God save me from sensitive souls…

hangover free manager...

As I may have said a bajillion times before I do not welcome work on Sundays. In fact I detest it. The guests are, for the most part, not up for it. I am very much not up for it and the chefs don't even know what it is or where it is or how to cook it. Restaurants should be closed on Sundays, nobody really wants to be there and I include the guests in that sweeping generalisation too. They are only there because they couldn't stand the sight of each of other for another moment and assumed a change of scenery would be beneficial. Ha, good try.

Anyhoo we were open no matter what I suggested to the unusually unhungover management. Managers without hangovers are a rare and special thing and should be appreciated and enjoyed when you come across one because the next hangover and associated meanness and  malevolency is only 24 hours away. Taking advantage of the key janglers sunny disposition I managed to secure ten days off in July. It's signed and approved now so woo hoo, he cant change his mind now.

The guests were in very curious form on Sunday it has to be said. There were the usual Sunday-go-to-church types and irritating happy family complete with bicycle helmets and rosy glows but mainly there were tables of people all labouring under different stages of hangovers. The smell of deodorant/aftershave and stale beer and regret really does make me gag. And for most of them their head said yes but when faced with plates of roast beef and full trimmings their bellies said no. This was not a commentary on the food but rather an admittance that not all was well with their internal plumbing. But honestly there were so many distressed faces and people with no self awareness that I felt I was at the cast party for One Flew over The Cuckoos Nest with all the cast still playing their roles.

Lightweights, heh.

I was busy bringing my four top yet another jug of life affirming water when I happened upon another gaggle of 30 something weekend warriors stinking up the doorway. It was all designer stubble and Franklin Marshall shirts and an ever so slight whiff of arrogance (later confirmed).

"Hello can I help you at all?", asks I whilst covering the booking sheets with a protective menu. They were wet and I do not appreciate the booking sheets being dripped on. Plus just they were looking at the precious and I cannot abide that.

"Yeah alright....just wanna get a look at your menu yeah...maybe get some fine foods for me and the gang yeah..." Oh dear was he trying to talk street with me? Was he trying to pretend he's not really an accountant by day? I did not appreciate his urban flava. No fucking need on a Sunday afternoon.

"Okay then", I was really trying to stifle the laughter and I carried on with my jug of water. A moment later and I was back behind the bar and the "gang" were still looking at the menu. I was setting up a drink order when I noticed them wander past me.

"We just grab a pew anywhere man yeah...", says yer man again as he leads his gang of accountants and PR consultants into the bloated belly of the restaurant. Oh my giddy Aunt. Not a chance chump.

"No no...if you just wait there and I'll get you a table in a moment." I cannot abide people even attempting to seat themselves. They know not of the ways of the booking sheets and the carefully planned plans contained therein. I carried on putting my tray of drinks together and hurried to the table to get them dropped off. Upon my return I found Waiter Chum the Younger talking to chump again just before he and his gang disappear back out into the rain again.

"What the what?"

My young chum was laughing so hard she couldn't speak.

"What? What happened?"

"They're gone. They said you were rude and they didn't want a table now and that I was to tell you that."

Rude? Me? Eh? What did I say? Whatever. How sensitive were they to a little waiter bark. It wasn't even a bark, more a low growl. Sake, they'd wanna catch a grip to themselves, you know what I mean blood. Innit.

But there was more.

A short while later and with the lunch rush calming down the chap from the table of 13 came to pay the bill. Waiter Chum the Younger presented him with it and pointed out the service charge and the free meals for the delightful little kiddies. Actually they weren't the worst and only caused one near scarring accident. He gave the bill a cursory scan and settled it without complaint adding another few pound on top of the service. We call this double tip the golden k-ching.

Moments later and as his family made for the door he storms back to the bar and demands his second tip back arguing that we were trying to rip him off as, "we had already decided what our tip was going to be". See what it is chummy, the service charge was pointed out and it's clearly printed on all menus. Mook got his money back but not before he made a scene that a Korean woman going through an airport would be proud off. Waiter Chum the Younger said nothing as he made a mess of himself and just handed him back his....seven pounds. Seven pounds people, he messed himself over seven quid. He's welcome to it.

Oh my, Sundays.

But there was more.

With the clock tick tocking towards quitting time I presented menus to two chaps and informed them of the specials and soup and the unfortunate news that we were out of the spicy tomato tart.

"No spicy tart? Are you telling me there's no spicy tart?"

"Yes sir, apologies for that"

"No. Spicy. Tart?"

I raised an eyebrow. Was he taking the piss or was he really this upset about the lack of availability of a rather average little starter. As it turned out it was the latter. Here we go again, thought I, more histrionics. I wondered if he would wet himself or hit me. As it turns out he got up and left leaving his chum following behind. At least he apologised, albeit via silently mouthed words and sign language. Good job I hadn't told him that there was only one pork loin left. Heh, he might have over reacted.

Sundays eh, not a day for sensitive souls.