beentheredonethat

Class Customers

2012-01-18T18:38:00.002-06:00

Today, I helped a customer who had on one of those rubbery bracelets like Lance Armstrong's. Only it was purple. And it said "I like boobies". Now, I know it probably had something to do with Breast Cancer Awareness and all. But, really? "I like boobies"?

Oh, The Places I've Been

2012-01-06T21:22:00.003-06:00

As I look back on the places I've lived, I often wonder which ones I should have stayed in. Since I've lived in so many, and since I killed so many brain cells from the ages of 18 - 21, I'll concentrate on those places from my 21st year to the present.

*Three weeks after turning 21, I went into the U.S. Air Force. 6 lovely weeks in San Antonio, Texas. Unfortunately, I only got to see San Antonio for a few short, sweet hours when we were given a town pass in our 6th week. A buddy and I went downtown, looked at the Alamo, and then went to the Tower of the Americas. After eating military chow for 5 weeks, we wanted steaks. We figured the rotating restaurant on top should have good ones. We splurged and we enjoyed it. Though not enough time to truly investigate the advantages of San Antonio, I might return someday to look deeper. But with a nice glass of red wine to go with the steak this time.

*After Basic Training, next was electronic training at Keesler AFB in Biloxi, Mississippi. Six months and I loved it. Experienced my first hurricane, Elena. My first Gulf seafood. One of my favorite restaurants, Mary Mahoney's. Came really close to moving there after leaving Macaroni Grill. Only problem was, two days before my interview at a casino restaurant, Hurricane Katrina happened. Plan B.

*From electronic training, my next post was in Germany. And I had the perfect job. Travel all over Europe to install all the new electronics being installed. Travels included all of Germany, Turkey, Sicily, England for Uncle Sam. On my own visited Paris, Denmark, Amsterdam, and more. I could live in all (except Turkey...remembering the Turkey Trots is not fun) if not for how expensive they all are now. In the early 80's, the dollar was King, now not so much.

*Coming back from Germany, I went back to Biloxi. Not how I remembered it. Moved to Michigan after discharge (Honorable, of course).

*I lived in Michigan for 16 years. The longest I've ever lived in one place EVER. I made good friends, enjoyed life, and planned on staying there for a good long time. Then came the offer to move for my career with Macaroni Grill. Maybe get the chance to be a GM at a new store on the Gulf Coast. I loved the Gulf Coast from my Air Force days. Great weather, great beaches, no snow, good money, no snow, close to my Dad, no snow.

*Sent to South Florida after a detour through Long Island (Ugh!), Massachusetts (SNOW), Chattanooga (just OK), South Florida (assholes).

*Moved to Pensacola on my own. Lucked into a job I like and excell in. Don't know if this is forever, but I do know I'd have to find the perfect opportunity to make me move. Today was January 6th and it was sunny and 70 degrees. I live in a cute little house 2 blocks from the water. I'm 1.37 miles to work and 2.4 to my dad's. It's not perfect, but what is?

I've moved many times seeking the perfect place. I don't think the perfect place exists. But that doesn't mean I won't keep that option open.

Pessimism Breeds Pessimism

2011-11-19T21:31:00.004-06:00

You know, I'm just flabbergasted sometimes. I try to be a glass-half-full type of person most of the time. When I get a smidgen of good news, I run with it. I want to see the best of a situation. And I'm encouraged with the way things are going. Yet, there are many out there who want, and are rewarded for bad news on the economy.

I try to stay away from the political here. But, come on. Things are looking better now than they were when Bush left office, but for the whole deficit thing. Getting out of Iraq and Afghanistan will show tangible benefits to the bottom line.

If only the political nay-sayers would cut back on the rhetoric. All that negativity has an effect on what people think, and say, and spend.

Two to three years ago, with the economy in rapid free-fall, there were quite a few restaurants that went out of business here. I chalked it up to weeding-out of the ones who were hanging on by a thread when things were good. People who shouldn't be running a restaurant anyway. And I think I'm still right. Then, there was a respite since then where things quieted down and restaurants clung on.

Within the last couple of months, there's been a new rash of closings. And I blame it on the pessimists who continually tell their constituents how bad their country is doing. I see our country slowly, but certainly climbing out of our malaise. Yes, the deficit is alarming. But, I've also had an alarming credit deficit and reversed it. Our country can do it too. And people will start eating out more and spending money again like we have before.

This last group of restaurants that went out of business were anachronisms. One was a local bar-b-que place where the owner died and the family just didn't have the heart to continue. Another was a fine dining start-up that had inter-family warfare to blame. Another was so mis-run that they had 4 General Managers in a 2 year period. Again, businesses with no business being in the restaurant business.

As it was before, those restaurants that have right management, the right menu, and the right price-point are doing fabulously. Those lacking one of those items are hanging in there. The rest will be flotsam.

But, don't blame the economy. People will always eat out. Just give them a reason to.

Frickin' Dum Basses

2011-11-12T21:45:00.002-06:00

Why is it that a restaurant can order 1 case of glasses every 3 months for 3 years, and then all of a sudden want 5 cases by the week-end? What's that saying again, "Piss poor planning on your part....". But, it's all my fault for not anticipating your needs.

Or a restaurant that hasn't ordered a particular plate in 18 months gets pissed when you don't have 2 cases in stock?

Sorry, let me pull that out of my a__ for you so that I won't get in trouble for your lack of planning.

I'm also sorry that I don't have that 12 quart stock pot in stock since 3 restaurants decided to open at the same time. I'm also sorry that I don't have it because my boss (the owner's son) won't let me order more than once a month. It's not his money, it's his daddy's. And Daddy gets mad when I run out of things.

So, I think from now on, I will not ask for approval when ordering. I'll just ask for forgiveness when spending daddy's money.

Frozen Yogurt and Cupcake Overload

2011-10-14T21:47:00.005-05:00

We seem to be having an extraordinary run on a couple of concepts lately. Frozen yogurt and bakeries seem to be the next big thing. And why, I have no idea. Bakeries, I can understand a little bit. You can expand on that by selling to restaurants things like rolls and artisanal breads. But frozen yogurt? It's like someone thinks, "Hey, I can't cook, but I want to open a restaurant!". "How can I do that?". "I know, frozen yogurt!". And to make it even worse, most are of the variety where the customer serves themselves and the result is weighed for the final price. So, the owners don't even have to be creative. It's like a restaurant where you choose the ingredients for your dinner and hope it comes out well. I don't think it will work. I see failures.

I see old ladies shrieking, "Take off 3 pieces of pineapple to get me under $2.00!"

Bakeries are also on the rise. A couple years ago, one of the last bakeries in town closed down. It was located downtown on a pricey street, so that probably had something to do with it. Rents down there can be prohibitive for the limited hours a bakery is open. Now, within the last 1-1/2 years, three have opened, with more on the way. Is there a national cupcake shortage or what? Once again, I blame Food Network. These damn shows make semi-talented home bakers think that they can make a fortune turning out red velvet cupcakes and chocolate chip cookies. Store-front bakeries like that will not survive in my opinion. Too much cost, not enough pay-out. Most should stick to catering and special orders. Store-front places have too much up-front cost to support cookies and cupcake sales. Unless you have something REALLY special.

And REALLY special has been outlawed in 49 states so far.

Dinner at "Buddy's"

2011-10-07T20:25:00.003-05:00

It was a dark, blustery night (All apologies to Snoopy). Anyways, Tropical Wave Lee was moving ashore as we chose to spend my aunt's birthday at 'Buddy's'. As befalls the Good Nephew, I picked up my aunt and then went to pick up the parents. As we pulled up outfront, I observed that this place doesn't really show all that well from the road, doesn't grab the attention. Non-descript building with small lit-up letters over the door. In an area not known for restaurants, you have to make your presence known. Being ever gentlemanly, I dropped off everyone at the front door, and made my way to a parking space. It wasn't difficult, there were only about five cars in the lot. At 6 o'clock on a Saturday. Mmmmm. Good thing I made a reservation. Oh, wait, they don't take reservations, only call- aheads. At least that's what the person answering the phone thinks. She's not sure, even thought they've been open two weeks.

Once inside from the storm, I'm impressed by the decor. It looks surprisingly professional and well done. Tall booths rim the walls with a nice muted color scheme that is far from the schlocky Jersey-Italiano scheme I was envisioning, given the proprietors. We were shown to a nice booth and given menus...thick paper menus because they were too cheap to buy menu covers. One menu was skewed sideways so we could tell they were just copied on a copier. These people spent thousands on nice booth seats and nice tables, and gave us copier menus. I'm sorry, but when you charge what they charge for pizza, pinching those pennys makes one pause. I guess I probably obsessed over this because we had a good 10 minutes to peruse this menu before our waitress came to get a drink order. Drink, meaning soda pop or tea. No beer (pizza's proper partner), wine, or liquor.

So, sweet tea it is! And we get it in about, oh, five minutes or so. Now, I'm all about giving new places a break when it comes to service, because I've been there. But, when there's four tables and two servers, my patience wears thin. Which means that we had PLENTY of time to peruse the menu. Pizza, calzones, and strombolis. Maybe we should have asked for more time to look over the menu. (That's sarcasm, don't you know)

The advertisement online says to mention the ad to get a free order of their famous garlic knots. So I did. Mmmmm, garlic knots! I had a small lunch, because I knew we would be eating big Italian food for dinner. Those garlic knots would certainly hit the spot! They also listed Caesar salads for $5.95. Mmmmm, Caesar salad and garlic knots! That should slake the hunger I was feeling. That was a large sum for Caesar salad, but surely for $5.95, I should have some left over to take home along with left over pizza.

So, my plan was thus. Expensive Caesar salad with free garlic knots for appetizer. Then, they had White Pizza on the menu. I haven't had White Pizza since I spent a year on Long Island. I freakin' love White Pizza, at least the White Pizza I had on Long Island. My hopes were high since the "chef" told me at my store that he makes the best pizza around. And since he 'tawks like dis', I thought he was for real.

And, my salad comes out pretty quick. Not bad, I think. Finally, their timing is starting to come around. And then I investigate further. For $5.95, I expect more than this meager little mound of romaine. And then I fork a mouthful. Never had I experienced a more worked-over salad...ever. A small handful of romaine with 1/2 teaspoon of dressing worked until every square millimeter was covered. Good job covering the lettuce, but it was worked so much, it was actually dry. A couple of dry croutons on top only added to the dryness. No parm on top and none offered. Or fresh-ground pepper offered. Bobby Flay pricing with McDonalds execution. And where were those damn garlic knots? We were hungry, I'd passed up lunch expecting a big Italian meal and all. I set aside the salad until I could wave down the waitress for some dressing on the side. *crickets* Five minutes later she ventured near enough where I could wave her down. She brought the dressing quick enough, but where were the garlic knots? Soon, she said, the kitchen was a little behind. With four tables, the kitchen was behind?

Luckily, my aunt has the gift of gab to keep us pre-occupied. But, not enough for us to realize that our pizzas were taking a long, long time. As in, an hour's time. My parent's pizza and my aunt's stromboli arrived exactly an hour after we gave our order. Still waiting on our garlic knots and my White Pizza. Five minutes later my White Pizza arrived via the "Chef", aka JS. "So sorry to take so long, we accidentally made a large instead of a small for you". Yeah, that's what must have taken an hour. Five minutes later, the garlic knots arrived, our "appetizer".

Worst. White. Pizza. Ever. Oily crust, a few dabs of "white". Chewy, obviously not fresh dough. My aunt's stromboli had little stuffing. My parents pizza was actually all right, it was their "house special" with everything. I had to have a piece since I was hungrily waiting for mine.

Why, oh why I didn't say anything, I don't know. Maybe, it's because they were so rude on their visits to our store. Maybe because they didn't recognize me even though I helped them many times to get their smallwares just right at the right price. Hours by my side asking "How much is that?", "Is that your best price?", "Where's my china?", and they didn't recognize me standing in front of them?

I made a point to go up to the owners after the dinner and wish them well, and got that far-away look of no recognition. JS, the "chef", thought I was their Sysco rep and wanted to give me their order. SP (She-Pants) asked our server who I was, that I looked familiar. I'm only the person that makes sure your orders and deliveries make it to you on time. In other words, one of the little people that you depend upon to make you a success. And I'll do my best, but I will not go out of my way to do that. Since going beyond is not in your vocabulary.

Buddy's, Part 2

2011-09-13T20:10:00.002-05:00

Okay, here comes She-Pants (SP, and why she's named that, you'll just have to take a wild-assed guess).

So, in she waltzes with Whipped-Down Husband (WDH), who we've dealt with before, and he's a really nice guy. He's 5 steps in and she's already half-way across the floor, zipping in and out of the rows. I head in his direction and give the usual greeting. WDH says that I should help his wife, SP, so I go zipping after her. Well, she's going 50 MPH looking for things, and I tell her, "Let me find what you need, that will help us go faster." She seems to agree to that and tells me they want to open in two days, and goes dashing off in the direction of the ramekins, me following behind.

WTF! They've been working on the building for a year and come in here two days before opening for last minute stuff they can't get from the internet. Well, they can get it from the internet, but then they'd have to pay shipping. And she can't brow-beat a web-site into lower prices. My dear, you ain't in New York right now. You'se in Pensacola, Florida, otherwise known as LA (Lower Alabama). You can't get it faster by by being rude, just the opposite.

Years of waiting tables and Managing have given me patience beyond measure. However, going down the aisles and picking up items and going, "How much is this, Babe?" every 30 seconds is not the way to a better deal. I told her when she came in that she would get the best deal I could give. Generally, a new restaurant that opens puts together a smallwares package that is a large purchase, so we give extra discounts than normal. That will put us in good standing with a start-up, with the understanding that from there on, they will get the standard percentage-off discount off of the retail price. Start-up packages generally get "net-plus" pricing, meaning a percentage added to our cost, which is a great deal as opposed to the standard 25% off of retail. So, when SP is asking me for pricing on every other item in the store, it's difficult. Different suppliers give different discounts to us. So, I'm giving her vague pricing, like "Around $1.80", or "Close to $12.00". Three out of four quotes is met by "I can get that online for lots less" or "We'll just get that at Wal-Mart". After quoting her some 2 ounce fluted ramekins at a great price, she came back by saying she could get them at Wal-Mart for half the price. I finally had enough and said back, loudly, "Wal-Mart doesn't have plastic fluted ramekins!" Things went better after that. After asking for pricing on vinyl menu covers, she loudly derides the pricing. WDH pipes up that they need them so go ahead and order them (a 7-day order). SP remarks to anyone listening "Do that and I'll cancel your credit card." She-Pants indeed!

They ended up buying around $1000 of smallwares and taking a year off of my life. It's so frustrating sometimes when people come in at the last moment and are flabbergasted when you don't have a specific, odd item in stock. All we can say is, "If I had a weeks notice, I could have had that for you, no problem". We have four stores. If one is out, another should have it. Your last minute procrastination does not give you justification for implying that WE are inept.

They also waited until one week before opening to give us their china order after they were told it takes 7-10 days to receive a shipment. If we rush our suppliers, 7 days is the minimum. This cheap china comes from New Jersey and takes 2-3 days by truck. It takes a day or two for our supplier to enter the item, send us an acknowledgement, and us to fax back an O.K. that they got the order right. Figure a day or two for them to gather the stuff in their ginormous warehouse and put it on pallets, shrink rap it, and call the shipper.This is not gonna happen overnight. So after they finally give us their final order, they start calling after 3 days wondering where their damn plates are. Can you tell that they've never done this before?

So, they got their plates the day after they opened. We were nice enough to offer them some plates and bowls to use for their opening that we had plenty of. Why we go out of our way to help these shmucks, I don't know. Well, I do know. Even though we are one of the few suppliers for this area, we pride ourselves on service, and coming through for our clients. It's a running joke amongst us. When we go above and beyond, we tell each other "You make dreams come true!" Sounds better if you're there, I guess.

And, they opened and were happy. As happy as any cheap-ass customer can be, I suppose. I'd been dying for some good Italian cooking, and since they said they were the best, I decided that a good place to celebrate my dad's sister's birthday would be there. So, I called to make a reservation. "Uh, I'm not sure that we take reservations, let me ask." After being open almost two weeks, the person answering the phones wasn't sure if they take reservations? Uh, so when will you know?

So, I made a "call-ahead" for 4 at 6 o'clock on a Saturday. The Saturday when Tropical Storm Lee was blowing in. Should be interesting.

To be continued.......(I'm sorry!)

"Buddy's"

2011-09-04T21:10:00.002-05:00

Now, that's not the name of the restaurant that I'm going to talk about (As a matter of fact, it's the name of one of my favorite pizza places in Michigan.) But, I can't exactly call it by it's real name. It's a synonym, along with 'comrade' or 'pal', only in Italian. Nuff said. I don't wanna be sued. This is a small city, and I don't want anyone Googling and bringing up this blog and detective-ing. But, this is one "Don't do it this way!" post that needs writing. It's textbook. It's common sense. It's obvious. Everything the owners don't understand.

This first started about a year ago. There was a building not far from where I work and live that started getting renovated. In a city this small, everyone notices and starts to ruminate on what it could be. A few months later, a neon sign is put on the front saying "Buddy's Restaurant and Pizzeria". Well, that's new! One of the obvious things we've been missing on this side of town is an Italian restaurant and everyone is excited. (Oh, how I miss the great Italian places in Michigan and Massachusetts!) We send out one of our salespersons, as we always do when a new place is announced, and the word comes back. "These guys don't know what they're doing". They don't know when they will open. No date. Nothing. Hello! If you're going to open a restaurant, shouldn't you have a goal in mind? Some plan or something?

Our salesman says that they're ordering their own furniture online and getting used equipment online also. So, not so much business for us. But, you never know. We've picked up the pieces before when other restaurants try to go it alone. Many chains and not-chains have come to us at the last moment when their original supplier can't come through. When their "Ed Don" or "Wasserstrom" or whoever back-orders items that you need to open, they come to us.

Well, after a year, these folks are finally ready to get serious. There's a couple we'll call "She-pants" (SP) and "Whipped-down husband" (WDH). They are joined by SP's brother "Jersey Shore" (JS), the "Head Chef" (I just love it when newbies call their pizza guy 'Head Chef''). JS is the first to come struttin into the store about 3 weeks ago. "Yo, yo, yo, we need a buncha stuff!" "How much is dis?" "Youse godda be kiddin' me". "Youse killin' me!". Did I say he was from Jersey? He basically leaves with nothing, since, so sorry, we're not Wal-Mart. We don't carry Wal-Mart crap and we don't sell for their Wal-Mart crap prices. We have commercial restaurant quality things that you can't find at Wal-Mart, dude! If you want tissue-paper thick pizza pans for a buck, go elsewhere. Our customers expect things that will survive the abuse a $7/HR dishwasher will dish out.. If you want 50 cent plates, may I suggest the pottery place at the outlet mall that sells seconds? Or shop in Jersey where things "fall off the back of trucks accidentally".

Two weeks later, we are treated to JS's sister, "She-pants". Oh, my god! She's the type who will call a John "Johnny", a Sam "Sammy", and everyone else "Babe". Puerto-Rican/Italian/Jersey woman, (Think Theresa from Housewives of New Jersey) who somehow got the money together to start a restaurant. And took her husband, Whipped-down Husband" (WDH) along for the ride, whether he wants to or not. The first words out of her mouth were "We've got money to spend, so I want attention!' The other two at the desk looked at me and retreated. I was to be the sacrificial lamb, since I have the most patience amongst them.

*Gird loins and approach. * To Be Continued.

Sous Gal

2011-08-12T21:52:00.002-05:00

I just want to give a shout-out to my friend Sous Gal. I've followed her for a few years and we've had a mutual admiration thing going on. Even though she's in another country (kinda, Canada), I've felt her writing like few others. And now I feel pain. She's just been diagnosed with Cervical cancer, and I want to fly up and give her a big hug. Alas, I can't, so maybe if we all send her some love, she can feel a metaphorical hug. She's on my blogroll as Everything is the Way it is..., although she now calls her blog something else, Here, Taste This. Share the love.

And read her blog. She'll teach you how to write for real. And from the heart.

Summer Doldrums, aka Rambling

2011-08-12T21:07:00.003-05:00

I want to write. I need to write. My fingers aren't co-operating. Summer tends to be when I'm least productive. This time of year down here in the South, we tend to disappear into the cool environs of our air-conditioned homes whenever feasible. I do read others' blogs and read the news sites, but I just don't feel motivated to write because I'm not as social this time of year. Therefore, I don't write about my exciting night watching the season premiere of Project Runway, or my spine-tingling evening sorting Perma-Press from Whites. Nor do I talk about my ever-procrastination concerning the bathtub scrubbing.

I mow my lawn......sometimes. Just had to buy another mower after the last one would not retract the stupid pull cord. Nothing exciting there, except I found a Home Depot employee who actually wanted to help me load my purchase. I wavered about wanting to tip him, but he turned and left after putting my box in my truck-bed so fast, I feel he wasn't actually looking for a tip. Bald eagle followers should be camped outside his house, for he is more rare.

I stop at Wallyworld a few times each week for basics. Sometimes there's blogging material there, but you can see that at assorted websites making fun of Wallyworld shoppers. Writing about over-stressed sweatpants and carbunckles just doesn't float my boat. Well, sometimes it does, but I don't feel good about myself after.

