Why Bother?
he had a face that looked like a thing that looked like a face (pic©The Happy Panda)
What's the point? Seriously, what is the point? You spend years honing your skills, getting your spiel down to a fine mix of sales patter, genuine warmth (or something that appears to be genuine warmth) and humour. You study the guest, you learn all about them, their nefarious little ways, their ability to say one thing but mean something else all together. You know them better than they know themselves. You study the menu, learn how to cut through the crap like, "a gently roasted dead thing rested atop a bunch of wilted crap 'n stuff with essence of horse shit foam and a confit of angels dingle berry", or as we call it, chicken salad, sir.
You know the chefs, their funny ways and tendencies and act and advise the guest accordingly. Chef number one has a heavy hand, it matches his heavy gut, and has a tendency to over cook steaks, you know this and order the steaks one whole temperature scale less. You know the menu because you took time to study it, to learn it's little traps and pitfalls. You know what needs and extra side order and what doesn't. You know the smoked salmon starter is too small for you average human man to eat. You know because you care, mainly about your tips, but also about the guest.
You know the lamb is amazing and drop hints to the guests. You also know the veggie option is swill and make appropriate faces when someones finger wanders that way. You are passionate about the wine list, you helped create it. You love every bottle, except the house pish, like it was a little grapey child from your own loins. You study the labels, you drink the wine, you swirl and gargle and swallow and you talk, oh how you talk about the wine. But you do it to ensure the guest gets the best bottle for their dollar. You do it because you care.
And then there's the chefs, some of which actually studied at catering college. Some of which actually care. They care about the meat and swear into their sleeves when they are asked to cremate a fine piece of beef or lamb. They tweak and touch and taste and stir and tweak some more over the many sauces and jus and soups. They put a bit of their darkened hearts into what they do. And they do it because they care. But why did they even bother?
But really, what's the point? Seriously, why bother with all this effort and commitment to the cause?
"Here mate...", began the mouth breather with a face that looked like a thing that looked like a face, if you know what I mean, "der's nuffin ah like on dis ere menu. Ain't you gat nuffin plain like? I only like plain stuff like"
"Plain stuff?"
"Aye plain stuff...", says he pushing his menu away in disgust at all the food items with bastard flavour in them. Bastard chefs and their habit of putting flavour into things, the cunts. The thought of herbs and spices and exotic ingredients like onions, ("they gimme wind" - he told his charmingless girlfriend) and a tomato based stew made him sick to his skinny ass.
"No....no sir we seem to be all out of plain stuff this afternoon. Maybe I could ask the chef to take all the pesky flavour out of one of the dishes for you?"
"Aye aye do dat"
So I did do dat. We took all the flavour and the tomatoes and herbs and the wind educing onions and anything else that may have perked up a breast of chicken and sent it down to him with "chaps" on the side and a ramekin of ketchup for dipping and charged him fifteen quid for the pleasure.
I left work on Sunday a little less happier than when I arrived and I wasn't exactly overflowing with love and happy thoughts when I arrived.
See, he’s the sort of person wouldn’t eat anywhere other than a burger bar or chip shop if they were allowed to sell him bottled beer.
He goes to a restaurant not for the experience of a meal but for some food, any food, as long as he can have a bottle of Stella and Smirnoff Ice chaser with it.
Speaking of which, Beatrice Kennedy’s? Heard plenty of good reports. Your thoughts?
You bother, because it gives you something to write about?
You are of course correct mr not twitter….Beatrice Kennedy is excellent, been a few years since i was there mind but still has a good reputation. It’s a “nice” restaurant for the older diner…I am only 37 so i cant go properly for another 13 years….you’ll fit right in
grandad: that’s cynical…correct…but cynical all the same
His colon must be as clogged and pocky as a road after a deep winter’s thaw. Dudes who request “plain” food tend to shy away from the veggies.
no question….he’s the sort of dude that thinks eating five portions of chips a day counts as his five fruit n veg
Fifty? I’ve got my pipe, slippers, cardy and bi-focals on order but they’re not due for a few years yet.
The choice would be Tedfords, Mourne Seafood, or Beatrice Kennedy’s.
Tedfords won’t answer their phone, Mourne’ll be booked which means I can save 2 calls and just ring Beatrice Kennedy’s. Ah, fuck it, you’ve put me off it now.
Tedfords….no question… Put the effort in and keep ringing…its worth the extra effort
oh, but you DID use your skills, manuel… you read him perfectly, deciphered exactly what he needed, and found a way to make him a happy customer. granted, you’ll never school his tastebuds (ewww…. bad visual there), but you – as always – did your waiterly best to give him a pleasant dining experience. at the expense of a small amount of your personal integrity. noble, sir. very noble.
but.did.he.tip?
by the by, sugar, why do i have to enter my email address every time i leave a comment? xoxoxox
People like him and many of them would soon put half of us out of a job. I mean who would need a kitchen. Just a microwave would do…
you bother because we care.
“the mouth breather with a face that looked like a thing that looked like a face”
It’s early yet, but this will be the best thing I read all day.
I’ve wondered if this attitude is a local thing or if it’s international. If it’s local, it seems to filter through everything. This desire for blandness and fear of anything flavoursome – it’s the restaurant equivalent of barking at someone on the street because they’re dressed differently. If you’d set him down a fine steak with a selection of delicious vegetables and three types of sauce, he’d have been unable to look at the plate without screaming “LOOK AT LA STATE A YOU YA FOCKIN HIPPY” at the vegetables, then punching the sauce.
But the flavour is the best part!!!
Odd being.
see what happens when you sleep too long….millions of comments….well not millions but you know….I’m gonna drink coffee first…
Has The Cousin’s sister been in? These are the sort of requests she makes in restaurants.
“Plain stuff?” Oh, I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps you were looking for the local McDonald’s? They’re just down the way a bit and I hear they make a lovely french fry….
Never trust a skinny person, what fun is abstinence?
He should watch Soylent green…..
You should have slipped him some confit of dingle berries. I hope he broke wind as he attempted to mount his charmless girlfriend.