Three's Not Company

How do you convince someone that a situation that seems bad is really innocent? Short answer is generally you don’t.

Here’s the story. I was out with my girlfriend Ashley. She was tired and not wanting to stay out late. So we sat at the bar and chitchatted. I stared into her sparkly eyes that I can’t help staring into. As we sat I got a text from my restaurant coworkers – my so-called Bistro friends. They just finished up closing and were going to do some drinking. I asked Ashley if she felt like meeting them out. She said she really felt like going home soon, plus they always talk tons about the Bistro, and since she doesn’t work there, it gets kind of old. But, she said, I could take her home and go back out. I thought that was a great idea but was she sure she wouldn’t get mad at me going out? Positively sure? Absolutely sure?


Some of you may be looking for the original end of this entry. Due to certain circumstances, I’ve removed it. I am still feeling my way here in the world of blog publishing, and am not always sure what is ok and not ok as it pertains to the feelings others.

I welcome any advice and/or comments on the subject of self-censorship.


Tony

Niche work if you can get it…

In life and at work, it’s all about finding your niche. When hanging out with friends, I’ve found my niche is to be the guy who says what people are thinking but are afraid to verbalize themselves -- thanks to "The Screw Tape Letters" I've realized you can say anything if you are joking. As a server, my niche, the group I can always count on to tip big, seems to be women 45-55 years of age. I’ll admit that it bugged me at first – come on, shouldn’t it be young women who love me so much they over tip? All women? But I’ve accepted it. Even embraced it.

After discussing this with my server colleagues, we thought – wouldn’t it be cool if you could get sat based on the group that was your niche, rather than a typical rotation? Not practical I know…and of course, who knows what you might find your niche is…could lead to some self-discovery!

Thoughts?

Contest Win!

For those of you not coming here because you saw my writing on iserveidiots.com, I won the writing contest he sponsored over there. I very much appreciate being chosen - thanks Ryan!

Once a year, thank God

I had a tough weekend. I turned 40. Right up until I did I wasn’t bothered by the thought. I was fine thinking that nowadays forty isn’t so old. I was ok with telling myself people generally think I am younger than I am. I was agreeable to the argument that I don’t think of myself as overly vain, so what do I care how old I am.

Then the day came and all the rational thoughts seemed to vanish. Suddenly, I couldn’t believe my rationalizations, and come on, how can any of us make it through any day without believing our own rationalizations?

I asked myself if I thought when I was forty I’d be divorced twice, working two jobs because of that, and feeling like something more than a failure and something less than a success.

Truth is, my life isn’t that bad. My personal life is starting to sort itself out and stop being insane. Since I’ve been serving part-time, I’ve learned a lot and made enough money to not be desperate. I like serving. Like the people I’ve met and work with. My teaching job is going well.

And yet I spent my birthday quiet and reserved, even as my girlfriend did the best she could to turn that around. I spent my night staring at the ceiling trying to map out where it is I am going.

Today is a new day. I know I have much to enjoy. I love my kids and get to see them often. I have romantic love in my life. So it’s a new day, but that butterfly feeling won’t leave my stomach. That feeling you are forgetting something and don’t know what.

I will keep looking at what is good in my life now. Besides, forty is the new thirty. Right? RIGHT?

Eat me!

Just started posting and soliticing Central Wisconsin restaurant reviews at Eat Me - Stevens Point

Life as a part-time server I

I mentioned before my second job is that of a waiter. I like doing it, but that's not why I do it -- I have to work because the child support (which I do not mind paying) eats up over half my paycheck. I've been a server about a year and a half now - never having done it before (although I worked the counter at a New York style deli in Chapel Hill, NC when I was in college).

Typical nights serving I usually have a lot of fun - I like talking and goofing with coworkers and customers. It's the not-so-typical nights that can be a challenge.

Case in point:
The bistro I work at is on the fancy end for this part of Central Wisconsin. People here (as in most of middle class America, I'd suggest) rate a restaurant as good if it has massive portions that are cheap. Not a shock, I'm sure. The Bistro bucks that mold with some high quality ingredients and causal fine dining. Some people get uncomfortable with the atmosphere, like we are so snooty and will look down on them. And of course, some get kind of defensive, and some act like idiots. Consider this case in point:
The restaurant was having one of our "Chef Dinners" - you know, special menu, special ingredients, all that. It's a night that is almost always balls to the wall busy. Crazy busy -- no time for bullshit, no time for one table of assholes to fuck around and get you in the weeds.