I wash dishes......sometimes. I really miss having a dishwasher. I sometimes feel like I'm living in the Stone-age. Especially when I have to crank out the ice cubes from those stupid plastic trays. Can't someone invent some really "inventive" ice cube trays? Or am I the only one who still makes my own ice?

But, believe me, when something really interesting happens, I will start pounding these keys. Hopefully, it will happen soon.

Crazy Busy Season

2011-06-18T20:27:00.003-05:00

I've been a busy bee at work lately. The first part of the year, we were concerned about how the year would go. Last year was just so-so after all the crazy happenings like the Oil Spill From Hell and the recession.

January and February started a bit slow. A small church job here, a school there, but not a lot of restaurant work. Of course, our busy season starts around March when people start to escape the ravages of winter up north. Cabin fever drives the people down here in droves, and the restaurants love it. And if the restaurants are doing good, we do good.

Then in March, we got a large job for a hotel restaurant and a huge smallwares order for me to order. Just after that, a new IHOP. Next came a regular customer of ours who announced he's opening number 10 and 11 in his chain of restaurants (one of those are open and the next is just around the bend).

Meanwhile, our area had a great spring, with gorgeous weather and clean beaches. We had a super Mardi Gras and Spring Break, which are the launch for our "Season".

Which means I've had my hands full with all these smallwares packages and trying to keep stock in our store. I'm doing glassware orders every week, china orders every two weeks, kitchen tool orders every two weeks. There's also orders to get knives, thermometers, squeeze bottles, butane bottles, pizza trays and peels, etc., etc.

All it takes is a visit from one of our bigger customers to set in motion more orders. "You're taking all 48 of my 6 inch deep 1/3 pans? Time for an order !" "You need how many forks? 144 dozen? Time for an order!" "800 burger baskets? No problem! Time for an order!" "Hey, Ex-RM, how many cases of bouillon cups do we have?" During the height of the season, this happens on a daily, if not hourly, basis. And customers get pissed if you don't have 10 cases of their water glasses, even if they've never ordered more than 6 at any one time.

But, if there's one thing that has always helped me here, not to mention when I was a Restaurant Manager, is that I can multi-task with the best of them. Prioritizing is also a prized quality in this business. Some people are bad at it (my immediate boss), but if I need to order something that takes a week or more to get in, that pallet of Cambro can just wait awhile to be put on the shelves. And now, I'm finally getting more than a pat on the back for a job well done.

After 4 long years, I finally got a raise! And for how well I delivered the smallwares package ($13,000 worth) to our customer earlier this month, a nice little bonus to boot, which is how I got this laptop I'm finally writing on again. Things are looking good now, we've got many jobs on the books, including a 12th outlet for that one customer I mentioned. I'm gonna be plenty busy, and I think there's still a pallet of Cambro to put away.

Eight Months of Computer Exile

2011-06-06T20:12:00.002-05:00

Thanks to my computer illiteracy, my desktop went AWOL eight months ago. Despite myriad commercials for computer "saviors", I justified my sabbatical by using my bank account as an excuse. Surely, these professionals with many degrees and white-taped glasses would charge me as much to fix my computer as to buy a new one. And I couldn't afford a new one. Besides, I wanted a laptop to replace the desktop, because all the cool people had laptops. I dreamed of a new IMac, because all the pros said you must have an IMac, no viruses to worry about anymore. Of course, even though computers have dropped in price dramatically in the last five years, IMacs have not. Damn those Apple guys!

Anyway, eight months later, mucho work at work. Pats on the back and warm fuzzies have finally manifested in a raise and a bonus. At least five trips to Best Buy to drool over those super cool white and glowing apple laptops. Wisdom prevails and I buy an affordable laptop at Office Depot. I feel good about that as Best Buy is up there with Wally-World in places that you feel bad about buying things while buying things.

And now I'm back with eight months of stuff to write about. Should take at least 3 posts to do that. LOL

Old Colleagues and Coincidence

2010-10-11T21:19:00.002-05:00

I hadn't heard from my good friend Jerry in months. He had a job lead a few months ago for a Head Chef job here in Pensacola and asked me for my appraisal of the restaurant in question. I put out feelers and gave him my opinion: a juggernaut on the Gulf Coast that had a rotating door policy for Head Chefs in addition to the kitchen door type. As much as I would have loved having him down here, I couldn't recommend him taking the job. As it turns out, he's doing well, as he told me tonight. A new concept that he nurtured from inception that is receiving raves.

We first met at a Macaroni Grill in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I moved down from Massachusetts on my way to eventually Florida (or so I thought). He was from North Georgia and had just started with Mac after much experience with smaller companies.

He was extremely strong, back-of-the-house-wise. I was more comfortable in front, but could jump back in a pinch. When we worked together, which wasn't as frequently as we'd like, it was magic. Constant communication and teamwork proved to make the evening go smoothly. That we both had a similar sense of humor only made the nights go faster. We spent more time laughing than we did yelling at the employees. Work was fun, and how often does that happen in this business. I'll tell you, ALMOST NEVER.

My temporary assignment there lasted 7 months, and it went way too fast. I enjoyed the staff, we increased our profits and the customer satisfaction index, and our bonuses were off the charts. I almost didn't want to leave. I had a nice apartment minutes from work and I liked Chattanooga. But, my future led to Florida.

Leaving a good situation is difficult. Many people end up staying in a job like that and calling off their dreams to stay in a (relatively, temporary) stressless job. When you have a co-worker that you look forward to working with every day makes the job easier. The employees feel that, too. It makes for a relaxed work atmosphere that is almost unheard of in the restaurant industry. Too many Assistant Manager peers are only looking to make themselves look good, and if they have a chance to make you look bad, look out. That ladder to success is littered with bodies at the bottom after being kicked in the back.

I knew I would miss working with Jerry, but I knew we would see each other in the future. A year later, he would come to figure in a major career change for me. Funny how things turn out that way......

Sad. Just Really, Really Sad

2010-06-25T19:51:00.007-05:00

This was taken mere feet from where my vacation feet were photographed 10 days after the Deepwater Horizon explosion. Thank you, Mr. Cheney. If you have the stomach, look on http://www.pnj.com/, our local newspaper site for more. And be sure to check out the opinion page and comments from the local rednecks who blame it all on President Obama.

While I'm becoming less a fan of our President, I realize who the real culprit is in this catastrophe. It's the corporate machine that Eisenhower warned us about decades ago. Can you say Judge Feldman? The man who overturned the six month moratorium on deep-water exploration. Who happens to own significant stock in BP.

That's just crazy-scary, yall.

This Welcome Wagon Really Sucks....

2010-05-19T19:58:00.002-05:00

When first seeing the neighborhood and house that I decided to move to, I fell in "heavy like". Not love, but much more than a casual fling kinda thing. It had much to recommend it. Three blocks to the water, with a 2-mile park skirting the entire waterfront. Small, quaint homes with decent sized yards and mature trees. Original hardwood floors throughout. 5 minutes to work. And affordable.

The drawbacks? Not terribly far from the not-so-nice neighborhoods. A lot of rental homes mixed in with retirees and absent homeowners. A neighbor who ran a daily yard sale. A lawn I had to maintain.

The first two weeks were fairly ideal. Arranging the furniture to fit into the small rooms. Unpacking collectibles to finally display. Buying my first lawn-mower to groom my first lawn. A lot of firsts that had me feeling grown-up.

Until my lawn-mower was stolen the second week. Now, I was grown-up and feeling awfully naive and trusting. And feeling mad. And ashamed. Add vulnerable and out $160 for said lawn-mower. A slight depression ensued for a few days and then I got pissed and was determined not to let some crack-head ruin my buzz.

So, I dusted off the credit card and bought another lawn-mower. Which resides in my utility room next to the washer and dryer, safe and sound. If not giving off the slight wiff of Eau de Exxon. I could live with the odor more than waist high weeds. And I grew up a little more, and went on with my flirtation with my house and neighborhood.

Until last week. Last Wednesday I came home for lunch (another benefit of living 5 minutes from work). I turned on the T.V. and went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed the ham, mayo, and bread. I sat them on the counter and my eyes wandered 3 feet to the right where my back door was standing open about 2 inches. WTF!

I went to my bedroom and saw immediately the contents of my valet box spread across my bed. All my bling, gone like that. My grandfather's initial ring. The Turkish Puzzle ring I brought back from -where else- Turkey. My dad's Air Force ring. The gold nugget bracelet that my grandmother gave me that was already out of fashion when she bought it for me on QVC. And more. But it was my grandfather's ring that upset me the most. He didn't have much in life, and that was all I had of him after his death many years ago.

So, of course I called the police. And found out just how little they really care. He must have said three words the entire time I'm telling my story. No empathy whatsoever. He seemed bored. Like maybe he'd rather be ticketing speeders than standing there in silence writing in his little notebook.

So, I've taken it upon myself to learn about pawn shops. Interesting business, that. When they buy jewelry, they have to write a description and send it in to the Sheriff's Office. Where I'm sure **rolls eyes** my deputy is poring over the list looking for my stuff. Only after 30 days pass can the pawn shop put them on display for sale, or 90 days if it's a pawn-loan. The pawn store operator I talked to smirked knowingly when I described the deputy's demeanor. And I will be visiting every pawn shop in three weeks looking for my grandfather's ring.

And I have a shiny new dead-bolt on my rear door. I'm thinking of electrifying it. And stringing barbed wire on top of my fence. Maybe a tiger trap with sharpened bamboo sticks in the bottom.

So, I will not be a victim, and I will not be driven from a house I really, really like. But, not love. I don't know if love is possible yet.

Where I've Been

2010-05-02T17:24:00.006-05:00

Stories to come....

I'm Back. Kinda.

2010-05-02T13:50:00.002-05:00

Well, sports fans, I'm back from the big 5-0 blow-out. Biloxi, New Orleans, High School city, and then back to the white sands of Pensacola (white, for now).

My aunt/sister had a great time. Me, a good time.

More to come later. With pictures!

Right now, I'm just pooped-out. Make that exhausted.

But, ready to start a new chapter in my life.

And with AARP privileges!

Last Word on DADT

2010-03-20T19:57:00.003-05:00

While I, myself, was never tossed from the military, I was in continuous fear of being found out. This was before the Clinton Era and "Don't Ask, Don't Tell". Although, it seems that those limitations don't limit the local police force from outing military to their bosses on base.

I've always been what may be considered "straight-acting". I don't consider it "straight-acting". I consider it normal for my up-bringing. I'm just me. I played tennis, basketball, and other sports, so I was spared from the ribbing and out-right abuse other gay teens had to endure during High School. Not to mention that I had a "high-school sweetheart" through-out high school.

Being in the military was not so much different from high school. When we had dinners or get-togethers with the "brass", I had a "beard". Unfortunately, Renee, another closeted gay, was outed by her softball pal, who was caught in a piss-test. And, Renee, was a decorated service-member, winning Airman of the Year on our base in Germany. The year before I did.

I could have gone on "under the radar" for who knows how long. Unfortunately, they don't let you know if you're under the microscope until you're actually being questioned. I was never brought in, but the "Sword of Damocles" was hovering closer and closer.

I was up for re-enlistment, and my specialty had a high re-enlistment bonus. I had a hard decision to make. Re-enlist and pop a nice $5k in my bank account and live in fear of being found out, or just get out and move on.

I chose to get out. And grow my beard and hair. And moved on. But, in the end, if I could have stayed in without worrying about getting a 'Dis-honorable' or 'General' discharge, I would have stayed. I definately would have stayed in. I loved my job, and I loved serving my country. My military days were the best of my life, excluding the drama of worrying about being outed.

I would have passed my 20-year retirement 9 years ago with a 50% pay-out. Instead, I got out after 5 years. I did not go in the military knowing that I was gay. I was a sexually-confused, 21-year-old who was ready to serve my country. And was forced out by the fear of being labelled with a big pink triangle, like the Nazis did in WW2.

Which is why I think the current deliberations on the Don't Ask, Don't Tell hearings are so important. Right-wing conservatives and some (but, not all) military leaders don't want to change things, because they think things are peachy-keen as they are. Those same people have the same mind-think as those who thought African-Americans would disrupt morale and unit-cohesiveness. They also thought women could not fight with men. They obviously live in a bubble.

I loved every day I served in the United States Air Force and wish I could have stayed in. Unfortunately, closed-minded people forced me out. To the detriment of the Air Force. Because, I rocked at my job.

And, 24 years later, I still miss it. E-mail or call your local Senator or Representative to let them know how you feel about "Don't Ask, Don't Tell". Quality people are being forced out because of prejudice, just when quality people are needed in the military. And, a lot of tax-payer money is being spent to kick them out. Just when standards are being lowered to include felons and non-high-school graduates.

Who would you rather serve with you, or for you?

Favorites (Change of Pace Edition)

2010-03-16T18:51:00.002-05:00

Favorite snack: Unsalted Dry Roasted Peanuts (Does not raise the guilt flag for me).

Favorite singer: K. D. Lang. (Such a glorious voice that sounds as good live, if not better, than on her CDs).

Favorite guilty pleasure: I allow myself 1 pint of ice cream every two months or so (usually Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche).

Favorite "Library reading material": Car and Driver.

Favorite soft drink: Diet Pepsi.

Favorite bread: Sara Lee Honey Whole Wheat (For BLTs, though, any squishy white bread, toasted).

Favorite Soap Opera: The Young and the Restless (I remember seeing the first episodes one summer when I was a young lad of 10 or 11. My new cable provider does not have SoapNet, so I am currently going through withdrawl).

Favorite Reality Show: Duh, Project Runway.

Favorite Dream Car: Oldsmobile Cutlass 442 convertible.

Favorite Candy: M&M Peanut (I used to be able to eat a 1 pound bag in one sitting).

Favorite Movie: The Sound of Music (followed closely by Cabaret. What is it with gays and musicals?).

Favorite Actress: Meryl Streep, 'nuff said.

Favorite Writer: David Sedaris (I get him like no other, and many do not get him).

Favorite Game Show: Password (The old one, not the new one).

I know, I know, another throw-away post. But, my brain does not need any more stress right now than this. When I'm fully moved in, and Spring break is over, I will devote more time to the blog. Plus, my favorite aunt-sister is visiting next month for my birthday. And it's a monumental birthday. The big 5-ohhhh. New Orleans is calling.

The Parents Visit the New Abode

2010-03-06T17:51:00.002-06:00

My dad and stepmother visited to drop off some stuff to my new place. I think the curiosity was killing them. My only scary moment was when my dad went in the 2nd bedroom/computer room and there was a stack of dirty VCR tapes and a boxed set of Queer as Folk sitting in view. No need to get his homophobia in an uproar, so I swept them off to an out-of-view hidey place. Silly explanations avoided. Most comments included "cozy", "cute", and "old".

Kitchen stuff has been unpacked and I started on the oven. Ugh, gross. The racks were solid black, sticky with a tar-like texture. One treatment of Easy-Off will lead to another, although chrome is showing up on about 50% of them. What did the prior tenant cook in the oven, I wonder? My only clue is the dried beans and Adobo left in the cabinets.

Still many boxes unpacked. I fear the 2nd bedroom will never house a bed. One, because it's seriously small. And, two, because it will house containers that will never be unpacked, because there is no room. Down-sizing has it's risks, afterall.

I still have no regrets. I will make it work. Even if the washing machine drain does not drain as fast as the washing machine evacuates water. Small steps, I say to myself. The next step is buying a real, adult bed. For the last 6 years or so, I've slept on blow-up beds. In the last 6 months or so, my back has been screaming for another solution. Even on week-ends, I have to get up at 7am or so, my internal, spinal alarm sounding before I want to get up.

More to come.........

Yeah, Yeah, So Sue Me

2010-03-05T20:43:00.002-06:00

I'm now sitting amongst a mountain range of boxes. Figuratively, the Andes of box mountains. I have moved from my suburban-sprawl apartment to a tiny home that's literally 5 minutes from work. I've been wanting to do this for at least a year, but circumstances had conspired to prevent that until now. Having moved so many times over the years, I had become reluctant to box everything up and moving again, but enough was enough.

I have lived in major metropolitan areas before, where commutes were the norm. Living now in the panhandle of Florida, where the congestion is smaller in comparison, did not diminish my disdain for the wasted time in transit. Driving from Gulf Breeze into Pensacola every day drained the everlasting life out of me. Three years of crossing the Three-Mile Bridge will do that to you. The smallest fender bender will increase the commute 2-fold, because that bridge has no pull-off area (traffic control in 1960 did not figure in for extra pull-off zones).

Now, I'm 5 minutes from work. I just have to deal with having only 671 square feet of living space and 800 square feet of stuff. But, it's a sweet old house. Built in the 40's or 50's, it has it's original hardwood floors (chilly on the feet during this cooler than normal winter), a nice deck out back, and a real yard (I haven't mowed grass since I was 16).

But, I'm only 2 blocks from the waterfront park that stretches all around Navy Point, and I don't have to hear any neighbors flushing their damn toilet.

Life is looking up, the rent is $150/month cheaper, and I'm within walking distance to a bar with the best Philly Steak sandwich in town.

The only downside is that the area has the highest per-capita rate of mullets-per-thousand around. My first foray to the local Wally-World had me shaking my head in dis-belief. From suburban yuppies to lower middle class blue-collar is a wake-up call.

And that wake-up call is asking me what demographic do I really fit in. As I meet my neighbors, I'll know more. I already met my neighbor, Linda, who has a perpetual Garage Sale going on. She is a font of info on all the neighbors.

This should be interesting.

Yes, A New Post is Coming.....

2010-02-05T22:03:00.004-06:00

A new post is coming. My last post brought up a lot of memories, good and bad. I kinda sat back and reviewed where I was in life. Which might......and I say might.....lead in a new direction for my blog.

If anyone still gives a shit.......................

Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Part II

2009-11-07T11:22:00.004-06:00

After arriving in Germany, I learned many things.

I learned that most single guys in the military would rather hang in the dorm drinking beer on week-ends. And listening to "Dark Side of the Moon" over and over on their latest electronic score at the Base Exchange. And becoming morose over the fact that they couldn't be doing this back in Arkansas. Then, drinking more beer. And, I'll admit, the beer was damn good. But hey, you're in Europe, get out of the freakin' dorm!

I learned that there were many of us that wanted to experience this opportunity we were given. Frankfurt 30 minutes away, Munich 2-1/2 hours, Paris 3, Amsterdam 4. All in the comfort of a fast efficient train, where you could drink that great beer while cruising alongside the Rhein River, by Medieval castles, or through multi-colored tulip fields that went on forever.

There was a group of us that became a family during our tenure there. There were about 30 of us who regularly traveled, sometimes 12 at a time, sometimes 4. We all had jobs that sent us all over Europe, so when we could arrange to get together and travel, we did it with gusto. My first purchase at the Base Exchange wasn't the newest Infinity speakers or a big-screen TV, it was a 35mm camera with all the gadgets.

This family was composed of many individuals. We all just naturally gravitated together. About half were gay. One quarter straight couples. The rest single heteros. And we all got along famously. We had fabulous parties off-base. We visited the best restaurants in town and learned the language. Us gays were welcomed and welcoming, unlike our bosses on base.

The lesbians in our family were fairly stereotypical, in that most had short hair, never wore dresses, and played on the softball team. They were also the cream of the crop in their job fields, winning many Airman/NCO of the Quarter awards (as did I) and were admired for their professionalism. But, there were a few who felt threatened by them. Some were insecure when turned down for a date or a quick romp in the hay. One of my friends was also gang-raped, and all was made hush-hush. If she would have pressed charges, her sexuality would have been exposed. Unfortunately, her secret was exposed in another heinous way.

This was all before "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was instituted by Bill Clinton. The Commanders had many tools at their disposal to ferret out the homosexuals and send them packing. One that they used to great advantage was the piss test. If the base security found out you went to Amsterdam for the week-end, you were invited to the pee party. Which is why my group would keep the trips to Amsterdam quiet. Not that we were big hash-hounds or anything, but every once in awhile we might partake at a party.

So, one day a lesbian friend of mine was called to the Base Commander's office. She had won an NCO of the Quarter award previously and she thought that she might be up for NCO of the Year. And didn't know what was to befall her and her lover.

It seems an acquaintance of hers on the softball team got busted in a random piss test. In those days, and maybe even today, when you were caught in that way, you were interrogated. Long and hard. She was pressured for hours and was told that they would go "easy" on her if she gave them some names. Names of dopers, homosexuals, or anyone doing something against the Code of Military Conduct. And she broke. And gave the names of every gay she could think of (but not the dopers since she was straight). Which snared 3 of my best friends in the world. And changed forever how I felt about being in the military and serving my country.

(To be continued)

Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Pass Go

2009-10-29T19:34:00.002-05:00

Back in the 80's, I spent 5 years in the employ of Uncle Sam in the United States Air Force. It was a time of discovery, a time of travel, and a time when I found out how much I was valued by my country. Those 5 years were the best years of my life and the worst.

I was what many would call a "late bloomer" in high school. Or some would call just confused. Very likely, I was just ignorant. Ignorant to the feelings I had towards those I should be attracted to, and to those I really gravitated to. I tended to veer toward the fringe, even though they were considered the outcasts. I played football and tennis, but felt more comfortable with the Drama Geeks. I felt more comfortable with the geeks, but was accepted with the "in crowd" because I was masculine, the token "Yankee", and could hang with any crowd. I sang in the church youth choir and smoked weed with my mother and stepfather. Not to mention that this was in the heart of Mississippi in the 1970's. There were not many role models parading around the town square with rainbow flags or ass-less chaps. Or if there were, they disappeared before anyone could see them. I certainly didn't see them. Or even know they existed. This was before Ellen, Three's Company, and Will and Grace. By a decade or three.

