Little Tony M
It must be very rewarding for a parent to see their darling progeny grow and learn and become fully formed little people. You guide them and teach them and hopefully keep them away from all the horrid things in life like drugs, booze and supporting liverpool Fc. You hope they learn from your mistakes and you wish them only a better life than you had. Don’t you? Isn’t that the point?
I had a table on Sunday afternoon that maybe, just maybe isn’t living quite up to those lofty ideals. Mum, dad, little Sparkles Montana (not her real name) and little Tony Montana (probably not his real name but who knows) all arrived in late on Sunday afternoon with more than a crash, bang, wallop and flash of Nike. There was immediate shouting from mum,
“You’ll nat get any Red Bull if you don’t shut the fuc…oh hi table fer free mate…”, says Mum Montana in a vocal style that was more reminiscent of the aliens from Mars Attacks than anything human.
The little darlings carried on screaming and shouting and stabbing little snot covered fingers into their portable games consoles/digital Ritalin.
“Free? Wha about me da?”, piped up Little Tony Montana without actually ever taking his eyes of his PSP.
“Oh fuck aye….table fer four mate….nat free…he’s in bogs so he is…”
Charming. Mr Montana was indeed in the toilets. I showed them all to a table. I wasn’t quite sure where to take them, right out the back door would have been the preferable option but in the end I plumped for a table near the bar where they could be observed and monitored for shady activity. They looked, to be honest, like the sort of people who were likely to have a knife fight/steal the cutlery.
Obviously there was no way in hell was I gonna serve this lot. No way Jose. So, as I have been known to do, I palmed it off onto a waiter chum. She wasn’t best pleased when she came back up from taking their order. But then again she owed me one from Saturday night when I took a two top she didn’t want to serve, a decision she had come to from one conversation with the chap over the phone. She was right, he was a mouth breather and no mistake. “How do you like your lamb cooked sir?” to which he replied, “In a pan.” Douchebag.
Anyhoo, The Montanas ordered, with a substitution on every plate on every course to the point were the food sent down no longer resembled anything from our actual menu. Between starters and mains Maw and Paw Montana went for a “feg”. I don’t know who was more relieved to be away from the other, the kids or the parents. They were all as loud and reprehensible as each other. And that’s not a nice thing to say about kids who were at most nine and ten years old.
Maw and Paw had been away for about only two or three minutes when the battery on Little Tony’s PSP ran out. This wasn’t good. He made advances on his sister Nintendo games thingy but Sparkles wasn’t having it and elbowed her darling brother upside his pointy little face. He didn’t like it and replied in much the same fashion as his sister had. But neither cried, they just thumped for a bit but in the end she kept hold of her toy. Inevitably Little Tony Montana’s sticky, snot covered, wandering hands found their way to the salt and pepper pots. I watched in horror as he opened the salt pot up and poured, not all, but most of the salt out onto the table top. He had already moved his cutlery, mainly onto the floor so he had lots of room for salt spreading.
And then the most deplorable and disgusting thing I have seen since Carlos Tevez pushed his ears forward thus proving the point that he could actually get uglier if he tried happened. Little Tony Montana started racking up the salt into lines, coke line. He used his mothers mobile phone at first but couldn’t get the little lines as neat as he wanted so he took to using a butter knife instead. He cut and diced and spread until he had three perfectly formed little lines.
And Maw and Paw’s reaction when they came back from their feg?
They nudged each other and giggled until Big Tony realises somethings not right, “Aye, ders no fucking saalt left now. You may ask the mawn fer more saalt fer were chaps cos I’m nat doing it.”
I know what I saw. Waiter chum knows what I saw because she saw it too. There was no mistake…
That’s some ghastly shit right there…
33 Comments → “Little Tony M”
Sounds fun. Those parents should be proud.
Sounds like the blind items on Coke Mom that turn up over at the Crazy Days and Nights blog.
So fucking sad.
Tsk, kids eh? Little scamps.
Pay by cash by any chance? Curly notes?
Waiting: oh i’m sure they were…
Medbh: fucking grim eh…
Bender! how did you guess….now that i think on it, how many kids hav you got? heh…but seriously…grim
“digital Ritalin” excellent!