I get the first table of the night. As the hostess is coming to tell me I've been sat, I think I notice a certain look she's giving me, trying to give me, but I can't confirm it. No time - more customers are coming in and she can't sidle up discreetly and whisper what I am sure is information I need. But really, I already can tell by her wide eyes and tired sigh what her look is trying to tell me. Servers know this look, in fact all restaurant staff know this look - it's the look that tells you the table you are about to approach is going to get you seriously wondering if you wouldn't mind trading your server job for the momentary joy of shoving a dinner roll so far down some fuckers throat that his prostate gets covered in bread flour.

I walk up to the table hoping I had misread the hostess' body language. There are three of them - one guy sitting across from a man and woman.
"Hi," I say. "I'm Tony. I'll be your server."
I continue, blah blah, tell them about the specials, blah blah, end by asking if anyone would like a drink.
"I don't know," says the dude next to the woman (side note – in your head, please do a deep southern white trash accent for this guy's dialogue. Why is it, no matter where in the U.S. you are, if someone is a dumbass redneck, they talk with some pseudo-southern accent? We're in Wisconsin, but this guy talks like fucking Bubba from the block).
"I don't know," says the dude. "Depends how much a beer cost in this place. What are they like $10 a bottle?"
In my head, I've already stuck my wine key into his eye.
I say, “Just typical prices – three dollars for a domestic, three seventy five and up for imports.”
The two men order beer, and when the lady begins to order a wine, Bubba from the block stops her.
“I’m already paying enough for the beer, I’m not paying another five dollars for a glass of wine.”
Of course you’re not, I think. In my imagination I’m now turning the corkscrew of my wine key into his eye.
I bring the beers, no wine of course, and do my best to seem good ole boyish to the fine gentlemen. One of my strengths has always been my chameleon-like ability. Without trying, I seem to know how to talk to almost all social groups. I am able to fit in with whomever. So the dude seems to get along with me. When he jokes about his wife (I’ve been told by now they are married) having a big butt, I give him a “nothing wrong with big butts as long as there nice ones” response. Then a wink, wink, nudge, nudge. He guffaws and she actually looks please by the compliment (compliment?).
It’s a tedious table to wait on. Every interaction becomes a complicated middle-class struggle. He doesn’t know what to order because all the descriptions are too damn fancy ("If it's a sweet and sour like sauce why can't it just say so?" for example). The beer has a different label one time (God only knows why, but of course it had to happen with this douche bag), so this now becomes a scam we are trying on him. Apparently there is a cabal of label switching desperadoes bent on world domination. His wife warms up to me in a big way, and he tells me she’ll be here next Tuesday with her friend for lunch – her friend is a real horny babe, so they will “treat me good!”
Finally they are reaching the end stage of dinner. I’ve bantered my way through classless remark after classless remark. I’ve done my best self-deprecating laugh with each “there goes your tip” comment. I’ve feigned laughter when he asks about a waitress, and after finding out she’s barely eighteen, says it’s ok, she won’t feel weird calling him daddy. The crowning bon mot – that he was disappointed we had no bathroom attendant to hand him towels, or at least shake off his dick. I’ve redirected the energy of each stupid remark like a verbal judo master. I've gritted my teeth, ground them to nubs really, created a permanent cramp in my jaw muscles.
But now the end is here. Check dropped, payment received.
Mercifully, the trio leaves. Assuring me they’ve taken good care of me with the tip (turns out that means a giant 10%, which is probably more than they've ever tipped), the wife winks and looks me up and down. Bubba laughs and grabs her around the waist.
“See you Tuesday,” she says as they push through the door and are finally gone.
Finally, I can breathe again.
I immediately tell the floor manager I will burn the place down if I’m ever scheduled to work another Tuesday ever.

Hence forth and unto this day...

Let all ye present...ah, screw it. I was trying to sound important, came off as stupid. I am a junior high teacher and a part time server at a nice local restaurant. My purpose with this blog is to give some highly subjective reviews of local places to eat as well as some writing on food and dining in general. Additionally, I'lll make snarky comments about anything that seems to require snarkiness.