By the time I enlisted in the Air Force, I had been with one girl and one man. The girl was my high school sweetheart and we were together almost all four years of high school. Only there was no sex, just some sweaty panting in the back of my Vega station wagon and lots of making out (Thank God, she was just looking for a way out of her 500 pound mom's house). The man was a friend of my aunt's. We hooked up after a long night of partying and we were the only ones still awake at 6am, playing card and footsy. Must have been some good speed or something. I blamed it on the drugs, but it felt so right. So, I entered the military not really knowing my sexuality, so I wasn't really enlisting under false pretenses. I was "uncommitted", "Independant", "Bipartisan". Or so I thought. And I really didn't give it much thought.

And then I was stationed in Europe. And things changed. Slowly, but change happened.

(To Be Continued)

The Nightmare Returns

2009-10-24T11:46:00.002-05:00

Thursday morning found me waking up covered in sweat and breathing heavily. My heart was pumping oceans of blood every second. I haven't had this dream in years, but it instills fear in me like no other. Several happenings over the course of the week conspired to re-form the old nightmare in my subconscious mind.

Wednesday night found me watching my must-see program, Top Chef. The episode airing this week is always my favorite of the series, Restaurant Wars. Those who have opened a brand new restaurant on little sleep, with high pressure bosses, in the shortest period of time possible, can attest to what goes on. Many, many hours. Alcohol flowing at the end of the long night reviewing what went right and what went horribly wrong. Lists on top of lists of what is still undone. All leading up to that moment when the doors open and customers stream in to a sparkling clean and perfectly set dining room filled with shaky employees and managers chewing Pepto tabs by the handful. It all comes back to me every time.

Last Friday was another encounter with my ex-boss. He called our store at 4:45 pm wanting to know if someone would bring four cases of glasses to them. The guy taking the call turned and looked at me while saying, "Let me call you back". They do this to me every time. "It's on your way home". "They're a big customer". "Maybe you'll get a free meal out of it". BIG SIGH. Even though all I wanted to do was go home and fix a giant cocktail, I agreed.

Tuesday at work, one of our customers, an Italian "Grille" owner, came in and was talking about what a hard time he was having with his staff. His restaurant was just recently opened and his servers didn't know the menu, and were lazy and unprofessional. Even though he had spent a "whole two days" training them.

Which all led to my nightmare....

I was a cocky, experienced server who was recruited to help open this new Italian restaurant. In my head, I knew that I knew more than the owner, and we were butting heads over assorted matters. I was also arguing with the manager, who I knew that I knew more than. It became too much and I walked out in a huff, flinging my bistro apron in the air with a flourish.

The morning of the opening, I get a frantic phone call from the owner begging me to come back. The other servers he hired were worthless and he needed someone with experience to help him out. For some reason I agreed to and showed up one hour before opening. The manager was frantically trying to catch me up on the menu and steps of service. Everyone was running around with horrified looks on their faces and a line was forming outside the doors.

When the doors were opened, customers streamed into the restaurant and proceeded to fill every table. And there was no table chart. I looked down and realized that I had no apron. Worse yet was every server's worst nightmare. I HAD NO PENS!!!

Which was when I woke up, thankful in the knowledge that it was only a dream.

Get a Clue

2009-10-15T20:05:00.002-05:00

At least once a week, some poor soul walks into our store with an awe-struck look and a spiral binder. These are people who have the mis-guided dream of opening their own restaurant. They either have the "best recipe ever" for pulled pork, or are looking to supplant their retirement with income from a concession stand. Today, we had TWO within an hour of each other.

Their first question is always, "Where's the used equipment?"

To which we answer, "We try to stay far, far away from the used stuff."

Then, they go over their list of stuff they need and want price quotes for them. By tomorrow. For a place they may or may not open within a year. Our next questions are always, "Do you have a location in mind?" "Does it have a hood system in place?" "Is the site plumbed for gas or wired for 208 volts?"

The next inquiry should be, "Have you had your head examined?" or "How much of your life are you willing to give up to break even your first year if you're lucky?" or "Do you have any idea what it takes to run a restaurant?" or "Are you Nucking Futs?"

These people have no idea what the difference is between a high-temp or low-temp dishwasher is. Or what a 1/6th pan is. Or if they need a hood system over their gas 10,000 BTU deep fryer.

I'm tired of teaching these people the rules only to be castigated over the cost of a convection oven. Some do minimal research over the Internet into the cost of equipment, yet do no research into the hours necessary to run a place. Yet they want me to spend hours putting together a quote on equipment they will never be able to afford. For a restaurant they will never get the financing for. And are unwilling to spend the time to run.

And, oh yeah, can you give me directions to the place that sells used equipment? Yeah. Take a right on Bite My Ass Avenue and drive until you pass Up Yours Boulevard. It's right next to Delusional Depot.

The "Enlightened South"

2009-10-11T20:24:00.003-05:00

When I first chose the Panhandle of Florida as my "final destination", I figured being on the coast in a highly-touted tourist destination would afford me a home with a little taste. A little discernment. A higher level of sophistication than the rest of the South I came to know growing up in the middle of Mississippi. Oh, how wrong I was.

I've become something of a Masochist by reading the letters to the editor and the comments to those letters in the daily paper via http://www.pnj.com/. If you really want to know what's happening in your community, you read what people write into the paper. And it's a real eye-opener. Below are a few quotes, verbatim, from this last week. These snippets will let you know what I have to put up with on a daily basis:

As for the war of Northern Aggression, the wrong side won and therefore did not get to write the true history. And BTW, I was born and raised in the Northeast but now re-educated.

The commies in the ACLU should be lined up against a wall and shot.

Here's another oxymoron for you morons. EVOLUTIONARY SCIENCE!

FAIL TO THE COMMUNITY DISORGANIZER!!!!!!!!!!

What's the difference between Obama and Hitler? Hitler GOT the Olympics!

Afghanistan is now Barry's war

...and no valid birth certificate...

Dingle Barry sat on his thumbs and "evaluted" [sic]...meanwhile people died!!!!!!!

I don't understand why insurance reform has to come with a "public option" and all the other nonsense. All I want is a fair coverage without loopholes for a fair cost.

...the REAL news organizations like FOX News and Newsmax.com...

So there ya go. The level of sophistication is right up there with Selma, Alabama, circa 1960. Back then, the bad guys were the Democrats with George Wallace the spear-carrier. My, how things have changed. It's like the Republicans and Democrats went into the way-back machine and came out opposite the way they went in.

Beav, we're in for a long fight.

Regressives

2009-10-02T22:49:00.001-05:00

Today at work, a co-worker, Ditto-Head (DH), who I've written about before, came flouncing out of his office all a-twitter. He is, as all 3 of you who follow my blog knows, a raving right-winger. He had such great news. "Chicago lost the Olympics, Ha Ha, Obama struck out after spending all that money to fly to Denmark!"

An American city lost millions of dollars in potential income and untold jobs and he's ecstatic. Because a President he despises supported it. I turned to my co-worker, who is another right-winger and Chicago native and said, "I just don't understand someone who would rather see America go down in flames than see it succeed under a President he despises." Even he shook his head and said, "That's the way he was raised."

All this negativity. All for revenge. People like him, thankfully, are a small but vocal minority. But, they are all you hear on local talk radio, since Progressive talk is but a few scant hours each week here in the Panhandle of Florida.

This region has had an unfortunate amount of publicity lately, what with the stories of a Pace High School principal brought up on charges of pushing prayer to a captive audience. Luckily, that's pretty much limited to the north side of the county I live in. They're pretty isolated up there from the real world. If you're not a Baptist Bible-thumper, then you're an interloper and not welcome. They don't call it L.A. (Lower Alabama) for no reason.

I'm not saying those who choose to live there are not inherently good people. I'm just saying that when you drive Hwy 90 through Pace and Milton, the banjo music from Deliverance echos off of all the Baptist churches in town. There's a reason that alcohol is not allowed to be sold in northern Santa Rosa county on Sundays. Attendance and tithing would be way lower, I'm sure, if it were allowed. I know that there are very few nice restaurants in the area, since Sunday is a big money-maker for nice restaurants that offer wine and other drinks everywhere else in the country. In restaurants that I've worked in, Sunday is the third busiest day of the week. Not so much here.

I've commented before on the AM talk radio station there, WEBY 1330. Because of their support, a principal of Pace High School raised over $70,000 for his defense when he was found guilty of ignoring a court order to stop forcing prayer at a school sponsored event. I'm sure he will be a future Republican nominee for some political office. And I'm also sure, he will be a shoe-in there.

I just cannot wrap my head around how people would rather see our country suffer than to support our President in these tough times. Which was inherited from the previous administration. Who get no blame. Selective amnesia for the masses. Brought to you by Fox, Rush, Hannity, Beck, O'Reilly, and the rest of "The Fourth Reich" who wish to over-throw our duly elected President from their plantation mind-set.

A Wake...In a Way

2009-09-27T20:36:00.002-05:00

Today, I visited a local restaurant for the last time. Not because I disliked it, or got bad food, or didn't feel welcome. Quite the contrary, I felt most welcome and they had the best raw and fried oysters within a 2-hour drive, maybe more.

I got the call on Thursday. I was paged while in the glass warehouse and came out to my desk where my co-worker told me that Trudy from the oyster bar was on line 2. I rolled my eyes, thinking they wanted me to drop off something after work like I had so many times before. I was unprepared for what Trudy said to me though. Sunday would be their last day open as they did not have enough business to keep going. She asked me if I could look up what they had paid for all the equipment that they had bought from us so they would know better what to ask for it.

I could hear the sadness in her voice, but also a tinge of relief. The owners are 60ish and have had restaurants in Louisiana before. They knew they had a good product and thought they had a good location. Never mind that the last two restaurants in the same location lasted less than a year each. Lot's of residential surrounding them on the main road between us and Ft. Walton. No decent restaurants in the area (only fast-food chains, basically) and lots of traffic.

Unfortunately, that traffic had a hard time turning into the parking lot. There is a grass median there and you have to go 100 yards past and turn around to go back. Having it changed would have cost them $40,000, a sum they could not afford.

They had decent business for a long time and when times were good, they were getting by. Unfortunately, places that "get by" in good times are not the ones that survive when the going gets tough. Having a fairly high price point is another straw on the camel's back. In these times, the restaurants with low price points (fast food, diners) and high-end joints tend to do better. Middle of the road prices often go lacking in the customer department.

The owners are nice people and hard workers. Their offspring who they gave jobs to, not so much on the latter. The father has heart problems and probably should not have been working, but he had no choice. Sweat equity was a must, and the kids were there just for the paycheck. Never mind that the parents had put their retirement savings into the place.

Which is why it was so wake-like. This was one place that I hoped would survive and prosper and they made many friends in the area. Never mind that they were my first big sale over two years ago. They always welcomed me in. And my first beer was always on the house because I delivered stuff to them after work on my time. And they were good, decent people.

And I'm bummed. And stuffed from fried oysters and shrimp and cole slaw. But, still bummed.

Running Into My Ex-Boss

2009-09-07T18:30:00.002-05:00

Over two years ago now, I abruptly left a job with a high-class (in name only) resort in the area. It was the highest and most prestigious job I had ever had, and I reveled with the responsibility. I grabbed it with gusto and put my all into that job. I worked 80+ hours a week for 4 months until I was burnt out and running on fumes. We were warmly received and I was as proud as that dude on cable with 18 kids.

When I was finally rewarded with an Assistant Manager, things were looking rosy. Until I was told that she couldn't close at night alone. And she couldn't open, because she was too raw to place orders. And she couldn't work over-time, since she was hourly. And, oh yeah, she's bestest friends with the boss. And, boy, does she spend a lot of time in the bathroom with that allergy problem she has...snort, snort, sniff, sniff.

Needless to say (to those of you with no life who have gone back to the beginning of this pitiful blog), I walked. I had to close a "spur of the moment" private open bar for some V.I.P.'s after opening at 7am. The bar would close at 2am. While the party was at a lull, I took the time to go to the office and pack everything that I had brought with me or had bought with my own money and never got reimbursed for. All packed.

When my bartender and I left at 3am, I was carrying many bags of belongings with me. I stopped by my boss's office and left my name-tag, cell phone, keys, and a nasty note. Before that final closing of the door, I went back and retrieved the note. He didn't need me telling him why I left, he had to know why, so why give myself a badder-than-it-will-be-anyway reputation?

I heard nothing from him until a few months later when he turned up at my current place of employ. Lucky me, I was the only one on the floor to help him. I don't know why I was nervous, but I was. But, I put that behind me. My pride was on the line. And as they say, "Never let them see you sweat". He also put on a game-face and the interaction was polite, but stunted.

We hadn't talked or seen each since then, but I had heard that he eventually left that "resort" and went back to his prior job with a respectable restaurant in town. And then I got the call...

"*****, this is Ex-RM, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Ex-RM, this is Dufus (name changed to protect the guilty). I need to place an order and to check on a previous order that Chef is waiting on."

"Okay, Dufus, what is on that prior order?"

It turned out that the Chef had ordered some replacement pieces for some tabletop items that they had ordered from our competition. And our competition didn't carry those replacements, they would have to buy the whole shebang, which was ludicrous. And they wanted those pieces ASAP. Great.

After spending way too much time investigating these cheaply made items, I got them what they needed. Did I get any thanks? No, it was just suggested that next time I deliver to their establishment, I should come in the back door (no parking, I tried) instead of through the front door.

Anything to establish hierarchy. Glad to hand him off to our outside salesman. Jerk.

Second Thoughts

2009-08-28T19:01:00.002-05:00

I thought long and hard while my finger was hovering over the 'publish' button on that last post. I tried very hard to keep politics out of my blog in the past. Don't we get enough of that shit from more conventional means? I've started half a dozen posts over the last month and erased them because, damn, there are puh-lenty political blogs out there. I get plenty of it at work, mostly from our resident Ditto-Head. Today's rant from DH just made me that much more resolved to stop deleting those posts. Today's piece of mis-information?

DH: "Did you hear about Obama's latest maneuver? He's going to shut down the Internet and all phone calls in case of emergency!

ME: "And where did you get this information today, DH?"

DH: "It was just reported by The Drudge Report!" (And, yes, he does use Exclamation points when talking about his despised President)

ME: "Ah, yes, and Drudge is so non-judgemental and trustworthy. Like when he reported about the 'Death Boards' and the so-called forged birth certificate."

DH: "Well, it was also covered by the Washington Post."

ME: "Which is a 'newspaper' in name only. Let's call it what it is. The Right Wing Rag."

***crickets***

On a daily basis, whether it's listening to the local talk-radio, talking to customers, hearing this bull at work, or reading the comment section of the local rag, everyone is in lock-step (parallel intended) with the daily talking-point memos that the rightwingers are instructed to rant about.

I just wish these people would get their information from somewhere besides Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Matt Drudge, or Fox News. There might be more conversation and less accusation. Because right now, reason is out of the question. A commenter today on Pensacola News Journal's letters to the editor called Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham "astute conservatives". The only thing 'astute' about Ann Coulter is when she has too much fiber in her diet ;/

P.S. I promise to get off this soapbox real soon. I have a real need to talk about substantial stuff. Like dip-stick restaurant managers. For instance, today's run-in with an ex-boss. That will be worth showing up for.

Are You Shi**ing Me?

2009-08-25T21:31:00.010-05:00

I've talked before about listening to AM talk radio on the way to work in the morning. Every morning at 7:30, I flip over to see what Mike Huckabee is obsessing over that day. Today was a lighter than usual entry.

This morning, he had an uplifting message about what to tell those impressionable young minds graduating from high school or college. His suggestion was to give these maturing youngsters a gift. That gift?

A SENSE OF OPTIMISM!

Are you f'ing kidding me? A High Commander in the Army of Doom and Gloom? Someone who has nothing good to say about the current administration or its policies? A man who's collaborators have instilled a sense of morose over a nation and given a pass to the past administration. Seven months of intense action to fend off Great Depression II has only brought about incredulty and sour grapes over losing the election.

This is the same party who took credit for a vibrant economy 6 years after Reagan's Voodoo Economics and Trickle Down Theory were debunked. And now, seven months into Obama's administration, Barack is solely responsible. Amazing.

And Mike Huckabee says that a sense of optimism should be spread throughout the land. Gee, Mike, how will you straddle that fence while playing both sides of it? Will you start calling out those silly "birthers"? Will you admit things look better today than they did a year ago? We may not see the light at the end of the tunnel, but we know the tunnel does not lead to a blown-out bridge like we thought last year.

No thanks to all you "optimists" on the far right. Just make me one promise. This will not be your Vice Presidential nominee...

The 2-Year Itch

2009-08-23T16:15:00.002-05:00

A large part of my life has been spent in temporary residences, transitional jobs, and places I knew that I'd never settle in. From birth to my teens, my parents, together or separately, uprooted me almost on a yearly basis. Then, in my twenties as an Air Force enlistee, Uncle Sam's ironic sense of humor gave me a job that sent me all over Europe on TDY's (Temporary Duty Assignments) for the 3+ years I was stationed in Germany.

After my discharge (Honorable, thank you very much), I settled in Michigan and decided to put down roots for good. I was tired of the moving, especially the packing, tossing, and carting of detritus I had accumulated in my lifetime. In sixteen years in Michigan, I lived in two different apartments. The first apartment was one that I disliked immensely but stayed in for 10 years because of my dislike (Nay, Hatred!) of moving. I only left that one because it was bought by new owners who decided to upgrade it out of my price range. The second was an apartment that I adored because it had everything the first one did not and I stayed there for 6 years. I only left that place to foolishly improve my chances for advancement with the company I was working for at the time which I will not mention **cough, cough** Macaroni Grill.

Well, I escaped that roller-coaster existence after 5 years and 5 moves for those ungrateful scallywags (I'm trying very, very hard not to use profanity). I moved here to the panhandle of Florida and stuck my toe in the waters of permanency once again. While I revel in the thought of never moving again, certain facts point me towards pulling up stakes once again:

Although I really, really like my job and am good at it, I've come to the conclusion that I don't like the people I work for all that much.
My apartment complex has gone through three changes of management in two years. Each successive company has gone cheaper than the last. This summer, our pool has been closed about 1/3 of the time for various excuses.
This area has the greatest concentration of conservative, Bible-thumping, homo-phobic, racist pigs I've ever experienced in 49 years of life. All you have to do is read the comment section in the local rag to become jaw-droppingly amazed at the attitudes of these gun-toting Fourth Reichers.
My dad is healthier now than he was 10 years ago and will probably outlive me, so I could safely move farther away without feeling guilty.
There are no jobs here, so I feel stuck in a place where I have no future beyond being a worker bee forever. While I don't necessarily want to be a manager-type again, I can't stand working for people who are in the position they are only because of a few genes. And take advantage of that fact.

I don't necessarily want to move far, but a change of scenery might do me good. Maybe I just need to take a long, soul-searching vacation where I don't do anything but request an extra lime for my margarita. Maybe I should ask for that long overdue raise that would let me know just what my future is here.

But, as I look around this spare bedroom where my computer and boxed stuff is located, all that I can think of is 'Oh, God, I do not want to pack and move this shit again!'. The big question, though, is where in Hell would I move to? My favorite relative, my aunt-sister, lives in New Hampshire, and I will never move "up-North" again. Although the politics in New England are closer to my sensibilities, I refuse to ever scrape ice and snow from my vehicle again. My second favorite aunt lives in a great area of Florida and is close to my age, but she's a rabid Rush Limbaugh devotee. Wouldn't work out.

Maybe Mobile. Maybe New Orleans. Maybe Biloxi, where I had plans to move before that bitch Katrina interfered. I guess I just need to find an employer who wants me bad enough to do all the damn packing for me. Yeah, right, that'll happen.

Thankful

2009-07-19T11:18:00.002-05:00

I try to balance my posts between the sublime and ridiculous, the maudlin and the humorous. With that in mind, I decided to make a list of things that I'm thankful for. I've done enough bitchin' lately. The pity-party is over for awhile. Or tomorrow, since it will be a Monday.

I'm thankful that I still have my health despite what I do to my body on a daily basis.
I'm thankful that my dad is still healthy enough to play tennis with me most Saturday mornings.
I'm thankful that I now have the opportunity to beat his ass soundly like he used to do to me everytime.
I'm thankful for air conditioning at home, in the truck, and at work this time of year.
I'm thankful that I'll never have to scrape snow and ice off of my truck ever again. The trade-off between living up North or down South is in my favor. As long as the A.C. holds out.
I'm thankful to have the restaurant blog community to provide all the drama I ever need, although I miss being in the thick of it during a well-run, busy dinner rush.
I'm thankful that I'll never have to apologize to a table of d*ckwads for something that deserved no apology.
I'm thankful for relaxed, languid Sundays to read the paper with a strong pot of coffee, a pack of smokes, the British Open on the TV (Go Tom!), and not having to shower if I don't feel like it.
I'm thankful for the Sunday edition of www.postsecret.com to give me something to read after the newspaper. Which makes me feel better about my own life. Mostly.

Gotta go now. I've got some serious lounging to do.

