Sweat Management Strategies and other ideas…

So Saturday was a bit warm eh. The weekend as a whole was one long sweaty damp experience, and not just for me. I actually had respect for the chaps in the kitchen who were toiling under quite extreme conditions. Disappointingly I found myself in the belly of the burning beast, that is to say the kitchen, at about half eight on Saturday night. Oh my, the chaps were red faced and angry looking, well more red faced and angry looking than normal. "I'm sweating like a pedophile in a Barney suit", was one of the milder expressions emanating from the kitchen over the weekend.

I lost a half a stone (replaced again) in the two minutes I was in the kitchen trying to explain the complexities of, "She wants the sauce on the side not over it" to a rather flushed and bothered looking junior chef. His lips said he understood, his eyes said otherwise. Actually if anything his eyes screamed, "kill me now". Poor chaps. Ironically they managed, not sure through fault or design to produce a weekend of stunning food. Maybe they work better when the temperatures are at dangerously unsafe levels.

But I didn't really have the time to ponder this as I had my own problems. My problems came in beads. That's right I was sweating, baaaaad. Well what would you expect? It was the hottest day of the year so far and the restaurant was full of sweaty guests, sweaty waiters, hot food and despite the air con (emphasis on the word con as I couldn't feel it) blowing it's little metal heart out it was too damn hot. We opened all the windows but this proved an utterly pointless action as there wasn't a whisper of air let alone a cooling breeze.

This was not good. It was especially not good for me and the guests that were lucky enough to have me as their waiter. I was dripping, literally dripping. I put this down to my still carrying a little extra weight since I stopped smoking, stop snickering at the back, and as a bald gentleman I have no natural sponge like the others do.

I had been dealing with it quite well for most of the evening. Strategically placed napkins and service cloths (that were never used to carry food, except that one time but fuck him he deserved my salty sweat in his salad) ensured I was as dry as could be expected before I went to a table. And I didn't go anywhere near tables until I was 100% sure they were 100% sure about what they wanted thus lessening the chance that I might drip on them. And these tactics had served me well until I ran into Mr and Mrs Indecisive.

All seemed perfect at first. They were almost robotic, German-like in their ordering.

"Two pigeon to start...", began the woman as she orders without having to check back at the menu. I was thinking to myself that these were my kind of people. "...and I'll have the sirloin and John will have the special." And with that she went to hand me the menus. I put my hand out to receive them.I asked her what side orders they wanted with their mains.

"Side orders? Oh...oh...we haven't thought about side orders have we John?" The silent John shook his head and they both looked suitably mortified. Which was a bit of an over reaction. But whatever. I meanwhile, was standing in my more hunched than upright head pointing downwards ass pointing in many directions position. My fake order taking smile was heading south too as I could feel the beads of sweat on my head growing larger as the seconds passed. Soon they would form into a small pools and if gravity alone didn't make them move then my natural shake would. Their pondering of vegetables and potato products was borderline farce.

"Chips?", suggested herself.

"Salad?", countered the previously silent John

"Chips?

"Salad?", replied the no longer silent John. I preferred him when he didn't speak. He hasn't said anything useful since he found his voice.

"Chips and salad?", says I with pen poised, eager to get away from the table before there was an excretion most horrid. The sweat was on the move. It had passed the furry point of no return, my  right eyebrow. Oh christ HURRY UP, HURRY UP, HURRY UP!!!

"Chisps yes...and"

"Did you say chisps?"

"Did I? I think I did! Oh this glass of wine has gone to my head", laughs my one time favourite customer as I slowly mark her name into my minds book of errant guests.

It was on my nose now. Would this be the departure point? Would it drip, slowly from my nose and onto the table? Would my career as I know it end as a salty bead of nose sweat splashes onto a table. I considered making a quick swipe at it with my free arm but we wear short sleeve shirts and a damp, sweat covered arm is as off putting to guests as nose sweat so I didn't do it. As it happens the salty ball of sweat made a sudden move away from my nose and headed instead to the mound of chins. Huzzah for the mound of chins. Nothing passes through the mounds of chins quickly, not sauces, not ketchups, not creams, crisps, nut or crumbs and certainly not balls of sweat. If you find yourself in my chin mound you may as well strap yourself in and enjoy the ride, it's gonna be a while. I and more importantly my career was saved thanks to my many chins.

In the end they did go for the chips and the salad but it took five minutes. Sake.

But I need a more long term sweat management strategy. I cant rely on my chin moud forever. Answers of a damp towel please.

Oh and if you think I was having a bad day on Saturday just think about all those wonderful goth folks who celebrating International Goth Day (Morrissey's birthday too, wonder if there is a connection). All that sun and heat?

Poor blighters, they really must think the world hates them...