This is one of my pet peeves, gadgets at the table,, no games, no mobile phones and no books when there are humans to itneract with. As for the sons behaviour, monkey see, monkey do.
drives me frigging mental….you cant get the little darlings to tell you what they want to eat cos they are too busy racing or killing or something…
“monkey see, monkey do”
that was the original title but changed it
Ha! I had to google Tony Montana! Movie references are wasted on me.
i like to both sicken and educate….!
You know what? Anything that keeps kids in their seats and away from me (carrying scalding hot plates and heaving bowls of mussels) is fine by me. Our head chef once had to physically return a wandering child who made her way into the kitchen, while her festering middle class hippy parents (who arrive on a bike and ‘don’t believe in discipline’) sat ignoring the children’s hideous behavior and drinking Sauv Blanc. God I hate them. And every other waitron who I’ve talked to who has had the pleasure of serving them hates them too.
You know what? Anything that keeps kids in their seats and away from me (carrying scalding hot plates and heaving bowls of mussels) is fine by me. Our head chef once had to physically return a wandering child who made her way into the kitchen, while her festering middle class hippy parents (who arrive on a bike and ‘don’t believe in discipline’) sat ignoring the children’s hideous behavior and drinking Sauv Blanc. God I hate them. And every other waitron who I’ve talked to who has had the pleasure of serving them hates them too.
Their parents should be locked up for bringing up two kids that way.
It’s tales like these that make me feel like maybe I’m not such a bad parent after all. Although, my middle child is happy to now be the proud owner of some Rasta skate shoes with a pocket inside the tongue for stashing weed. I told him if there was ever anything in there besides pennies he was getting his butt kicked.
jesus krispies… that’s sad. no amount of hitting those parents in the head with a board would make a difference.
Yeeeeouch!!
I’d lovelovelove to say I’m surprised by your lovely anecdotes about this fairytale foursome, but alas, no.
With any luck the kids will get tired of the lifestyle long before they’re old enough to be imprisoned for anything. Like my punk rock friend’s kid who begged for pink dresses and barbie, these kids might just want to rebel and go to college or something.
Just pray they don’t move in next door.
This sort of thing brings out my inner Daily Mail reader, but *really*…
Did he remember to throw the salt over his left shoulder? Being the superstitious beggar I am, I hope he didn’t
Digital Ritalin – brilliant.
Makes me glad that the only fuss Phil Jr has caused in an eaterie is telling a waitress that Chicken Nuggets aren’t food and he wanted the Sea Bass. Embarrassing…but in a good way.
One more chef for the world…heh.
Really though, that’s horrible. Hopefully the when the inevitable teenage rebellion comes for this wee lad and his sister, the only thing they’ll have to defy their parents with is church groups and helping old ladies across the streets.
Some people just shouldn’t be parents. God, that makes me mad.
A is for Apple
B is for Boat
C is for Cocaine….probably…
omg..worse…bloody little snots will breed
Cat: it’s a frightening thought eh….
and you need a licence for a dog……
like I say it;s as grim as it gets….actually I bet they have a dog too…pitbull and a shitzu no doubt…
Well if they’re ADHD/ADD Coke would be the perfect neurotransmitter. It would have to be pure, and not street bought naturally, just like the pure amphetamine prescribed.
But I get the picture. Coke is I believe very popular and quite common in Ireland over the last 20 years. I believe you can have a pint and get your line in almot any bar in Dublintown (most towns in fact.
I would imagine a lot of working class families are very familiar with Coke, a drug I reckon more safe than alcohol.
Feck it, if it was me I’d have made him sniff all three lines.
Aversion therapy!
Or is that pepper? I’m not sure
Pity the wee fucker didn’t snort them. It might have got rid of them for you.
Ha Mark & Tuesday Kid, I was thinking that myself…
Today I got in a checkout line behind a granny and two 8-10 year olds. Both children had fingers jammed up their noses.
I changed lines even though I knew it would take twice as long to get out.
My inner germophobe could not endure it.
like the medicine bottle reads, ‘KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN’ heh…good advice
Dear god, and here I was feeling guilty and all bad parent-y because I forgot how violent “The Empire Strikes Back” was and let my 6-year-old watch it.
We were out the other month at a Marie Callendar’s and saw a boy about 8 watch DVD’s all the way through the meal, never interacted with anyone the whole time, just shoved food in his gob. My Special Needs son may not be fully toilet trained yet, but at least he knows to say “please” and “thank you” and behaves politely in restaurants.