A Life Too Short

2009-07-18T00:10:00.002-05:00

This picture was taken at the funeral of my uncle, Greg. Greg loved Harleys. Greg was 4 years younger than me. Greg had a much rougher life than I did, but he lived life 365/24/7. Greg conquered cancer once, but succumbed when it returned with a vengeance.

Hat's off to you Greg, I'll be lucky if 1/10th as many people show up to my funeral. Or give me use of their super-cool hearse and limo gratis. You touched so many lives when you could have been a lost, forgotten man so easily due to life's circumstances.

You were younger than me, but wise and mature beyond your age. You will be missed. But always loved. Love ya, bro.

D.I.Y. Can Be A Pain

2009-07-03T19:42:00.004-05:00

I don't go out to eat near as much as I used to. When I lived in Michigan and was securing a heftier pay-check, I would go out to eat with friends at least once a week or so. The change from then is mostly from my growing affection for cooking from scratch at home. And, large credit card bills. Frugality and a maturing palate conspired to make me want to cook for myself.

I pulled from my memories the recipes that I wanted to clone. Toothsome and hearty Oyster Dressing from my mom's dad. Rich, decadent banana pudding from my dad's mom. Christmas cookies from my mom's grandma. Macaroni salad from my mom. All bring back memories. And all bring high expectations. I persevered and can cook side-by-side any family memory.

I might be eating as well as I did before. But, I'm missing the busser, server, dishwasher package offered at restaurants.

The Owner's Sons.

2009-06-29T20:07:00.002-05:00

Today, I lost my cool. And I'm known for my cool. I never lose my cool. People wonder at my control of my cool. Today, I mis-placed it for a few seconds.

My immediate supervisor is the owner's son. He came late to the party that is his father's business. But of course, he knows everything. Until his father tells him otherwise. And his father tells him this alot. And loudly. In front of everyone, or in his office with the door open. Yeah, they're classy that way.

Over the course of the last couple months, the dynamic has changed a bit at the workplace. Owner has been more vociferous in his ridiculing of his sons pertaining to their performance. This is all taking place at the same time that Owner Wife is scaling back her time at the shop, so that Twin 1 (I think I've mentioned before that they're twins) can assume more command of the financial side.

Well, Twin 1 is obviously Attention Deficit Disorder inclined, but not diagnosed by any doctor. Twin 2 is the Charming One, with no chance of being recognized by Owner as ever doing anything right. Owner is quick to place blame when a mistake is made, but slow to congratulate good performance. Owner also wants everything done fast, fast, fast. Don't bother taking time to investigate or do homework. Just Get-R-Dun! Although, lately, there's been a few mistakes made that would have been noticed if a moment of reflection had been made when placing 5-figure orders for equipment.

Now, my specialty is taking 5 minutes now to save 2 hours later covering up (one of my big mistakes in the restaurant biz). So, now, when I'm placing $4k orders for glassware, I take my time to research how much I need to order. Only, I'm going too slow for Twin 1. According to him, it should only take 5 minutes to place a four figure order. But, if you miss something while scrambling to slam in an order, you're thrown under the bus faster than you can say 'Greyhound'.

Today, while putting in an order for bar sinks and surrounding accoutrement, our computer said we had an item in stock. I spent a total of five minutes researching where it was, when it was received and who it was ordered for. Twin 1 overheard me asking a fellow worker if he knew where this speed rail was. He castigated me for wasting time trying to find out where it was and if we had ever received it. So, I moved on and just added it to the Purchase Order.

Fifteen minutes later, Twin 1 (having nothing else to do) looked through the Purchase Orders filed today, and pulled the one I placed. He looked over my order and asked me, "Did you look to see if one of our stores had this ice chest in stock?".

After looking at him squarely in the eyes, I said, "No, I didn't want to waste the time."

My nearest workmate didn't hide his surprise very well. If he'd had coffee in his mouth, his computer would have been toast.

I think I got a mental demerit from my boss, the ADD Twin.

And the search goes on for a real job.

Rants and Such

2009-06-26T21:05:00.003-05:00

When you work for a family owned business, and your immediate boss is the owner's son, it's hard to complain about the son's mistakes and short-comings.

People who drive in the left lane (the passing lane to those who are informed) at or below the speed limit should be banished from driving priviledges. They are the major cause of traffic back-ups and road rage. Major practitioners are people on cell phones and people driving Benzes with a superiority complex.

I like to listen to talk-radio while I drive. It makes me feel like I'm not wasting my time while driving. Unfortunately, I can't afford Sirius or XM, so I have to listen to the trash that is broadcasted here in the panhandle of Florida. That trash is WEBY 1330 out of Milton, Florida. It is Adolph's own radio station. Old, white, right-wing talk out of the 60's (think Dirty Dancing). It will be it's own post one day.

Customer service is a mis-nomer nowadays. 3 out of 4 times when I call a vendor, I'm either put on hold or am directed to voice-mail. When sent to voice-mail, the average time for reply is around 3 hours. Many times I need to get freight charges from these fine folk so that I can invoice a shipment my customer has been waiting for two weeks to receive. My boss doesn't like for the delivery guys to be standing around waiting for invoices from me.

At the grocery store, the items that are discontinued are usually my favorite. And the ones that sell out the fastest. So, it's not just me that is disappointed. My latest empty slot on the shelves? Diet Vernor's Ginger Ale. America's oldest Ginger Ale and IMHO, the best. If you can find it, it makes my favorite drink: Captain Morgan and Vernors. Tastes like Vanilla Soda. And Diet Vernor's was always the first sold out at Wally World and Winn-Dixie. They still have regular, but I need every last calorie saved that I can get ;)

I travel over a 3-mile long bridge every day to and from work. There are sections where you can see the whole span. I hate it when I see a 100-yard gap where someone in the left lane is driving slower than traffic. I know there's a traffic light at the end where we will all have to stop and catch up. But, I want to slap those people slowing down the left lane speeders like me, even though I know it will save me no time whatsoever, anyways.

People who wear socks with sandals should have their own section in Fashion-Hell.

There will be more. Oh, yes, there will be more.

Yeah, It's Been Awhile

2009-06-14T01:04:00.002-05:00

I know that I haven't blogged in awhile, and I feel bad and all that. It's just that I've been in a funk lately, but I really don't like to vent, and complain, and do the whole 'pity party' thing. Who needs that? I don't like to read it, and I'm sure that you don't either. So, I'm gonna do it anyway, since I don't have many people down here to vent to. Which is another problem that I want to vent about. But, that's another post after the one where I complain about my job. And my apartment. And the people down here (or up there to people like RG). I'd tell it to my psychiatrist, but my insurance doesn't cover that, which is another thing to bitch about.

It's late right now, so I will continue Sunday (although, since it's 1:15 am, it's already Sunday).

Posting Problems When You're Computer Ignorant

2009-04-03T20:43:00.003-05:00

As you will surmise, and some will know from past posts, I'm not the most astute where computer wits come in to play. So, the new post that I've posted, is a completion of one that I started back in Feb. It's got Braggadocio in the title. You'll have to back-track a little bit. If I knew how to move it, I would. Consider it a challenge.

Hey, A New Post!

2009-04-03T20:38:00.001-05:00

Especially, for L. I never knew you cared. Consider your call-out a kick in the butt.

Mini-Mullet Guy's Comeuppance

2009-03-06T19:45:00.008-06:00

So, there were six of us in that very bland, very tan room:

Air Force Guy (AFG). Late 20's to early 30's. Soft-spoken and not one to draw attention to himself. A smoker, thank God, since I didn't bring my smokes inside, and willing to bum one to me. I had a mini-crush going.

College Girl (CG). Early 20's and very quiet. Attractive in a way that she didn't herself seem to know. Slow to smile but when she did, it was way catchy. Very studious-like and demure. Would let others cut into her discussion without complaint. At some points, I wanted to scream to her, "Speak up for yourself!".

One-Arm Man (OAM). Country guy to the max, originally from Georgia. Easy going, but I could tell he probably listens to Rush regularly. He had a birth defect where his right arm ended above the elbow and he said one of his legs was a prosthesis.

Loud Crazy Mama (LCM). In her fifties, bright red hair that was showing gray at the roots. Another smoker, but she missed the one smoke break we went on when she was in the restroom. She is funny, quick to laugh, and even quicker to judgement. She was sure of the verdict even before I was, even though I was 95% sure walking into the sequester room.

Tattoo Cub (TC). Big butterball who covered his tattoos with long sleeves on a 74 degree day. Smiled easily, was a little bit country, but not too much.

We arrived at the courthouse at 11:30, LCM was a few minutes late. Each was ushered to the sequester room, after going through the metal detector, by a bailiff/deputy/whatever. It was a little uncomfortable at first because there wasn't really anything to talk about, since we were informed not to talk about the case until deliberations (I'm really getting into all those Law and Order terms now). With the room devoid of all decoration and our main topic of conversation off-limits, we chit-chatted about banal things for a good hour until we were finally called to the courtroom. An hour sitting and talking to five strangers who would rather be someplace else, although almost all agreed that we actually wanted to be picked. Only OAM had been on a jury before, but he said he had nothing else to do. I mostly wanted to be there, although I was having to take a personal day to be there.

Once we were seated in the courtroom, the judge proceeded to read verbatim from a sheet of paper about the rules, and how this was part of America, blah, blah, blah. Let's get on with the show, Judge!

We knew going in that it was a case of DUI, and that the Defendant, Mini-Mullet Guy (MMG), had supposedly refused the Breathalyzer and the Field Sobriety Exercise (FSE). I had always wondered what would happen in that circumstance, and now I was gonna find out. Each lawyer would give an Opening to let us know what we would be hearing and what to expect.

First up is the Prosecutor, Amazon Lawyer (AL). Needless to say she was tall. She was outwardly bookish, with straight blond hair and glasses. She also had the agonizing habit of not finishing a sentence without referring to her notes again. She clearly could have used a Tele-prompter. She also had the galling trait of Objecting to almost every sentence the Defense Attorney spoke. Country Defense Lawyer (CDL) rolled his eyes so many times his eye sockets must have been sore. She would start a sentence like, "And so, we shall be telling you....wait..." and then start sorting through her legal pad and poke at items with her pen until her train of thought got back on track. Annoying. She wasn't very prepared and didn't really prove anything, didn't explain how important the evidence (prior driving record) was, and generally had me thinking early on that MMG was going to be a free man soon.

Next up, the CDL started in on his defense. He had a soft, homey delivery that made me feel a little uncomfortable. His client was dressed in his company sweatshirt and jeans. CDL kept referring to MMG as his "hero". Self-employed, good country boy, hard worker. He came off more of a partier after confessing to having 5 beers in a 3-1/2 hour period and got caught with open containers while going 83 mph with two young chicks. "Supposedly", he kept telling the Trooper that he would take the Breathalyzer, but not the FSE, because he had sore feet and ankles from his construction job (that he had not been working that day). The Trooper told a different story, that he had started the FSE with the ole 'follow the pencil with your eyes while holding your head still', and MMG had been failing miserably, so he started refusing then.

Earlier when the CDL was cross-examining the State Trooper, they got in a little verbal sparring. CDL would keep telling the Trooper, "That's a yes/no question, stop embellishing!". After final arguments, we summized that the judge took them both to the wood-shed, because CDL apologized to us after we returned.

The prosecutor, AL, did a terrible job. She should have done the whole alcohol training thing, with a chart showing MMG's weight, what 5 beers would be percentage wise, etc. Not a mention, except for Trooper's description of him stumbling and being unsteady. I ended up doing an impromtu training session in the deliberation room for OAM, who insisted some people could handle 5 beers with no problem. TC was on the fence about it, but came around eventually.

The straws that broke the camel's back:

The prior driving record. Only one line showed with the above 4 inches whited-out. It was for refusing a Breathalyzer back in 2002. The defense couldn't (or wouldn't) go into detail and just showed this to us. Back in the deliberation room we scrutinized it further. In Florida, it's an automatic 1 year suspension of your driver's license for refusing to blow, but the evidense showed be lost his priviledge for 2 years. Hmmm, musta had a DUI then, also. And with all that blank space above, MMG had obviously not been an angel on the interstate.

Next, admitting to having 5 beers. CDL argued (unsuccessfully) that, "See, he was truthful. He coulda lied. He had nothing to hide. He was not drunk."

MMG had no witnesses, although there were two women in the car who were supposedly friends and neighbors. Where were they?

MMG kept changing his story. First he told the trooper 5 times during the car ride that he would take the Breathalyzer, then half a dozen, then 3. Also, he said he offered again at the jail, but the Trooper ignored that. Hello, you're in the jail. I'm sure you could have found someone who would give the blow-test to you. Trooper said MMG never offered to take the test. I had to believe the Trooper on this one.

OAM kept arguing that there was no proof to convict, that we couldn't be sure he was impaired. The other four of us kept hammering back, "But he admitted to 5 beers and was driving 83 on a section of Interstate crawling with cops! How impaired do you want him to be?" Logic finally entered his brain and he agreed, begrudgingly.

When the verdict was read in the courtroom, there was not a flinch from MMG or CDL. They must have been expecting it, because they showed no surprise whatsoever.

I feel fine with the outcome. I'm just glad one more drunk driver is off the road, especially if he was a multiple offender. MMG is in his late 30's and obviously didn't learn his lesson the first
time. I said in the deliberation room that I'd be the first to admit to having driven drunk before. We all admitted it. Just because we never got caught didn't make it right.

Coming Soon

2009-03-05T20:11:00.002-06:00

Tomorrow, Friday the 6th, I will be on jury duty for the first time. I can't say much now (the MAN may be reading! LOL), but I will post as soon as I can. It should be interesting, to say the least. And the least is all I can write, right now.

Braggadocio, Swagger, Arrogance...

2009-02-18T19:39:00.004-06:00

The thing that I miss the most nowadays in our American Swoon is the ability to brag. Our chests are not thrust out like a proud tom turkey. Americans have always been the swaggering young upstart amongst the established countries of the world because we proved them wrong. Our way was the best. We established a standard that no one had ascended to before, besides the Romans, maybe. And now, we seem to be a post-Nero Rome. And we all know who our Nero was.

Some will excuse away everything that our past President, Vice President, and assorted goons have done to dirty our reputation. Where once we were shining princes coming to the rescue of our Allies, we are now the Bully of the world. Where once we only responded forcefully to real threats, we now (or rather, the past 8 years), instigated warfare (the "Bush Doctrine" that Sarah Palin now knows).

Countries of the world thought that they had mis-judged us. Where we were once the amiable big brother, we were now the abusive bigger sibling that gave wedgies to weaker brethren. Gave 'swirlies' to freshman dweebs. But, that's all changing. Thanks to some 'real people' in the White House.

Right Wing finger-pointers have made fun of the Obamas during this sojourn to Europe. I see it as sour-grapes from Republicans who have gotten the cold shoulder from former allies for years. Every video and clip that I've seen from this trip has been of leaders of other countries welcoming the humanity and realness of our First Couple. Maybe we can get back to where we once were.

Friends, Allies, Hope for the Future. It all looks good so far. Unless you listen to Right Wing Radio. They'll tell you Michelle Obama's arm around Queen Liz is a major Faux Pas. I saw it as a response to Liz's warm first contact.

I also see it as a first thawing of the frosty relations that we've had since we blew it after 911. And I'm Optimistic for the first time in around six years.

To Those That I Want To Succeed

2009-02-14T18:47:00.002-06:00

There are times that I don't really care who survives these tumultuous times. I deal with so many restaurateurs and managers daily that some blend with the others. There are many rumors going around about which restaurant is on it's last legs and those that are teetering on the precipice. I take the rumors with a grain of salt and go on. And then there are those instances where I actively root on those with the balls to start up a concept in these trying times. Last week, my new champion walked into my life.

Ordinarily, I tend to write off the 'concessionaires' who come in. They are ordinarily 'Mr. and Mrs. Joe-Sixpack' who think they have the best barbecue around, or the best funnel-cake, or the best what-ever. They have checked out the used equipment purveyor here in town and come in with quotes and scribbled notes about what they need.

This past week, I got a new customer. She is, shall I say, the most fun that I've ever had with someone who is starting their own business. Ida was the funniest, sunniest, most bubbly personality that I've dealt with in the almost two years I've been dealing with in this industry. She had the obligatory legal pad with notes about what she needed and quotes from other purveyors. But, she was special.

When I met her half-way in the door, she was smiling and it lit up the room. Usually when a new customer comes in, they are awe-struck when they see the expanse of stuff that we offer. She was just so giddy about being there, that it made my 'see customer, smile obligatorily' grin open to a half-chuckle. It didn't matter that she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with food stains, or her half-grown out weave. Her happiness was infectious, and I was smitten. And willing to help her in any way that I could.

She had a small concession stand and would be offering gumbo, burgers, and other similar wares in a good location close to the military base. I whittled down her needs and gave her some numbers that she was very happy with.

I wrote up a sales order and she wanted to pay right away, even though it would take a few days to get her items in stock. (Now that's our kind of customer!) I would have one of her items in two days and she told us that when she came in to pick it up, that she would bring in a sample of her gumbo. Double bonus!

Well, she did come in, and she brought in the sample. Two quart containers of gumbo with crab claws, a container of rice, plenty of Styrofoam plates, spoons, napkins, and crackers. I was flabbergasted, as were all my drooling co-workers. Not to mention the gumbo was very tasty. This was a first, as far as someone bringing in all the essentials. She had her act together. And she made some very good contacts in the process.

I certainly hope that Ida makes it good. I hope that she has so much success, that she will spread her joy and friendliness far and wide. She certainly brightened my week.

For that is what we need nowadays. Forget chain arogantness and mediocrity. We need more Idas and the happiness that is cooking good food and having fun doing it.

Finally...an update.

2009-02-13T22:36:00.003-06:00

Sorry to those who may check in from time to time. I try to write, I want to write, I need to write. I start to write, and it all seems so banal. I used to think my writing was pithy, humorous, and timely. Hmpthhh. I guess that I'm my own worse critic. And there's so much more important things happening that it all seems so inconsequential. Anyways...

I finally found out last week that my polyps were benign and I don't have to go through the Hell that is Colonoscopy prep for 5 more years. I guess my hopes and prayers were answered and I inherited my dad's genes and not my mom's. Except for the addictive personality traits. Damn the gene pool.

So, I guess that I can breathe freer and not worry so much about the cancer link on my mom's side of the family. As far as my dad's side, I only have to worry about Alzheimer's, heart disease, and Parkinson's. Smooth sailing, indeed.

Thanks

2009-01-24T00:23:00.008-06:00

Just wanted to say "Thanks" for all the well wishes. It was really just a minor procedure, but one that needed to be done, and I put it off longer than I really should have. When I get the results, I'll let you all know.

But please, if you have colon or prostate cancer in your family, get yourself to a doctor for a colonoscopy. Early detection is the best way to beat this disease, or a colostomy bag, or a casket. And the procedure was totally painless (just the prep was a little gross). My grandmother and two uncles might be alive today if they had heeded that advise.

And if you're looking for a charity to give to, one good one would be the American Cancer Society. http://www.cancer.org/. There is so much more that we can accomplish.

Peace.

My In "Auger" ation

2009-01-20T19:01:00.003-06:00

The puns from family and co-workers came fast and furious. "Let me know how everything comes out". "It's gonna be a shitty day, isn't it?" I just rolled my eyes and went on. Although I did come up with the little bon mot in the title.

Anyways, what everyone told me about the procedure was true. The prep the day before is way worse than the procedure itself. First, you must stop eating by mid-night the night before. Then, at 1:00 pm, you must down a 10oz bottle of Magnesium Citrate, a laxative. The label says your first "movement will be in 1/2 to 6 hours later". I took two cringe inducing swigs (Yech, yeah right that's lemon-lime). Then remembered that I was about out of cigs. Crap (ha ha). Well, I threw on my coat and walked to the nearby Winn-Dixie and got a couple of magazines too. Stupid me bought a food magazine. Do not buy a food magazine if you're going 24+ hours without food. Then, I came back (rather quickly) to finish off the Magnesium Citrate.

Next, at 5:00 pm you start drinking a gallon of this stuff that has the consistency of anti-freeze. Thick, gelatinous, and gag-inducing. One glass every 15 minutes until you drink it all. That was one of the hardest things that I've had to do in my life. You hold your breath and down it all as quickly as possible, like you're doing a beer bong.

I drank that crap along with some jello and water and nothing else. I can now empathize with Ethiopian kids (I kid). Really, hunger is not something to make fun of. Friends and family make fun of it, but they've all been there, most of them, anyways.

So, I show up bright and early at the endoscopy center with my chauffeur (Dad). The folks are all friendly and shit and show me to the changing room. There, I find my medical wardrobe and it ties in the back, along with some cute baby-blue sock thingys. Did I mention that it's about 35 degrees outside and not much warmer in the "pre-procedure" area. They will not have a problem with my "junk" getting in the way. Nor will I be getting any date invitations.

Next, in the pre-procedure room, a woman with a heavy lisp inserts my intra-veneous line while we sit there watching the pre-inauguration ceremony. I get to hear more southern, conservative invective regarding the new President. I think that's where I come up with the hilarious "In 'Auger' ation" phrase. And this is before the drugs. And my feet are cold, even with the nifty little socks with the rubber designs on the soles (still got them, don't know if I'll ever wear them again, but I paid for them anyways, damn it!). I'm ready to be put under, please, now.

Minutes later, I'm directed to the "Procedure Room" (PC). Funny how they always call it a "Procedure". Not a "Reaming", or something with "Herschey" in the title, always a "Procedure". All nice and calm and peaceful-like, like you're having your teeth cleaned, or your manicure done. Only more invasive.

