the berry sauce.”

“No, sir. I remember what I brought you. It had cheese on it.”

“No, you don’t understand. You have two salmons on this menu.”

I knew the goddamn menu. “Actually, sir, we have three. I did bring you the berry sauce…”

He stuck out his hand, “OK, then. Thanks for admitting it.” That really pissed me off.

“Sir, I admit nothing,” I said. “Would you like to speak to a manager?”

“Umm.. no, I don’t think that will be necessary,”

And I walked away from him. I found the manager, and told him that this man was accusing me of screwing the order up conveiniently after he finished his meal just to get a free lunch. I’d had enough. I told the manager as much, and after speaking with him he reluctantly agreed to take one of the daiquiris off the bill. After all the stress and strain he created for my workday he left me an incredibly lousy tip (I guess because he thought I screwed his order up.)

The moral: if you see someone acting this way in a restaurant, try and shut them down. They’re only screwing up your service.

yo,

i was just wondering what your dill was… i mean… your webpage. it has not been updated in like… weeks!!! whats up with that? anywho.. i think you should change that. and quick. and make it something special… pour moi!!! :) your favorite little sister. k? thanks!

Okay, okay, it has been weeks. But I wanted to let that “Coming In 2006” sink in a little bit, cuz it’s not gonna be right away.

So keep that in mind, because it’s sure keeping me busy when it seems like I’m being lazy. For now, I dug up this little fragment that I always liked, but haven’t fit into anything yet. Something special? …maybe tomorrow.

“Where’s that Manhattan!?” The yell came from behind me, and would have startled anyone not used to the bustle of a busy restaurant to catastrophically drop whatever they were doing. Fortunately I was used to it, and the bottle of Crown Royal whisky remained in my hand, pouring down into a silver shaker.

The waitress glared at me, her brow deepening into a scowl. Whoever had ordered the Manhattan from her was clearly becoming upset, and it was time to finally make the drink.

Click! The top of the bottle caught the shaker as I pulled the bottle upright.
Slam! I gingerly placed the bottle back on its shelf.
Shlipt! I popped a pint glass on top of the shaker.
Shicka-shicka! I gave the drink a good shake.
Thud! I tapped the shaker on the bar to break the seal.
Splash! I dumped the ice out of the martini glass.
Snap! I snapped on the strainer.
Trickle! The whisky poured in.
Plop! I dropped in a cherry.

I smiled up at the waitress and she rolled her eyes back. She walked away with the drink, mumbled, “thank you,” but I didn’t believe it. I wondered if she realized why her drinks were consistently late. Her tip-outs were so bad, I always moved her tickets to the bottom of the pile.

I moved on to the next ticket: six draught beers. In less than a second I grabbed a pint glass, pulled down the tap lever, and amber ale was flowing along the side, foaming at the bottom of the shimmering glass. The glass caught the light of a bit of flame. Luis was spraying sake onto the grill next to me, working on a yaki ika appetizer.

Yaki ika sounds incredibly more palatable than it’s English name: grilled squid. English has such unappetizing words it seems food is always ordered in another language: calamari instead of squid, linguini instead of flat noodles, venison instead of deer, caviar instead of fish eggs, escargot instead of snails. Other words have second English words to describe them as food: beef, pork, poultry and veal are prime examples. And if you do order in English, it’s usually because of some kind of humourous alliteration like hot dog or fish and chips. Or perhaps some absurd metaphor as in chicken fingers or Buffalo wings.