We're now in the PC, and I'm placed on my back while the technician connects the E.C.G. lines to the three pods on my hairy chest (that will hurt like Hell upon removal). They put a nice comfy blanket across my legs to get me all cozy and shit and talk all nice and friendly and shit. The nice technician puts that little thing in my nostrils with the oxygen. They ask me to lay on my left side 'Oh, God, here we go'. The Anesthetist tells me (while hands re-arrange my pretty robe) that I won't feel anything within around 30 seconds while pushing the plunger into my I.V. He lied. I was out within 2 seconds of the drugs entering my I.V. Oh, thank you, God and the drug manufacturers.

Next thing I know, someone is saying "Good Morning, Sunshine". I awake actually feeling pretty good. Really, I felt better than before I went in. I looked across the room and actually said, "Good Morning, ladies!" They make good drugs nowadays, and they're legal, too. They could make a killing off of this stuff.

Now, I knew from other people that the nurses would be expecting me to fart a good one before they would release me. But, honestly, I didn't feel bloated at all, and I told the nurse that. "Yeah, you've already performed for us, so if you don't feel bloated, you should be fine." I guess I got lucky and got Henny Youngman's granddaughter for a post-op nurse.

Now, I've never been a "bottom" (If you know what I mean). And I didn't feel violated at all. I felt no difference, period, except that I felt "good". They must have put a little THC in those drugs is all that I can think of. I'll have to ask on my next visit what kind of lube they use.

The nurse helped me get dressed. Actually, she insisted that she put on my underwear (up to my knees) and my socks and shoes, so that I wouldn't have to bend over and get woozy. I finished dressing and she put me in a wheelchair (hospital rules) and rolled me to a room to await the final reckoning from the butt-doctor. I kinda had flashbacks of my grandpa in the Nursing Home *shivver*.

After waiting in the small waiting-room and critiquing the color scheme and furnishings for 15 minutes, the butt-doctor finally came in. He said that everything went well, in his opinion. They found "several, three or so" polyps that didn't look 'meaningful', yadda, yadda" and that we would have the results in three weeks or so. "Don't worry, I didn't see anything to worry about".

So, we'll see. Does he tell everyone that? I'm not terribly worried, but you never know.

I do know that breakfast with my dad at the IHOP on the way home was one of the best breakfasts that I've had in quite a while. Starving yourself for 30+ hours will do that. Even if the waitress was mediocre, and it was, you know, IHOP.

The "Invasion" Cometh

2009-01-18T15:14:00.005-06:00

This Tuesday, an "invasion" is coming. No, it's not what you're thinking. It's not all about Obama. This is a little more...shall we say... "personal".

I'm having my first colonoscopy Tuesday morning. I've put it off long enough. And with my family history, way overdue. But, still. Really.

On my mom's side of the family, cancer, especially colon cancer amongst the men, has run amok. My Grandmother died of cancer at the age of 42. They couldn't pinpoint the source of the first out-break, because when they first opened her up, it was wide spread.

It took a while before another instance manifested itself. My Grandfather died some 20 or so years later from throat cancer.

Not long after, my Mom (the oldest of 7), had a few lumps removed, but none turned out to be malignant, and all breathed a sigh of relief. Then, the report around 8 or 9 years ago that the oldest son had colon cancer. He gave it quite a go until it stopped responding to treatment, we all rallied around him, and visited him while he was still alive. We all chose to visit him at his summer campground while he was alive and not to be there for his funeral. It turned out to be a wise choice all around.

Just a couple years later, the youngest of the 7 reported that he had a suspicious colonoscopy. Now, this uncle is 4 years younger than me (go figure). We were all shocked and dismayed. Especially when he told us that he had some symptoms for a while. Well, he beat it once, but it came back. He is now on his last months or weeks. And I decided that I need to take this seriously.

On Tuesday, Inauguration Day, I will be invaded, pillaged, viewed as no one has ever seen me before. I have my gallon of clean-out fluid chillin' in the fridge, my jello, some Gatorade (low-calorie, for sure), bouillon, and all those clear fluids ready to go. Today, I'm gonna enjoy my Captain and Diet and a pizza. Tomorrow, I'm leaving work at noon so that I can down the magnesium citrate and then the Mr. Drano that is chilling in the fridge.

I know my genes are mostly from my dad's side of the family, since I look like his younger brother. That side is fair-haired and light-skinned with freckles. My dad's is dark hair and tan-friendly skin. I only hope that those genes that decide cancer never crossed through when the sperm hit egg. Funny that I was always jealous of that side of the family for being "prettier". I always wanted my mom's strawberry-blond hair.

With my dad's genes, I only have to worry about Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, and heart disease. What a relief that will be.

Now, my thoughts turn to esoteric things. Will the doctor make a comment about my 'tush'? Should I trim the shrubbery? Did they buy Chinese lube to save a few bucks? Will it be so cold in the room that shrinkage will be a concern (how would I live that down?) Will I shout out "Ooh, you're so hot, Mr. Baldwin!" while under the influence?

I'll try to let you know on Tuesday night how it all goes.

New Cookie Recipe Next Time

2009-01-16T23:00:00.002-06:00

Next time, I will give ya'll my aunt/sister's recipe for Cranberry Hootycreeks. I don't know where the name came from, but the cookies are fantabulous!

There's Cold, And Then There's Frigid.

2009-01-16T22:33:00.003-06:00

Wow, what a cold wave. We were seduced by the mild winter we started with. Of course, this is only the third winter I've had here in the panhandle of Florida (Not counting my 2-year excursion to South Florida, which I choose to forget) . This cold snap is severe, but I keep telling people, "Oh, it could be so much worse!". I've not had to scrape ice off of my windshield. I've worn my "as-new" gloves twice so far (I had to dig them out of a box after being stored for 4 years).

I lived for 16 years in the northern suburbs of Michigan. Then one year on Long Island, two and a half years in Massachusetts. That was it. On to Florida. I may be in the northern reaches of Florida, but I talked to my aunt/sister in New Hampshire an hour ago (16 below zero) , and I don't miss it at all. I miss her, but not the weather. Or the shoveling. Or the windshield scraping. Or the crusty, frozen beard and nose hairs while you're shoveling a foot of snow off of your car.

People down here complain about the cold. I laugh in their faces! They do not know what they are missing. The difference between cold and frigid is immeasurable. Keep your fall color tours. Brag about your 'change of seasons'. Been there, done that. Never gonna do it again. The gulf coast is as far "North" as I'll ever live again. I bet Restaurant Gal isn't missing it at all now, either.

Times are Tough in Restaurantland

2009-01-11T15:19:00.004-06:00

It's been a rough couple of months here in the Panhandle for the restaurant industry. Sure, the economy sucks everywhere right now, but it seems to be hitting here extremely hard. This area that I live in and work in is ranked towards the bottom of all Florida counties. We probably have more in common with Alabama then we do with Florida (A lot of people here sarcastically call it "L.A.", short for Lower Alabama). So when Florida coughs, we catch pneumonia, and it's approaching double-pneumonia status.

Within the last few months, there's been a slew of places going belly up. Mostly, it's been the independent places, but there was a Bennigan's and Steak and Ale that closed. Some of the closings were expected, since even in good times some people just shouldn't be in the business, period. They've been scratching and surviving by the skin of their teeth.

One closing that hit hardest was one that I worked closely with. It's name was Varona's, and it was a Cuban restaurant that was to be a high-class Cuban restaurant. My boss got me involved because I am considered the "smallwares expert". For most of my tenure at Macaroni Grill, I was chosen to be the smallwares orderer. For one, I'm a cheap ass. Second, even though I'm frugal, the Front of the House should never be short on plates, silverware, etc. One of my worst headaches as a server (millenia ago, I know!), is running around plucking wine glasses off of tables so that I can get a glass of wine to a new table.

Well, for this new Cuban restaurant, I was given the task of choosing all of the china, glassware, and silverware to present to the owner of Varona's. He liked everything that I picked, and I took it to heart that I just may know what I'm doing. The owner plowed a lot of money into his place: marble floors, beautiful and large bar, custom tables (only to be covered by white linen), gorgeous rattan furniture for the waiting area, and a great location close to the airport.

Well, the idea was good, but the execution was not what this area (Nascar-loving, beer-drinking, Conservative-leaning, mullet-wearing rednecks) was expecting. I guess it really didn't help that the people who were experienced in this type of food weren't prepared to pay $15 or more for what is really Cuban "peasant food". Although they offered good steaks and a decent wine list, those looking for authentic Cuban food didn't want to pay to eat it in a fine-dining atmosphere.

Along with this disappointment, there was the closing of EAT!. The chef, Lee Lucier, kinda started to become known regionally and even was on the Today Show and Dinner Impossible with Robert Irvine on the Food Network. Chef Lee was a character who I had the pleasure of sharing a dim view of one of my bosses. Unfortunately, he was a "big-city chef" in a drink-water town. I hear he's now in the Myrtle Beach area, I don't know. I only know, he had a dry, sarcastic, and fully hilarious sense of humor. The guy who bought him out 8 months ago went out of business last month.

All in all, those restaurateurs with no knowledge and teetering on the edge have been forced out. Those who stick to what they know and do it well persevere. There are rumors swirling about of establishments that are going down. I don't believe everything I hear. I speak regularly with those who are in the know, and my radar knows who is trying to blow smoke up my ass. There will be more that will close, that's for sure. But, I hope the owners that put in hard sweat equity, those that are honorable, those that treat their employees (and me) fairly and with good humor, will survive. People will not suddenly start to cook all their meals at home, that's a given. They're just looking for good food, fairly priced, with good service.

I call it survival of the fittest.

Virus Free? We Shall See.

2009-01-10T19:17:00.002-06:00

My last post was a short and quick little missive. At the time, I really didn't know how f'd up my computer was. It turns out that the phrase is 'totally f'd, but not terminal'. $70 dollars of software that didn't help much, but increased my memory, was the first step. Later, not knowing what to do, I prayed to the god "Google". I entered the words uninstall Windows Antivirus 2009. You see, everytime that I picked a site on my favorites, a big, scary window would pop up saying that this site contained spyware, viruses, etc. Now I know to always hit that little 'x' up in the right hand corner and not hit the 'NO' button. Windows Antivirus 2009 is a bitch. It you hit 'NO', it installs anyway. DO NOT DO THIS!

Anyways, Google pointed me to a website called StopZilla. For $9.95, it got rid of the dreaded Windows Antivirus 2009 that the $70 software would not. And now, I can continue to write on Beentheredonethat with no interruptions.

Tune in tomorrow to see what's been happening.

Virus Problems

2008-12-28T11:32:00.002-06:00

First, I had the human kind.

Then, I got the computer kind.

Life sucks right now.

Be back soon.

Civility...Or The Lack of Same

2008-11-17T21:09:00.002-06:00

I don't understand people now-a-days. I don't know if it's just me, my locale, or the times. I only know that civility and politeness have taken a back seat to rudeness, selfishness, and me-first-ness (Yes, I have copyrighted that term, so don't think of using it without paying me first). Let's take a for-instance journey. Yesterday (Sunday), I visited Target again for the first time in months.

Walking up to the portal clearly labeled "Enter", I was blocked by many people exiting in droves. I managed to squeeze through and was then blocked by a woman who took up the whole entrance to pull out a cart and deposit her worldly possessions into the baby seat...one item at a time, directly in the middle of the wide isle. I had to take a diversionary lap around the territorial boundary she had set up.

In stores, why don't people walk the aisles like they drive? It would make things so much more civil if people would walk down the right side of the aisles. This is America, people, not England or Japan where only heathens drive on the left side of the road. At the least, choose a path and stay to it. Sometimes, it seems that I have to do the Samba around people who can't push a cart in a straight line, swerving from side to side like they're trying to tackle L.T. It's like trying to enter a concert that's just letting out and the exit-ers are Hell-bent on munchies.

I stand in front of a collection of holiday decorations, trying to stay out of the way of the other shoppers. Then, a woman pushing an empty cart stops right in front of my line-of-sight, looking at what I had been looking at for the last minute or two. And stays there, looking at what I was looking at, blocking me with her body and her cart. I look at the back of her head with a look of dis-belief, uplifting my hands in the universal sign of 'What the Fuck?'. And I'm totally ignored. Being the civil person that I am, I don't confront her, but just shake my head and move on. But, WTF? I look at my hands to make sure that I'm not invisible. Unfortunately, I have not gained that power.

I cruise to the over-priced, 'designer men's fashion department' they have with designers I've never heard of before. There are 3 employees hanging out by the fitting rooms gossiping about another not in attendance. These are the only employees that I've seen on the entire floor, and they're here, ensconced on the far side, well out of sight of the manager, who's probably in the office downloading porn, avoiding the customers. Like some managers do in the restaurant world. And you all know what I'm talking about.

Then, to check-out. Ha-ha, what fun. I'm looking for the smallest line, going down the line like we all do. Will I hit the 'Good Line Lottery'? There, in the distance, I see three lit numbers with no one in line, and I rush like O.J. through an airport to get there. But, there's no one behind the registers. Looking around, I see 4 gals gathered around an unlit line, chatting. Geez, that manager must have found some good free porn. Obviously, these managers are not like the Gestapo at Wally-world. At Wal-Mart, they're made to stand in front of the registers like Amsterdam whores, enticing anyone to please choose their lane.

My check-out girl shows up. Clearly, I'm a distraction to her, and taking her away from something more important. Like, trying to find a spare inch of skin to tattoo next. Or pierce. Obviously, she missed the lecture in school about what level of employment that side-show freaks can obtain. Now, I'm no prude, but come on. On her face was at least four piercings; lip, tongue, nose, eyebrow, and at least 6 in the ears. Drinking water must be such an accomplishment. She had the beginning of full tattoo sleeves on both arms. She probably had more $ invested in her tats than in her hoopty. Or education.

I know I'm sounding old here. I surprise myself sometimes by what I write sometimes. I know June Cleaver was not a real person. I know Mr. Whipple never really squeezed the Charmin. I'm not looking for a Stepford wives experience at the store.

I just want manners to make a little bit of a comeback. Pretty please?

State of the Union

2008-11-15T17:52:00.000-06:00

No, this is not a post about the current state of our country, politics, or the stock market. We all get more than enough of that on the nightly news, and frankly, I'm burnt out on that. It's time to get back to my real love, writing about the restaurant biz.

I posted many months ago about my former employer, Brinker International, and their troubles trying to unload Macaroni Grill. When I worked there as an Assistant Manager, we were given stock options at a pre-determined price. If I recall correctly, my first options were in the $24/share range, and at the time they were selling for around $26. But, I never bought any. The next year, there were some I.R.S. changes in the works, so we were offered options at around $32/share on a smaller amount of shares. At that time, shares were selling for around $30/share, but there were rumors of an impending stock split. Again, I didn't bite. The next year, Brinker changed their whole bonus/perk policy and only offered stock options to those who were General Managers and above. Boy, was I pissed, even though I had never taken advantage of the previous offers. Many did, though, and many are now hurting financially.

Alas, it was the beginning of the end for me anyway, for they restructured the whole bonus policy and other things, too. I was on the way out the door, but I was still kicking myself for not buying stock when the getting was good. Some other managers had bought their maximum amount and were sitting on many thousands of dollars of potential profit. I used to look in the stock section of the Business pages of the newspaper religiously, if only for the purpose of berating myself for not taking advantage of the stock options. But that was years ago, and I had lost all curiosity about what was happening with Brinker stock when I left the company.

Last week, while going through the paper during lunch, I had the crazy idea of looking up how the stock was doing now. Now, I knew things had changed quite a bit in the last few years, but I was shocked when I got to the list. Brinker stock is now selling for just over $8/share. OMG! I can't imagine how outraged I would be if I had bought my maximum amount years ago. I called up all my old management friends and asked them if they had any stock options they had acted on. Out of six that I called, only two had bought the options. One had bought the options but sold them a few years back at a tidy profit to buy a house. The other is still holding onto them, hoping a sell of MacGrill will drive up the price.

Back when I was a manager, I used to speak 'not so nice' about the shareholders. "The shareholders" was always the excuse our District Managers used to use when another round of penny-pinching was implemented. When I started, if you broke the 20% labor cost threshold, you were doing well indeed. Then 19%, then 18%, all the way down to 16% when I left. Managers were required to cut staff to skeletal levels and to step in and do the work instead. Between bussing tables, hosting, food running, prep work, and many other tasks, managers had no time to manage anymore.

It was a downward spiral that has put a lot of chain restaurants in a precarious position. Not only did labor costs have to go down, so did food cost, maintenance cost, smallwares cost, etc. Suddenly, offering quasi-first-class experiences while dining out became second consideration. House-made became frozen-in-a-plasic-bag-inside-a-cardboard-box. Three table sections became "How many tables can you take?". Hostesses became an option. Bussing was added to the servers list of things to do. Along with expediting and food running.

Until shareholders of restaurant stock realize that this business is for the long term and not for big dividends every quarter, publicly owned restaurants will always suffer. Overworked managers, servers, and cooks will not increase the value of your stock. It will only get you a lower class of employee who will put up with the bull-shit. And you know where that leads...stock at a 20 year low.

Back From the Dead...or Comatose...or Something...Whatever

2008-11-13T21:42:00.000-06:00

These last few months have been eye-opening. As a self-avowed All-American, Patriotic, Community-aware veteran, I was put off to the max at how divided our country had become over this past election. Living in the hot crotch of the Bible Belt, emotions ran especially sparky, shall we say. With 95% of my co-workers bordering on Conservative, Right-wing Naziism, I became aware that our country could devolve into goose-stepping goons. Living in a state that already forbade adoption by gays and marriage by gays, we were confronted by an option on our ballot that would amend the state constitution to make illegal something that was already forbidden. And not just here, but in Arkansas (big surprise), Arizona, and California (no way could that pass there, or so I thought).

My drive every morning entailed going over what we call the '3-mile bridge'. At the entrance is where all the nominated would stand around with their family and friends, holding their signs, slowing taffic, and waving at you like they were your best friend. And all would invariably be Repubs (I refuse to call them Republicans as they have bastardized the name 'Democratic Party' into the Democrat Party). My response to them was always the same; thumb and fore-finger shaped into an 'L' slapped upside my forehead. I received the one-finger salute more than once. How mature and indicative of the mind-set these Adolphites presented. My display may have been fifth-grade, but theirs was third-grade.

All through the election, I was constantly asking myself:

"Did those people actually watch the Katie Couric interview? With the sound on?"

"Does that dude in the rusted-out 20-year-old pickup with no muffler sporting the new McCain/Palin bumper sticker next to the faded Bush/Cheney one and the Confederate flag think he's really better off now than 8 years ago? Or that the mullet would make a comeback?"

"Aside from that Catholic priest fiasco, do the Republicans really think printing up signs saying 'Save Our Children, Yes on 2' really applies to gay marriage?"

I asked my dad, "Does your Baptist Church realize that John McCain couldn't even be a deacon at your church because he's divorced?"

"Does every conservative person serving on the P.T.A., community board, or any organization know the background of everyone serving on the board? If one has cheated on his taxes, does that make you a tax-cheat by association? If one is a wife-beater, have you battered because you sat at the same table?"

"If you flew on a flight from New York to Chicago and the plane went over the Canadian line, are you an expert on 'Foreign Affairs'?"

"If McCain's Chief-of-Staff was formerly a lobbyist for Freddie Mac, do you point fingers over the whole mortgage scandal?"

"Does wearing those 'Magic panties' choke off the supply of blood to Mormon's brains? Could those millions of dollars have been put to better use?"

Well, it's all over, and thankfully, not all of America drank the Kool-Aid. Unfortunately, many members of our society still think some of us don't deserve equal rights. Eight years ago in Ohio, the Religious Right prevailed by putting an anti-gay measure on the ballot there and brought out all the homophobes to vote, and in doing so gave us Bush (Thanks, guys!). The presidential vote didn't go their way this time, but they still got their hate-filled, anti-gay measures passed anyway.

So we all lost something. And Rush Limbaugh has four more years of bloviating to do (and Oxycontin to swallow).

Doctor, We Have a Heartbeat

2008-11-02T18:31:00.000-06:00

Yeah, yeah, I know I haven't posted in awhile. Or very often even in the 'awhile' time. And I have a very good reason why. Nothing is happening here. Nothing, nada, zilch, zero. My life is boring to the point of embarrassment. I thought writing about my more-exciting past in the restaurant biz would perk things up, but I think that I put everyone to sleep at their keyboard.

There are blogs that I read religiously about mundane topics like everyday life and struggles with willpower and the new shade of paint on the walls. I have 49 blogs listed in my favorites file that I go through on an almost daily basis. Some post almost daily while others post bi-weekly, weekly, and some on a bi-monthly or monthly schedule. The more prolific ones are the ones that I envy. Not all, though.

Some of the more prolific bloggers pontificate about how they're smarter than those they are surrounded with. These, I like to make fun of in my mind. How pretentious, IMHO. I don't think that you want to hear how smart I am. Or how smart I ain't. Some like to complain about the price of replacement tires for their Mercedes or something equally ludicrous. If you have to be on PB&J rations for a month to pay for them, you shouldn't be driving a Mercedes.

Some write so deep and from the heart that the act of changing the toilet paper roll keeps me engrossed. These are the ones that when they don't write for 3 days, I get worried. If I had their gift with words, I'd be writing about nose-hair plucking or fiber needs.

Some write about once a month (which is why I can get through my whole blog list in 1/2 an hour or less, rarely longer), but I welcome their new entries like visiting an old friend after too long away. If the absence was for a family tragedy, I feel the pain of a friend. If the gap was due to lack of desire to write, I empathize.

On newsworthy days, I take longer to read the political blogs so that I can refute the rantings of my Nazi co-workers, you betcha ;)

When a blog-pal closes down their blog, I feel the loss of a compatriot. I refuse to quit, and though my output is slower than some, my desire rises and flows like my bio-rhythms. I feel an up-tick coming on, so be prepared.

Bewitched!

2008-09-26T23:14:00.000-05:00

It is now time that all of us patriotic, Christian Americans get down on our knees and thank the Lord that Sarah Palin and her friend Reverend Muthee have saved us all from the great threat that has hovered over us for so long. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she has saved us from.......WITCHCRAFT! Forget the financial crisis, the never-ending war in Iraq, high gas prices, or our bankrupt country. She has truly saved us from the most evil scum the world has ever seen.

Just Google Sarah Palin, Muthee, and witchcraft, and you will see how she has saved us.

Nuff said.

Scary Times, Indeed

2008-09-25T21:15:00.000-05:00

As I've posted before, I talk to many, many restaurant workers, managers, and owners on a daily basis. At least 95% of the time, while I'm ringing up their 1/3 pans, bib aprons, and wine keys, I have the time to chit-chat with them. "How's business?" is repeated in our place about 40 times a day or more. And these folks want to talk. If business is good, they want us to share in their good fortune. If it's not so good, they want reassurance that better times are ahead. These are, indeed, rough times, and some are having a rougher time than others.

The thing is, everyone knows who's doing well, who's getting by (barely), and who's going down the tubes. This is a not-so-big city and everyone knows who's doing well and who's not. Times like these tend to weed out the weak, the un-educated, and the fools. The restaurants that are in the danger zone can be divided into different categories, which are:

Ass-Run. The first indicator of this is that the only person from this establishment we see is the owner/manager. Only the one person. This person micro-manages to such an extent that they don't trust any person who works for them to buy a $1 spoon. And they want you to give them that $1 spoon for 50 cents. And they name drop the owner's name if you don't sell it at cost (which is what they saw it for at Wal-mart, although it's not the same quality). (Believe me, the owner would not give his mother anything for free, so don't try it) These asses treat everyone like their personal slave. They get my minimal discount. And my eternal disdain. They will never have long-term, happy employees, and so will be out of business sooner than they desire. And they deserve it.

Ditzy ass-Run. These people have the right attitude, but no experience (or aptitude) to do it correctly. These are the ones that buy imported stemware to serve $8 a bottle Chablis. Or buy cheap 8 ounce stemware for both white and red wine. They are the ones who don't know what a 1/3 pan is. Or think Bain Marie is a pop singer. Or who don't know whether their dish-machine uses chlorine, iodine, or quaternary. These are the kind who will hang on by the skin of their teeth, making it more difficult than it should be. They sweat every Health Department visit because they don't know the rules. They usually have inherited the business or were thrust into it. They will never be successful, but will just...get...by.

Lazy ass-Run. These people sit back and wait for people to flock to their restaurant. They don't advertise. They close on Sundays and holidays because they think they have a life. They "create" a menu and stick to it, no matter what. They put no effort into their endeavor and then wonder why no one eats there.

Cheap ass-Run. These folks are the ones who come into our place of business and ask where the used fryers and reach-ins are. When we explain that we don't like to carry used merchandise because it's a losing proposition for both of us, they roll their eyes. Hello, if you're going to put $1000 worth of food into a $600 refrigerator, your priorities are in the wrong place. Their business depends on equipment that works every day, and if it doesn't, they need a warranty to keep costs down. If you buy used equipment, you don't know if it's been maintained properly. We usually get calls from these dorks at 4:45 on a Friday begging for help with their fryer that won't fry their 95% fried menu (Can you say time-and-a-half times $70/hr?). Needless to say, a minimal discount from me is their reward.

I could go on and on since there are countless others who will never be successful in the biz, and for countless reasons. The one thing that they have in common is that they don't ask for help from us. My boss (Who I don't like so much, but he probably couldn't care less) hires people with restaurant experience to work my job so we can help (He's not stupid, just not very diplomatic). Those who prosper know how to ask for help from those who can help them the most. Those who fail don't ask, they just complain.

Polar Opposites From the Last Post

2008-08-30T19:11:00.000-05:00

So, this young couple comes into the store on Friday, and since I was only partially weeded at the time, I jumped up to help them out. They were young-ish, mid to late 20's, Asian in origin but obviously have been here many years ( no accent, but would communicate to each other in a foreign language [ I hate when they do that!]).

"Hi, how are you? What can I help you find?"

The female half waves a list at me. "We're opening up a new Marble Slab Creamery (or whatever it was) and have a list of things we need to open next month."

I ask to look at the list and see that it's a fairly straightforward list of every smallware item they will need to run their new place. So I start at the top and show them what each item is. (They've obviously never run a restaurant before. They don't know the difference between a 1/6 or 1/3 pan.) This list has every little thing listed, you don't need to know what you're doing.

Which is what I was talking about in my last post. People who have never run a restaurant before should start small and easy. Buy a franchise. Work in someone else's place and take notes. These companies selling franchises already know everything you'll need. They have support people who will guide you through the basics. They have a package of equipment and probably have a deal with distributors who will get it to you at the lowest price. I've had people come in to start a new restaurant and they don't even know if they need gas or electric, 110v or 220v, 1phase or 2phase, etc. It's hard to quote prices when you don't know things like that.

I chatted with this couple for awhile, told them what we had to offer, and congratulated them on starting with the right idea. (Although, an ice cream place is not the best franchise to own. It's very limited, and is considered a luxury in these rough times)

Although they've done a lot of homework and started small and smart, I think they may be a little too unprepared in a lot of aspects. Hiring the right people is a skill learned over a long period of time. Dealing with the public takes time and experience (and mucho patience).

Since this new place is on my way home, I may take an interest in how it does, and post about it. It may prove interesting. If not, I don't have a life anyway, so I won't be wasting any time ;)

Another One Bites The Dust

2008-08-16T08:57:00.000-05:00

I've written before about people wanting to get into the restaurant business, and how most of them have no clue what they're getting themselves into. This is a story about a young couple who should have asked someone for some advice. My place of employment is in the business of selling restaurant equipment and supplies, so talking someone out of their dream really isn't on our agenda (I know this sounds callous, but McDonald's wouldn't be in business if it talked fat people out of eating Big Macs and fries). Alas, I saw this one coming from a mile away.

So, this young couple comes in to the store for some design help with their bistro. It's a smallish restaurant in a strip mall kinda thing. It'll have about 15 tables, a small entrance/waiting area, and a small, but manageable kitchen. They've had the menu planned for about 3 years while they were saving their money and dreaming of fame and fortune. The menu consisted of basic sandwiches with creative touches, soups, salads, and appetizers for lunch and the addition of some proteins on the dinner menu. Nothing spectacular, but a step up from your basic diner/deli food with a few neat twists. Something your basic line cook could reproduce easily. I thought at the time that they had a decent chance of making it. Their bistro was located in an up-and-coming area, the couple were personable, and they seemed to have they're act together...until I visited their place for lunch on a week-end that I was in the area.

Their first mistake? In my humble opinion, first-time restaurateurs should start small and easy and buy a franchise. It's a good way to learn the ropes of ownership while having the support structure newbies will need. This couple had very little experience in the industry. The husband was ex-military with no experience. The wife had been a waitress for a few years, with a little time in management until her kids came and she became a housewife for about 4 years. Not the kind of experience you need if you are sinking your life savings into a risky business.

Their second mistake? Location, location, location. This bistro was in a small strip located about 200 yards off the main drag, with no direct access. Driving from the West, you had to drive past it, turn left across 2 busy lanes of traffic, and do a big circle around this small campus of businesses. And the small sign atop the business was undecipherable from the road, especially where everyone drives 45mph+ right past it. Cars coming from the East would never see it, as it was on the backside of the building. If no one knows you're there, how do you expect to thrive?

Their third mistake? Failure to invest the sweat equity needed to ensure success. Yes, they had two small sons, but this place did not have overly-long opening hours and was closed on Mondays. Two weeks after opening, they hired a Front of the House Manager and a Back of the House Manager to run this small bistro so they could spend more time at home. When you are opening your own restaurant, you should be devoting all your time to your enterprise and putting the money saved back into the restaurant. That is the first rule for success in this kind of undertaking. Six months minimum up to a year or more is the time frame before you start sitting back and enjoying the spoils of your hard work and money spent. It took them two weeks to fall prey.

Their fourth and most fatal mistake? If you have not saved enough money to operate your restaurant for a full year, you should just wait until you have it. After only 6 months in operation, this small place was shuttered. I take no glee in their demise, for they were a nice couple who were perhaps a little disillusioned about what it takes to start and run your own place. Perhaps if one of them had worked outside the restaurant to bring in a stable paycheck to fund shortfalls in profit it might have worked. I only know it was a decent idea poorly executed. If there is a "next time" for them, hopefully they've learned what not to do. Or maybe learn to get someone more knowledgeable to help. Or buy a Domino's instead.

So Where's Allen Funt?

2008-07-29T19:16:00.000-05:00

On my way home tonight, I stopped at the local grocery store to pick up a few needs to tide me over until the week-end. Milk, granola bars, lunch meat, whatever. I always feel lucky if they have the self-check-out lane open and it was. "Score" in more ways than one.

After scanning my items and totalling the bill, I decided I needed an extra ten bucks until payday. So, after going through the process with my debit card, I looked in the cash back chute. There was a crisp twenty sitting there and then my two fives fluttered down on top of it. Hmmmmmm.

I look around to see if anyone is watching. None that I can tell. Is this Candid Camera? A hard-hitting expose from Night-line? Is that Dianne Sawyer thumbing through the Enquirer in the next lane?

What would you do?

I took the twenty up to the Service Desk and turned it in like the boob that I am. It sure would have come in handy, but I wouldn't have enjoyed it after the guilt got through with me.

No. Really. Tell me what you would do. I'm curious.

And if you don't know who Allen Funt is, ask your dad.

Let's Just Agree to Disagree, Hmmmm?

2008-07-27T17:53:00.000-05:00

When you work with a bunch of right-wing neo-conservatives, conversation can often be confrontational. I stay out of it. I don't want people to know who I'm voting for, nor the laws I support. I don't want to explain why Proposition X, Y, or Z is supported by ignorant asses.

The thing that truly chaps my ass though, is people who ignore the other point of view. These are the poeple who drive me nuts, although I've learned over the years to not even get in a discussion with them. Because they never lose (in their own mind). Because what you think doesn't matter. Because you're an "idiot" if you disagree with their right-wing lunacy. When the talk turns to politics, I change the subject.

These people never agree to disagree, they choose to denigrate anyone with a differing viewpoint. The biggest example at my place of work went through a long, messy, expensive divorce last year. Wonder why? He also takes the word of Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity as gospel. Any supporter of Obama is immediately labeled a communist. He's one of those "I've got mine, everyone else can go to Hell" type of people.

I don't know why some people can't just agree to disagree and go on. I think insecurity plays a part. Lack of interaction with people of different faiths, backgrounds, and ideologies contributes, also. It's just their smug "know everything" attitude that ruins it.

Bet you know someone like that. They seem to multiply faster than others.

People Who Should Disappear From the Face of the Earth

2008-07-12T15:36:00.000-05:00

Each of the following don't deserve their own post, let alone me taking the time to write about them. But, as a whole, these are the people who make our lives a living Hell. Or, at the least, a less harmonious world.

*Servers who hand me my glass of (whatever) with all five fingers touching the rim. My version of the "octopus serve", with palm down and all five fingers surrounding the top. Hello! I don't know where your fingers have been. Probably grabbing four glasses from the table you just bussed by putting your fingers into the tops and lifting. And then not washing your hands after. Right after you picked your nose. Or, whatever.

*People who drive in the left lane at the speed limit. Yes, I know you are totally legal doing this. But, hey, some of us like to thumb our noses at the designated speed limit. Yes, we are doing something totally illegal. GET YOUR ASS IN THE RIGHT LANE, BITCH! (And, yes, those who are guys are bitches also) Have you heard of "road rage"? You are the cause. Move your ass over.

*Those who choose to write a check in the "Express Lane" at the grocery store. And then wait to put pen to check until the total is calculated. Hello, the date is not going to change, write it down while 'Sally' is scanning your shit. Your signature is not going to change with the total. The name of the store is not going to suddenly change, either. Obviously, your time is not that important. But, 'news-flash', mine is, thank you very much.

*Bussers who go by the table and say, "You through with that?". If I was through with that, I wouldn't be eating from it, and it would be sitting by the edge of the table. Duh!

*Newspaper columnists who should be labeled lobbyists. You shill for the same causes every week. We know your affiliation by now. Stop calling yourself a 'journalist'.

*People who live in apartments who are oblivious to those little lines called 'parking spaces'. If you can't fit your '92 Toyota in those spaces, you shouldn't be driving.

*People, who when calling my place of business by mistake just hang up instead of saying "Sorry, wrong number".

*People, who call my business, who mistakenly think we have X, Y, or Z, and I give them the name of our competitor, who then ask, "Do you have their number?". Yeah, it's 411. Give it a try, dude.

*Turd-wads who look at a price-tag and say, "I can get this for x-dollars less on-line". Or, "I saw this for so-and-so at Wal-Mart". One, if you order it online, you have to pay for shipping, dipshit! And if it arrives damaged, how much is your time worth to rectify the situation? Two, the item you saw at Wally-world is not the same as what we carry. Plus, they have about a million times more buying power than we have. The same goes for the distribution center of your mega-billion-dollar fast-food outlet. Sorry, we buy by the dozen, not by the kazillion.

*New neighbors who think their offspring's bike should be parked in front of my door. News-flash! This is not a dorm. I pay for that little bit of concrete in front of my door. You don't. Or maybe, things are different in Louisiana.

*People who drive 5mph below the speed limit in no-passing zones and then speed up when you get the dotted-lines to pass. Hey, dufus, you have a Lexus. I'm pretty sure that $40k car has cruise control.

*People who block the aisle at the grocery store. Hello, is this the way you drive? Please, give me a five minute head start before you leave the parking lot.

*People who think that, at my place of business (a commercial kitchen equipment supply company), we should carry every little piece of ephemora associated with cooking. 2-1/2" tart pans are not widely used in restaurants now-adays. Nor are cherry-pitters, layer-cake columns, bundt cake pans, or other obtuse contrivances called for on a daily basis by our restaurant customers. Sure, we can special order it for you, but don't be shocked when we ask you to pay for shipping. Or, if it may take a week or more to get it in. Until that Star-Trek transporter is perfected, we are at the whim of the shipping companies. And their minimum-wage employees. Deal with it. Plan ahead.

Whew, that was a lot off of my chest! It's been building for awhile, and I'm sure I'm forgetting many, many other pet peeves, but that should do for now. What are your "duh" statements to your customers?

An Interesting Time In "The Biz"

2008-06-29T17:31:00.000-05:00

This is surely an interesting time to be in the restaurant business. On a daily basis, I talk to probably 10 to 20 operators, be it managers or owners. While I cash them out, I always make it a point to ask how things are going. Can't help it, I'm naturally curious, and it may make for some good fodder for blogging.

Prospects are not good right now, as many of you know all too well. I used to try to be light-hearted, and reassure people that customers will always be there. That everyone has gotten used to eating out. That we all have become accustomed to eating out. We've all become to lazy to cook for ourselves. Now I'm not so sure. I've been hearing horror tales lately.

Here where I live, in the Florida panhandle, has been hit extraordinarily hard by this 'recession'. Now, I know it's not official, but I think we really are in a recession. Our government may throw around a lot of numbers, but those numbers can be manipulated in a way to show that things are peachy. They're not, and God help those who think everything is fine. They are blind and choose to view things the way they think.

People are not going out to eat they way they have. And those who do, are choosing less expensive options. And those who choose those options are not tipping well, either. We have a lot of servers who buy their aprons, wine-keys, etc. here, and they tell me the truth. They have no reason to lie to me. Things are tough, and probably will be for awhile.

The establishments doing well are on the lower rung of the spending spectrum. They're your fast-food places, diners, and family-dining places. Those faring poorest are the middle-rung places: i.e., your TGI Fridays, Macaroni Gill, and Ruby Tuesdays-type places. The high-class establishment will always do well, although the servers are hurting from low tips.

I don't profess to know the answer to these problems. I only know that we may have to move to a more 'European' type of payment. Higher wages to cover the lack of tips. Which will drive up the cost of eating out. Which means less people eating out. Which I don't know what the f**k that means. I don't know if there is an answer. If I knew, I'd be a rich man, which I'm not. I only know that the current system is in for a change, which is not good.

"Service" is bad enough as it is. Who knows how long it will take to get that extra ramekin of dressing in the future.

The Audacity

2008-05-31T16:14:00.000-05:00

Today started out hot and humid. Hot and humid as only someone living in the South can appreciate. Well, not terribly so, at 8:30 am it was about 80 degrees and about 80 percent humidity. No big deal really. Anyways, my dad came over from the mainland so we could play some tennis. We had a great time, as usual. Now that he's older (66), I have a great time beating him like he used do to me when I was 15 and he was 33. Paybacks, and all that.

I had been inside cooling off and was almost starting to nap at 2:00 when my neighbor stopped by and wanted to go to the pool. That sounded good, so I told him I'd meet him down there in a few minutes. I packed my Captain and Diet Pepsi, put on my new swim trunks, and headed over to the pool next door, remembering to take my hat and sunglasses this time.

My neighbor, Steve, wasn't there yet as I strolled through the gate. "Get out the life-vests, we have an old guy arriving" was shouted as I approached. As I opened the gate, I looked at who was announcing the arrival of this "old guy". It was a guy who looked to be about 60.

"You've got to be at least 50, aren't you?" Needless to say, I was immediately taken aback. Yes, I'm 48 (just turned), but the audaciousness coming from someone like him was astounding.

He was shorter than me, very tan, and missing all the teeth on the bottom of his smile. He kidded me about the whiteness of my skin, and all I could come up at the time was, "Well, I have a lot of indoor things keeping me busy." Lame, meet Ex-R, Ex-R meet lame. I simply find laying by the pool a waste of time, and unfortunately (or fortunately) my job is inside.

He made a show of putting his tan, leathery arm next to my pastey white legs and proclaiming how white I was. Uh, dude, Friend-Making 101 kinda frowns on shit like that. But he proceeded to pull up a chair to the lounge I staked out. Oh, Lord, he wants to be friends. Yeah, that's it, put someone down, and then suck up to them.

"How old do you think I am?"

Pause, pause. "You look like you're in you're mid-forties." Although, in truth, he looked ALL of his 52 years and more. No bottom teeth, many wrinkles, and saggy skin told a tale he was not willing to accept. And he was calling me old, what nerve! Okay, my hair has migrated South, I'm about 15 pounds above my ideal weight, my goatee is mostly white, but I think I look okay for my age.

The truth comes out later when I find out that he's been staking out a single mom at the pool. She's around 40-ish and apparently perked up when I arrived. When we were sitting around the pool, she basically ignored dufus and talked to me. I've experienced this many times. Yes, I'm gay, but not to the casual observer. I get hit on by single women all the time (not to seem conceited, but in Florida, there's a lot of them).

Dufus pulled up a chair and started a conversation while I was just trying to get some sun.

"I run 5 miles every morning, do I look like I'm 52?" Um, yes you do. And your crappy calves don't look like you run 5 miles every day. And when you're not sucking in your gut, you've got a beer belly.

Deal with it, dude. Don't put everyone else down to make yourself look better. I was a restaurant manager. That was a daily happening, and I've learned better. Only mentally-deficient Area Managers fall for that shit.

Yeah, I Know. It's Been a While. You Just Wait.

2008-05-09T22:22:00.001-05:00

It's that time of year, here in the deep South. We had an unusually mild spring here in the panhandle, and it's been lovely. Crisp, cool nights with sunny days in the 70's. That's why people move here from the arctic North. But, the fun and games are over for another summer, I fear.

Last night, the humidity moved in on little dog feet. One night, a light blanket for cover. The next, ceiling fan on medium and no covers. Tonight will be more of the same. Humid, but not so terrible yet.

I refuse to fall to the tyranny of the air conditioner so soon. I will use the fan. I will disrobe to discretion's edge. I will savor a nice, cool cocktail.

Not many from the North can appreciate the beautiful and mild Springs here in the Deep South. From March onward, it's easy to luxuriate in mild weather while the Northern territories get their late Winter blusters. Then, around May, things take a turn for the warm.

Which is fine. You really do acclimate to the heat. You just don't spend much time in it. Southerners have elevated air conditioning to a fine art. Where Northerners cocoon in the winter, us down here migrate inside for the summer. Or go to the beach, like Northerners go to the slopes in winter. You cope, and you deal, and you make the best of it, and you make it your mission to make it good.

Summer in the South is great for beaches (duh), going to the movies (with Milk Duds, my favorite), bowling (fun with a few beers), going to Biloxi and the Casinos (90 minutes away), and hanging by the pool (hopefully the teen-agers will keep their bodily secretions at home this year).

It's Summer now in the South, and it's a good thing. As much as you Northerners point fingers and talk about 'Four Seasons' and all that crap, I'd bet my windows stay open for clean ocean breezes a lot more than yours.

And now, I feel the need to go make some fresh-brewed sweet tea for the week-end. More later.

Clarification, or "Enough of the Drama"

2008-04-25T21:40:00.000-05:00

So Not Gonna Happen

(Taken from PostSecret)

I wrote in my 100th post that I may get back in the restaurant biz. Maybe I was just having a nostalgic flashback. Maybe I had a few cocktails before writing that post. Maybe I'm just deluding myself. I'm probably too picky now to take another restaurant job. I don't know if the perfect restaurant job even exists, but I'm not too jaded to not look. All I know is that my current job is not a 'forever job'.

I think I knew it at the beginning, during my initial interview. The owner arrived late, and wasn't the most personable person I've met in my life. He was from Louisiana, a bad sign from the get-go. I had a stepfather who was a "CoonAss", and he was loud, hard-headed, and did not take to confrontation well. What an understatement! He abused my mother physically and was an alcoholic, and a mean alcoholic when he drank.

My boss runs the place with his wife and sons, two in this store, an older one at another location. Having your immediate boss be the owner's son doesn't invite constructive criticism. How do you tell the owner that his son is in way over his head. When a son throws you 'under the bus', all you can do is stare blankly ahead and bite your tongue. Saying otherwise would only make things worse.

For example, in the eleven months I've worked there, four employees have given their two-weeks notice. All four led to shouting matches with the symbolic walking of the employee to the door and to forget about the f-ing notice, "We don't need you after all we've done for you" rhetoric. When I leave, I think I'll call in my notice, saving everyone the drama.

Anyway, I'm tired of everyone but the 'family' taking the heat for mistakes, and I'm ready to move on. I just wish the economy were better, along with my finances. I NEED a raise, but I'm afraid the request will lead to sturm und drang. I'll leave the drama to The young and the Restless and find something else. And that something else will probably be a restaurant job. In this area, there's not a whole lot other than that. And I'm tired of moving. WAY tired of moving.

In the mean time, I'll bite my tongue, work as hard as I ever have, and keep my eyes peeled and ears open to anything that will offer some respite. And decent benefits. And child-less owners.

Just So You Know

2008-04-20T20:26:00.000-05:00

Now that I'm posting my past history, I will put a time-line or something at the beginning of each post. Some new readers don't know that I served tables eons ago. I was in a progression of all my experiences to show what not to do.

To all new viewers, start at the beginning! Or maybe not. I was pretty pathetic back then. I've learned a lot since then. I think.

The Majic 100

2008-04-20T19:32:00.000-05:00

This post will not be on a certain subject, but a hurly-burly, herky-jerky, all over the place type of post to commemorate the century mark. Yay, me. And only a week from my birthday. Yay, me, again.

I used to think that I was a horrible housekeeper. Then I saw the inside of two of my neighbors' apartments. I'm Sally-Housekeeper compared to them. I no longer will be ashamed for people to stop over. Not to mention they all have pets, which I do not have, yet. But, come on, if your carpet is the same color as your pets, something is wrong. (You would not believe)

I will never again (and I thought I learned my lesson at the Country Club) work for ONE PRIVATE OWNER. When you work for a corporation, at least you know that you will not be working for that person forever, and there is always someone above your boss to go to, or their boss's boss. Working for the owner means that if he/she has a problem with you, it will never be solved. And if that owner is a hot-headed Coon-Ass, confrontation will not ever, ever work. Especially if his spawn is the subject of said confrontation. Definately a no-win situation. "Hey, your son sucks pond water, and never asks for help!" "Well, you should do more, he's stressed!" "Excuse me, he just got back from a week in Arizona being courted by every manufacturer with excess PR money to spend. Y0u flew 1st class and stayed in a 4-star hotel suite. He's back one day, and he's stressed? We were short 3 people and opened 3 huge restaurants and nothing was ordered for any of them. I had to beg, borrow, and steal smallwares to get them open while you were sipping Martinis because your spawn didn't order anything that was needed." (This last said in my mind)

Customer service, per se, no longer exists. No matter where you go, you will be treated like shit. Be it Wally-world, or Nordstrom, or Tiffany's, they couldn't care less is you bought something or not. The exception is the exception. Anytime that I'm treated as a coveted customer is the exception, not the rule. And my attitude has adjusted accordingly.

I hit 4 out of 6 in last week's lottery for a pay-out of $92.50. Since I've shelled out around $20 in the last six months, I'm ahead. Yeah, me!

I've decided that my job sucks. No big surprise, all jobs suck. But, how do you complain to the owner when it's his kid that is not pulling his weight? Quite the no-win situation there. Especially when the owner doesn't take confrontation well. And the spawn blames you for their short-comings. Who do you think will be believed?

Only seven months for this God-forsaken election to be over. I'm so OVER it!

I think everyone should go through a driver's test again. Forget parallel parking. Teach everyone to get the fuck out of the left lane if they're not passing anyone!

Lastly, I think I'm ready to get back in the Restaurant Biz again. God help me, I miss it. There is no family like restaurant family. I feel no ties to my co-workers here, even after 11 months. They couldn't give a rat's ass for what I feel, or what I need. Everyone for themselves. Bastards. Team-play is another language they have not even considered. Their loss.

I'M SO OVER IT!

#99

2008-04-12T09:35:00.000-05:00

There actually wasn't one episode that led to my leaving Capital Grille, there were two. I can usually take one act of stupidity and blow it off as an abomination. All the little stuff can be shrugged off, one big blow to the head (figuratively) can be explained away, but when the pile of excuses gets ass-deep, it's time to move on.

The first incident happened late one night when business was on that slow, downward spiral towards the end. Most of the floor had been cut and there was about 4 of us servers left. I got sat with a 3-top, two men and a woman, and I approached them ready to go through my special spiel. They interrupted several times and were very loud and patronizing, not a great start. They ordered drinks, but I knew that they were already 2-1/2 sheets to the wind, so I went to get a Manager to decline alcohol as we were taught. Now, finding a manager is tough enough at this place, and I was at a time-disadvantage, since people expect their drinks to arrive fast. I ended up finding them sitting at a table eating lobster and drinking champagne and explained what was needed. They assured me that they would be right there. Five minutes passed and neither appeared at the table. Wanting to save my tip, I went to the table to let them know that I had to get a manager to OK the drink order.

You would have thought that I had insulted their ugly child. They vociferously let me know that I didn't know what I was talking about. It was one of the guys' birthday and they were out in a limo, so they could drink all they wanted to. I had to explain that the law stated no one could be served if they appeared intoxicated, whether they came by limo, ox-cart, or teleporter. The discussion was, how shall we say, lively. A manager finally showed up, apologized about me, and sent over a bottle of wine on the house. At this point, I asked to be excused from waiting on this table and was refused. I would have to soldier on.

I went back to the table, apologized, and tried to explain that I was just doing my job. They said that I was forgiven, as long as the rest of the night went smoother. I went into ass-kissing mode. When their food was ordered, I went to the Kitchen Manager who I got along well with, explained the situation, and asked him to please make sure extra attention was given their meals. All went well, they left happy. Drunk as shit, but complimentary, anyway. All was forgotten until two days later when a three page letter arrived at the restaurant.

I knew nothing about it until I was called to the side after pre-shift. The GM grabbed the Kitchen Manager and we went for a short walk to a bench in the mall. The GM had me read the letter, which was filled with false-hoods and embellishments. In short, I was called inept and rude and should be fired, poste haste. Luckily, the Kitchen Manager was the one asked to be the witness to my tar-and-feathering and he stuck up for me big time. He told the GM how I had to search for the managers on duty and how I took extra care with the rest of the dinner. It ended up that I was now on probation, and needed to prove that I still warranted a job there. I WAS PISSED, but went along with it, because I needed the job, and actually liked the place. Little did I know, but I had made an enemy with one of the managers from that night. Evidently, I was not the only one now on probation.

Incident #2

A few days later, things appeared back to normal. We set up for dinner, and I was really looking forward to it as I was in a primo section at the back where the booths were. Seating was starting to take place around me as I waited for my first table. The sections on either side of me each had one table sat and were now receiving their second table. Okay, I thought, probably just an inept host at the stand, so I went up to the front to see what was going on. There, one of those lazy bastard managers had taken up position behind the host stand. I tactfully reminded him that my section was empty and the others were receiving their second. He assured me that I would be sat soon, real soon.

I went back and re-polished the wine glasses and silverware and waited for my first table. It was now an hour into dinner service. And the other sections were receiving their third table, while I waited for my first. This was now appearing to be deliberate. I headed to the GM's office and explained what was going on. He got on the intercom to the host desk and asked what was going on, and to seat me next. On the way back through the kitchen to get to my section, I was met by a red-faced manager who proceeded to yell at me at the top of his lungs. Everything had come to a stop in the kitchen, with me getting a lungful in front of everyone. I looked to the side and caught sight of the Kitchen Manager standing there shaking his head back and forth, silently telling me not to yell back. I took the abuse and headed back to my section, where I finally got my first table. A two-top in a booth that would sit eight. My section was sporadically sat while around me the other sections were full.

At the end of the night, I probably had half the sales of those around me. And, I now had a chip on my shoulder the size of a boulder. I continued on for a few days after that working long hours and starting to absolutely hate my job. It took every effort to show up, but I did. Until I could no longer look in the mirror and be proud of what I was doing. I had left a job that I really liked to come here where there was career-advancement opportunities and prestige. I put in my notice, and got other servers to cover all my shifts. I would work no more shifts at Capital Grille. And I would have to see just how badly burned that bridge was at the Country Club.

#98

2008-04-06T21:25:00.000-05:00

I've only erased one of my posts before and it was only a couple of weeks ago. The new John Adams series debuted on HBO and I was feeling patriotic, political, and pissed. 24 hours later, I re-considered what I had written. It was also a teeny, tiny bit judgemental against a certain party. I realized that this was not the forum for that. A touch deep for what is, and I hope will remain, fairly light-hearted entertainment for those who choose to waste their time reading this :)

What I will do instead, is to praise the HBO series "John Adams". I confess to being a bit prejudiced. John Adams was my Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Grandfather. A relative decades ago went to the trouble to get the family tree researched. Who'da thunk my family could be traced to so noble a name. We were all average, middle-class, hard-working, non-remarkable people. I think we would have gotten along.

I spent over two years in Massachusetts while travelling for Macaroni Grill. The area I was in was very close to Boston, so once when I had two days off in a row, I travelled down to Quincy and Braintree. Not a big deal, they were only 40 minutes away. My first stop was to Quincy, where John was born. I had only seen drawings from his day, so I had a hard time finding it. Silly me, it wasn't on a small road in the country anymore, but on a major street. His birthplace and his later home were right next to each other 20 feet off the street, but remarkably looking the same as the drawings. I signed up for the next tour and followed the guide from room to room gawking at everything. I was chided for dawdling behind the others, but I was just standing and absorbing and reveling being in the same space where my ancestor lived and breathed. I had read the book by David McCullough when it was released, but I was not prepared for the awe I felt that day.

Later, I travelled to Braintree where John Adams lived after returning from Europe and until his death. A beautiful and tasteful home called "Peacefield". Certainly nice for it's time, it showed his and Abigail's restraint for their position. It's certainly no Monticello, but is a stunning house, especially with the stone library across the garden. During the tour, I wanted to shout that I was a relative. I wanted to grab ahold of the celebrity that should incur. But I remained silent and solemn. How like my ancestor. He toiled for his country for a long, long time with little pay and was dumb-founded when he got little appreciation for it.

I'm so proud to be descended from him and John Quincy, and glad that he is now getting the respect that he deserves. He was not a pretty man, but he deserves to be on some currency more than some others who are. Read the book, and you'll agree.

And Abigail Adams would have eaten Hillary for lunch. Which is funny, because I voted for Hillary.

Did you know that John Adams was the only 'founding father' who never, ever owned a slave?

High-falutin' eatin'

2008-04-05T19:05:00.000-05:00

I was taking a big chance moving on to a new restaurant in town, no matter how swanky it was. I had been at the Country Club for 5-1/2 years and was ready to move one. Onward and upward as they all say. Life and my career were stagnant. I was ready to move on and see how far I could go.

Showing up the first day was interesting, to say the least. The majority of new hires were young, pretty, model types. Some had good experience, some were the best that Denny's could spit out. I felt old, and I was only 35. Oh, my God, I was 35 and competing against kids almost young enough to be my kid. What was I thinking?

Despite my obvious 'maturity', I was not the only one. There was one other trainee that I bonded with, and his name was Thor. He was one year younger than me, and we commiserated about the relative youth of our fellow waitstaff. We ended up becoming best friends, but that's another story, and another post in the future.

We were given two study books that first day. One was around 2 inches thick, the other about half that. The thick one was what they expected of their servers, the smaller a wine seminar on paper. And to think I thought that I knew it all. We spent eight hour days studying and practicing our 'spiel' until we were well versed on everything beef and vino.

The Capital Grille is a fancy schmancy steak house on the order of Morton's or Ruth's Chris, and there were many things I was unfamiliar with. I learned what a table crumber was. I learned what a 'spiel' was. I learned what side-work was. I learned what grapes were in Champagne and Bordeaux, and what 'Appellation' and 'terroir' meant. I learned what snooty Managers were.

After nearly a month of 40-hour-a-week training, we were ready to open. Little did we know what we were in for. We were trained in 2-week dry aging for the steaks. The proper way to serve Champagne (Don't pop it, you'll save the bubbles). How to be perky, but sophisticated at the same time. How to use those alligator clips on chains that dentists use to make an adult bib for the lobster eaters.

When we opened the doors, we were inundated with the pent-up demand for upscale dining in this up-and-coming suburb of Detroit. A lot of us were scheduled for four or five doubles a week, since they didn't get the amount of trainees they wanted, and quite a few flunked out of training. Some trainees couldn't put up all that was asked of them. Some had run-ins with the previously mentioned snooty managers. The GM was alright, but he was not a 'people person'. He mostly stayed in his cubby hole and used the intercom to deal with staff. Every day, we were packed from the time we opened the doors until the time we closed, which made getting a break all but impossible. If I had five minutes to grab a cigarette (illegally) by the dumpster, I was lucky. Money was great, more than I had ever made as a server, but I was soon becoming a non-fan of the management.

You can imagine in a high-class place, you have your share of people who are, shall we say, 'picky'. After all, an 8 oz Filet was around $28 dollars (12 years ago, even). Baked potato was $8 extra. Vegetable was extra. All Ala carte. Re-cooks on anything required you to ring it in again and find a manager to void or comp the item. And these managers were expert at being not found. I still think they had super-secret hidey holes made to remain inaccessible.

Then, head-waiters were appointed to collect money and sign off on side work. I was not chosen for this honor. The ones who were chosen turned out to be the most inept, but most brown-nosed. We closed at 10 on week-nights and 11 on Friday and Saturday, but by the time we got cashed out, it was usually 2 or 3am. 10am to 3am with no breaks was getting to me.

Things came to a head after a particularly difficult table one night. But that will be the next post.

How About a Quickie Post?

2008-03-30T22:07:00.000-05:00

I'll have an in-depth look at my time with the high-falutin' steak house up soon. Meanwhile, I'm enjoing this great weather we're getting right now. I love this time of the year here. High of 78, low in the 50's. Got some sun today partying with the neighbors by the pool, and then bbq'ing. My macaroni salad was a hit. Hopefully, I won't burn too bad.

This is my 96th post. I plan something special for my 100th. Stay tuned.

Lessons Learned

2008-03-27T19:56:00.000-05:00

It's 1996, and I've worked over five years at the Country Club. I'm still young(ish), still have dreams and aspirations. Things were all right at the club, but up-ward options were few, if not nil. The owner had five kids, three over 20, and two in high school. The GM very Italian, very Soprano-ish, had a son who worked under me, but was clearly being groomed to take over some day. The same son who I kicked off my schedule for being lazy (and who I think was stealing money).

I started reading the want ads more regularly to see what was out there. One Sunday, there was a large ad for a new addition to our restaurant community. Capital Grill was coming to the metro area. I'd heard of it before, that it was some high-class steak place. On a whim, I filled out an application, since the ad promised chances of upward mobility. I don't remember much about the interview, only that I was very enthused about the possibilities layed out for me.

It was about 2 weeks later when I got the call that I was accepted as a server. The bad news was that I had to start in 10 days. I wouldn't be able to give a full 2 week's notice. I dreaded telling the 'Godfather' the news, but was excited about the new adventure to come. I went home and typed out what I thought was a very pithy 'To Whom It May Concern' resignation letter. I went in an hour early the next day to give notice. The news was not taken well. A lot of conversation hovered around his protection of his son and the glass ceiling I was facing.

This was really the first time that I belatedly learned the importance of 'Burning Bridges'. I would soon learn to regret leaving the relative sanity and comfort of a job I'd held for five years. My predecessor, when passing on the job, had given me a bit of a warning that I had glossed over at the time, some four years earlier. It had something to do with 'Quality of Life', 'Don't stay here forever', and 'Get a life'. It took me over four years to figure it out.

And now I would start learning the 'Corporate' way of doing things. Alice's rabbit hole was pulling me in, but it was no tea party.

To Someone Who Really Needs To Read This...

2008-03-11T22:30:00.000-05:00

Hey.

From those who work for and with you, you need no know that first, you are liked. You are respected. Your people will do anything you ask. But, you need to ask.

You don't ask. You take too much on yourself. Your father expects a lot of you. But not for you to do it all. Just make sure it gets done. No one can do it all. And you don't need the stress of thinking that you need to.

You have talented people surrounding you. Take advantage. Give them tasks. And give them a timeline.

Your people want you to succeed. For, if you succeed, they succeed. If you prosper, maybe you'll pass it on.

You don't have to demand results, just let them know what results are expected. And praise them if they meet or beat those results. Or hold them responsible if they don't meet them.

One final word of wisdom: Praise in public, condemn in private. That works best.

Just For Kicks

2008-03-09T23:33:00.000-05:00

Thought I'd change the format a little for the Hell of it. Comments?

The 'Club Life' Has Caveats

2008-03-09T22:40:00.001-05:00

Working at the country club taught me a lot. Never, ever, work for a person you would hate to wait on as a server. And if they have multiple children who like to put their nose into everything, even worse. And if they've had a General Manager who would fit right in to the Sopranos way of life, even more so.

This was a country club that was founded in 1925, basically a converted cow pasture. Some well-known golfsman was hired to improve it in the early 30's and it became a popular location. It even hosted the Western Open a few years, where a man named Walter Hagen made his name. After the Depression, with no tournaments to host, it fell into disrepair. Fast forward 4 decades, and an entrepreneur with a few dollars in his pocket saw an opportunity. It was a large barn and an over-grown course waiting for some lovin'.

The big, fat owner (we'll call him Bb, for Beelzebub), decided there should be more than one expensive country club in Metro Detroit. He bought adjoining land for an additional 18 holes, expanded the barn to include a banquet hall, Men's Grill, and fancy locker rooms, and ran with it. One of his off-spring went to school for construction, one for foreign relations, and the other just ran all the heavy equipment. The two younger didn't show any proclivity for country club running, so one played college and some pro hockey, and the youngest tried her luck at golf, to no good result.

Meanwhile, I was running the Men's Grill as the smooth-running, money making machine it always was. Only, I added a cigar case, special dinners, and high-end Scotches to the mix, all to universal praise. My only problem was a slacker server that I inherited. The GM's son. Truly an abysmal server, liked only by those kissing the GM's pucker. I made the mistake of taking him off of my Men's Grill Schedule and putting him on the Mixed Grill Schedule. The resultant ass-reaming I received could be heard for miles. And was the beginning of the end. For 'slacker' was being groomed for the GM-ship. Stupid me, I thought that I might have a chance, since I ran a large portion of the club. The ladies started visiting the patio area we had, before they would have been ignored. I made my 'guys' go to the patio and serve them. Why should the girls in the Mixed Grill get all the business?

Soon, the patio outside the Men's Grill became the hot spot for all the wives (It was right next to the 18th green). We made all the fru-fru drinks that they wanted. Better for me to get the grat than those dip-sticks in the Mixed Grill. Well, that didn't go over well either. No one wanted to work in the Mixed Grill because the women were all coming down to the Men's Grill for service and great food. Not my problem.

When I got in trouble for getting the GM's son out of the Men's Grill, I kinda realized that I had reached a plateau there that would never rise. And at the time, I was a hungry guy. I wanted to rule the world, not just the Men's Grill. I had waited on sports stars and celebrities, and I was hungry for more. It just wasn't going to happen here. My last name did not end in a vowel, so I would not move up any further than Men's Grill Manager. Now I knew why my predecessor left after many years. At the time, I couldn't imagine why he would leave this 'cush' job. Yeah, it's 'cush' if you can stand being sub-servient for the rest of your life.

There was an ad in the paper for a high-falutin' concept arriving in the metro Detroit area. Capital Grill was arriving to the high-money, high-falutin', up-scale area known as the Somerset Collection in Troy, Michigan. The ad emphasized upward-growth and opportunity. It was a shining beacon to someone with no up-ward mobility.

And so I applied. And I was hired. And that's the next chapter in the saga.

Club Life

2008-03-02T21:51:00.000-06:00

Talk about a different world. I'd gone from fried cheese appetizers and flannel shirts to shrimp cocktail and colorful golf attire. The difference between middle class, blue-dollar, 'normal-ness' and popped-collar, upper class executives was a culture shift that I enjoyed. This was an exclusive, antique-laden, Gothic hulk of a country club that always registered in the top 100 in the U.S. At least the golf course did. The owner would spend $25k to ship over an antique bar from England, and wouldn't let me set out $10 worth of cheese and crackers for the members. Hard to believe people would shell out $25 grand for initiation fees (five years later it was $50) and $2500 a month minimums (the minimum you must spend each month on food and liquor).

When I first started there, it was as a server in the 'Men's Grill'. The job payed pretty well, around $3.50/hr. and an automatic 15% on every check, called a 'chit'. The more you sold, the more you made, automatically. And there was a line for extra grat on every chit. When you get autograt, it sure teaches you to up-sell. Although the Men's Grill menu had primarily burgers and sandwiches, it was nothing for us to offer to run up to the Mixed Grill for pricey steaks and seafood for the big spenders. Generous members would often remember us in the extra grat slot for the long trek we would make for them and their guests. And we had some pretty important guests.

My favorite was serving Spanky McFarland (you younger ones might need to Google this one) a gin and tonic. Many of the Detroit pro athletes were members, but they can usually be included in the list of "Rich Dip shits who don't know how to tip", or "Morons who snap their fingers at you". Thank God for that autograt.

Things went well, and my second year there the Men's Grill manager left for a Monday thru Friday 'normal' job. I was made the new manager and had a lot to prove. The original had been there for seven years, and the regular, long-term members looked at me with wary eyes. My work was cut out for me.

Your Emergency Just May Not Be Mine....

2008-02-21T21:33:00.000-06:00

My last two days have been way more stressful than they needed to be, bitch. SOME PEOPLE just don't realize how unreasonable they are. Just because you are the customer doesn't mean I can perform miracles for you at the snap of fingers. I'll preface this by saying that I DO NOT promise things that are unattainable. "Under promise, over perform" has usually been a good practice for happy customers. SOME PEOPLE obviously didn't get the memo.

Your Assistant Manager (who is really nice, and I totally feel sorry for her) called early last week for a quote on an underbar 3-compartment sink. I had one available, and gave her a more-than-decent price. She pooh-poohed the price, saying she had another source at a better price, so nix on that purchase. Oh well. Two days later, we sold it to another restaurant. Two hours after that, your AM called to say you would 'take it off our hands after all'. So sorry, we will now have to special order that for you. It 'should' be in next week around Thursday.

Cut to Tuesday:

After checking on the purchase order with the manufacturer, it seems they are a bit behind. Instead of a 2/17 ship date, it now looks like maybe a ship date of 2/21. Being the up-right person I am, I called to say, "Gee, I'm sorry, it looks like your sink may not arrive by Thursday". [You would have thought that I'd reneged on a lotto ticket or something by the response I got.]

You: "That is totally unacceptable. You said we'd have the sink by Thursday."

Me: "No ma'am, I said our orders to that manufacturer usually arrive in one week, which would put it around Thursday. We had that sink in stock last week, but your AM cancelled the order because she could get it cheaper somewhere else. Then two days later, she 'uncancelled' the order after said sink was sold to someone else (for more money than I quoted you!). I'm sorry you will have to wait a few more days.

You: "So, are we going to get a discount for having to wait for the sink?"

Me: "No ma'am, I'm sorry, as I said before, when the order was originally given, I had one in stock, which was turned down. And I never promised that you would have the special-ordered sink by Thursday, only that a normal delivery from the manufacturer would arrive 'around' Thursday. I only promised that we would do what we could do."

You: {Nothing, since you now have your AM talking with me again after I CALLED YOU OUT!}

And, I could hear you in the background coaching the AM on what to say. Classy!

I've worked with too many of 'you people'. I've waited on way too many of 'you people'. I was a manager when 'you people' complained for no rational reason. I wasn't born yesterday. Look at all the gray hairs I have. I ain't a push-over, no 'mo.

I told our owner and his wife what was going on in case she should call and complain. Their reply? "Too bad for her".

I appreciated my bosses a bit more after that.

A Serious Shortage of Boobage

2008-02-14T19:42:00.000-06:00

While working at the sports bar/restaurant/bowling alley (we'll call it 'Zips'), I became pretty good friends with the manager, Kristin. Kristin was a pretty together gal, good-looks, friendly, and smart. Her only shortcoming was her Neanderthal fiance. Many times we would close the place and when everyone else was gone, we would practice mixing new drinks on each other (Not literally 'on' each other). We'd sit at the bar, drink, and talk, and generally wind down and have a good time until we had to leave. Those are some of the good times I miss about the industry (back in the day when it was okay to drink on the house and socialize with management).

The seasons rolled around to very early spring and Kristin announced that she was leaving to go work at the Country Club (which her uncle owned) just north of town as the Dining Room Manager. And she wanted me to go with her. I had worked for Zip's for almost a year and had finally gained the highly-coveted day-time bartender role. Only to lose it to the owner's mistress. Or, more correctly, to her tits. I couldn't argue too much, since most of the lunch patrons were assembly-line guys who would rather see her low-cut tank tops than my shapely legs behind the bar. No matter that she thought Rob Roy was the guy throwing darts across the room, or her register was continually $20-$50 short each shift. Hey, she had HEALTHY boobage. My exile back to the dining room was not mourned by the regulars, but was a sharp knife in the back to my ego. The writing was on the wall, and it was not love letters to me.

While the Country Club was ramping up, I cut my hours at Zip's as the weather improved, until I was full-time at the Club. Bye-bye shorts and polos, hello tux shirts and bow ties. Now, this was a different world. And I felt strangely at home.

Side-note: Spell check had no problems with the word 'boobage'. Interesting.

To Normality and Back Again

2008-02-09T13:43:00.000-06:00

Michigan, 1986. After serving in the Air Force for five years, it was back to the real world. I was a world traveller in the service, and the idea of going back to restaurant work wasn't at the top of my wish-list. I had taken a few classes in drafting and engineering (and philosophy for some reason LOL) while enlisted, and decided if I was going to live in the Motorcity area, that's the career I should follow. A few classes in body and lay-out and I was on my way.

You start out at the bottom in that business, a position called Detailing. The lay-out person draws a larger assembly, labels all the peices, and hands this off to the detailer. The detailer then draws individual parts that are sent to the manufacturers to bid on. If this sounds rather boring, believe me, it is. You sit at a large drafting table for 8 to 12 hours a day, in a cavernous room filled with other large drafting tables. You can often tell how long someone has been in the biz by how big their elbow callouses are, like rings on a tree. And I felt like a tree, rooted in a boring business.

Within a couple years, I was now a lay-out person, and was working for a company that designed welding fixtures. My hourly wage was now up to $17/hr (in 1989 that was huge) and would be going up to around $25/hr after I finished a computer drafting course I was taking at night. Things were looking up except for one thing. I WAS F-ING BORED!

I made the bold decision to stop my classes, and to use the time to work part-time as a waiter at a local sports bar/restaurant/bowling alley. God help me, I enjoyed it immensely. I started working more hours at the restaurant and calling out sick more often at the drafting job. I was hooked again, and went full-time, full-bore back to the drama, insanity, and adrenaline the service industry offers.

Next up: a touch of class is in order.

Semi-Celebrity Deli Shananigans

2008-02-05T21:35:00.000-06:00

So, I start this new job at a new deli. A step up from fast-food, whoo-hoo! After working at chain fast-food, I thought I had it all worked out, I knew it all now. Boy, was I a naive 19-year-old.

First, the owner (or namesake, whatever). I won't give a name, but he hosted a local talk-show, a poor-man's Regis Philbin in the early days (this is the armpit of Ohio). A legend in his own mind. Luckily, he had very little to do with the day-to-day operations of the place. In one year, I see him maybe 6 times. Thank God, I thought we might have to widen the doorways to fit his inflated, combed-over head.

Next, the real bucks behind it. Italian ancestry. Lots of connections. A daughter who married a dufus and had a kid. Dufus needs a job. Instant General Manager. Who hires me.

Mix in a staff who are operating on a mixture of amphetamines, pot, caffeine, hormones, and apathy. I started out loving working there. Parties after work. Good food while we worked. And we had great food. Huge Toledo-made corned beef and pastrami sandwiches on sensational rye and pumpernickel artisanal bread. Piled high subs. My mom's recipe macaroni and potato salad. Made from scratch cole slaw. Scrumptious fruit salad.

Too bad our audience wasn't with-it enough to support that kind of enterprise. In the process I was promoted to Assistant Manager and basically ran it. Unfortunately, the owners thought the name recognition was enough and they didn't need to advertise. And the venture slowly dwindled to nothingness.

I was the first to go, since the owners thought that they'd make the son-in-law do some work finally. I applied for unemployment and was turned down. They blackmailed a girl who was having an affair with the son-in-law to say that I was late every day. She was married, with 2 children, and one of my best friends (I never knew she was boinking the dork), and she tearfully admitted it all to me one day after a game of cards.

I tried moving on, but there were no jobs to be had in North-west Ohio in 1980, so I took what I could get. I enlisted in the United States Air Force. Best job I ever had. Until many of my best friends started getting investigated for 'homosexual tendencies'. I was never questioned, but I saw the writing on the wall, and left with my Honorable Discharge in 1986. And a move to Michigan.

Yeah, That'll Work

2008-01-28T21:19:00.000-06:00

Even though I was a fresh-faced 19-year-old, I felt I was a hardened and experienced restaurant veteran by the time I moved to Ohio in late 1979. I was as down-trodden as a Michael Vick reject, battle-scarred, tail between my legs, but ready to use my wits and resources to rise back to the top. Ready to show what I could really accomplish away from the dreaded chain fast-food restaurant. And ready to do it at a privately owned establishment.

Shortly after arriving in this rust-belt town, there was an ad in the paper for a deli worker in a new, exciting concept. An 'important' local TV celeb was starting his own chain of delicatessens. It would have TV references, with cutesy names for the sandwiches and 'Hollywood' lights around the mirrors, and, well, you get the idea. A big ego, with the backing of a local "family man" (nudge,nudge,wink,wink). Always a good idea. Even better, put the son-in-law in charge. What could be better to re-establish myself?

Moving Up the Food Chain (Kinda)

2008-01-26T21:43:00.000-06:00

Twelve hours after graduating high school in Mississippi, I hit the road. There was nothing anchoring me there. And it was the easiest way to escape my high school girlfriend. Yeah, I'm bad, but this is Mississippi remember. The only gays were hairdressers and florists. That I knew of. I'm sure there were a few Broke-back moments happening. They revealed themselves at risk of life and limb. The KKK was still very much active. My high school was 50/50 white/black and we were not allowed to have a prom. Blacks and whites might mingle or something.

I went to live with my dad and step-mother (who I adore) in South Carolina. Still in the South, but quite a few rungs up the evolutionary ladder from the sticks of Mi'sippi. There was quite a lot to get used to. They actually sold alcohol here, unlike the dry county I came from. (Actually the same small town Oprah escaped from. She's done a little better than me, though.) There were discos where you could drink and dance. I was a small town boy in a big (well, biggish) city. And I needed a job. Gas was like 75 cents a gallon, cigarettes were like a buck, and T.J.Swann wine was all of $1.50 a jug.

I first started in the shop area of the manufacturing company my dad was an engineer at. My job was in what was called the de-burr section, where everyone started out. That's where all the metal parts that came in had to have all the sharp parts taken off. Even with thick leather gloves, my hands were always sore from metal shavings getting embedded. Something had to change, and I had all that restaurant experience under my belt.

I applied at a new Burger King in a wealthy suburb and was hired on the spot. For breakfast cook at O'dark thirty every morning. I loved everything about it except the early hour. This was the first time I had ever had a female boss, but June was the best. She knew what she was doing, she was cool, and she drove a kick-ass black Grand Prix SJ. I drove a Mustang II Mach I MPG with a four banger and four on the floor. I wanted to be June; smart, good-looking, suave, and master of the universe. I worked my ass off for her and we got along swimmingly.

After mastering the art of cooking eggs in a metal ring, and then throwing together Whoppers in 5 seconds (special orders did upset us!), I was invited to move up in Whopper-World. And now that I was management, I was invited to party with the management, and a whole new world opened up. Anyone who has worked for a franchisee with a lot of branches knows that it's easy to become friends with managers from other stores. You run low on buns and get on the phone to your nearest brother-store. You soon develop relationships. It soon became the usual routine to call the other branches half an hour before close to see who was working and where the party was that night. I grew up fast. I was having a blast. And I thought I was hot shit.

I had moved to a hip apartment complex, I installed a new-fangled cassette player in my car, and I was living the high life (literally). Then I got transferred to the worst store in town. It was around for a long time and had been run into the ground. The broiler broke down every other day. My new GM was a pretty-boy asshole (although he drove a cool car too, a Fiat X1/9 Targa. It seems when you become a GM, you MUST drive a cool car). Suddenly, things weren't so much fun anymore.

Eventually, my dad moved to Ohio, and I became frustrated with my job. Another clean break seemed the best, although I had made many good friends there. I soon followed my dad to Ohio and started a new adventure, this time with a privately owned restaurant. And a new post to write.

The Birth of a Restaurant Addict...

2008-01-12T19:41:00.000-06:00

I was 14, with no Hilton family fortune to ensure my future, let alone the next tank of gas for my moped (25 cents a fill-up in those days). My dad had an O.K. job, my mom spent money like he was C.E.O. of Tiffany's. And a new chain hamburger joint, Jack's, had opened in town, a major happening in this sleepy burg of 5,000 in the middle of Mississippi No-Where-Land. Way before there was a Wal-Mart, Walgreens, or Starbucks on every corner. Not even a McDonald's for 60 miles. Imagine!

Back then, the law said you could work at 14 in Mississippi. No rules about limited hours or how late you could work. Managers had free reign about how they could schedule the school-help. At first it started out part-time, maybe 3 shifts of 4-5 hours. Further on, with more experience and regular turn-over, it turned into more full-time and closing shifts. It soon became a 40+ hour a week job for a 15-year-old. I still don't know how I kept a B average through all of this.

I started dating my high school sweetheart during this time. (I was young, inexperienced, and did I say this was in Mississippi?) She was a cashier and I was a cook (mostly, but toward the end I did 50/50 FOH/BOH). This was, way before I knew I was gay, obviously. Anyway, we were a formidable team, and basically ran the place for a couple years. Our high school yearbook forecasted us getting married and starting our own restaurant in the future. Yeah, they were a little off.

It was way, way too many hours for a high-schooler to be working. That, and the long distance I lived from work, made it impossible to continue and I quit starting my senior year. I really didn't want to lose that paycheck, since my mom, who I lived with, wasn't a real big provider.

I really grew up and learned a lot in that first job. My first romance, my first taste of Independence, my initial contact with "customers", my first doobie in a car out back at the Christmas party.

I also learned the following:

Even back then, customers are NOT always right

Managers being friends with employees is not a good thing.

Politics at work means more than hard work. This lesson has followed me for almost 34 years now. Study it, learn from it. If I had, I may have taken a different route in life.

School kids should not work more than say, 20 hours a week. And maybe not at all during the week.

I was terribly addicted to the adrenaline rush of the Restaurant Biz, which would follow me on my move to South Carolina after graduation, and on to my second Restaurant Job, the mighty Burger King!

A Face From the Past

2008-01-06T22:32:00.000-06:00

I spent part of my day today, driving around, seeing what the rental situation is in my area. I've got less that two months to decide if I want to stay in my present abode. It's not a bad place, but I think I can do better for the money.

While driving, I happened to drive through the neighborhood where my ex-Kitchen Manager lives. I hadn't been there before, was just following For Rent signs. Turning a corner I caught sight of his truck, and a second later, he was raising his garage door.

Should I honk? Should I pull over? I wanted to stop and talk, but I had things to do (lame excuse). Thing is, I didn't know what to say. I left the job at 3 in the morning and didn't say good-bye to anyone. He knows the reasons I left, and we've chatted a few times on the phone when he called in an order for smallwares or for service. The last time we talked he said, "It's a shame you left, we could have accomplished a lot."

He was a good Kitchen Manager and we worked well together. I just couldn't work there anymore. And I'm sure he understands. But, still.

Notes on a Plane (2003 version)

2008-01-04T20:31:00.000-06:00

It was very late October, 2003. I lived in Massachusetts... far, far away from family, save my Aunt/Sister Pat. My grandmother was in a nursing home in Mississippi and not the sharpest, mentally. I had just visited some months earlier, and was shocked to see her like that for the first time. Now it was her physical health that was faltering. "Be prepared", came the phone calls at work.

My Grandmother was the biggest influence in my life. Born and raised in the South to parents of little means, she continually yearned to a better station in life, and dragged everyone along. Which meant dragging a husband and two kids (one my dad) 1200 miles north to the Rust Belt and jobs. Then dragging her sisters and brothers and associated families, also. It really was for the best. Or my little egg would have wound up down a sewer somewhere.

The call came while I was getting ready for work. It's time to catch a plane and head South again. Riding in that plane, I decided I would speak her eulogy. And with the help of some cocktails at 20,000ft, I wrote the best eulogy ever written. It put my grandmother in her true light, vices and all. The flight attendants must have thought I was bipolar, alternating from tears to chuckles as I was.

Here, copied from the original I found a little while ago, is what I wrote on that bittersweet flight:

We've all come here today to pay our respects to a remarkable lady. O*** was a woman who didn't take kindly to getting older. I've always called her O***, because she didn't care for the word "Grandmother" early on. I spent much time with a pair of tweezers, pulling gray hairs while she put on her make-up. But she did get older, and with a great deal of grace and charm. She's what I imagined Scarlett O'Hara would have become, with a little Endora and a smidgen of Mrs. Cleaver.

She tought me how to shop, how to sew, and how to curse at ignorant drivers. She was the best at creating dramatic outfits for not much money. She could charm any sales clerk or reduce one to tears just as easily. She called me handsome when I was a fat 12-year old. She always kept the world's worst candy, circus peanuts, until finally getting something better, those individual Mounds bars, which probably helped me become a fat 12-year old. She probably could have given Shirley Muldowney a run for her money, but always got us safely to Panama City and back.

She kept the makers of Vienna sausages, buttermilk, and Sanka afloat long past their usefulness, but I actually saw her try escargot and like it (until I told her what it was). She had a knack for banana pudding, buscuits, and brandy balls, but I never saw a recipe. Red was her favorite color, and she wore it better than anyone I've ever known. It sure did match her personality.

She was an icon, our Matriarch, and no one could ask for a better Grandmother.

[When I finished, there were as many smiles as there were tears. And that's how she would have liked it.]

[And that's one reason why the Holidays aren't as Happy as they used to be. And why I haven't posted in a while. But I'm back, yall. (God, that sounds so Brittney)]

I'm a Cooking Machine...Look Out Emeril

2007-12-23T22:24:00.000-06:00

The one way that's always worked for me to get in the Christmas Spirit was to bake and cook. That's what I accomplished today, well, that and demolishing 2 bottles of a great, cheap Oregon Pinot Noir.

I took it upon myself to help Step-Mom (SM) a bit more this year. Last year was my first Christmas in Pensacola, was living with someone else's kitchen, and was the Sous Chef, Busser, Banquet Captain, Setter-Upper type person.

This year is different. I've got my own place, all my possessions are in one place, for the first time since '03. Cookie sheets, stainless-steel measuring spoons, all the accoutrements to follow through on any of 100's of recipes that have been waiting, patiently.

First, I made Sharp Cheddar Cookies from BLOGHUNGRY, http://bloghungry.typepad.com/blog/. They turned out great, should be great as a snack tomorrow.

Then, I put on my cranberry sauce. I couldn't find my old recipe I used 5 years ago, so I combined a few, and worked them in with my memories (shaky at best). I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but may have to add in some gelatin tomorrow.

After that, on to Grandma Hazel's Cookie/Candy. It was much drier tonight, but not quite what it would be in Michigan. I guess that's why I've only seen them way up North.

Through in some laundry, chattin' on the phone to my aunt/sisters, and doing some cleaning, and it's been a fairly productive Sunday.

Tomorrow should be a short day, traditionally we close at noon on Christmas Eve. Then, I can make Banana Pudding for the second time in 45 days. yummy, but a pain in the derrierre.

Happy Holidays to All!

Holiday Cheer

2007-12-22T19:40:00.000-06:00

When I first started with this company, I was regaled with how the owners were so 'giving' and how they treated us so well during the holidays. I was giddy with anticipation, as today was our holiday party.

In years past, the party was given at the swankiest restaurant in town. White tablecloth, crumbers at the ready, vintage wine, all the best.

This year, lunch at Carrabas. Beer and wine was included, as long as you drug your own ass up to the bar. And the bartender was not the most jolly of fellows. Nor the fastest of pourers. And the Shiraz was Yellowtail, all of $10 per 1.5 liter at your nearest Wally-world. (I'm not a wine-snob, but really)

We all started out with Caesar salads, over-dressed and a bit soggy, but on nicely chilled plates.

My steak was done just right, medium-rare, but those around me were less than thrilled. Quite ordinary for a banquet type setting.

Better yet, we were all awaiting the envelopes that were distributed after the heart-filled speech given by our Leader. Interjected with Bible quotes.

I opened the envelope later after leaving. It would be gauche to open it up amidst the masses.

$100. Thanks, now I can afford 2/3rds of one tire of the four that I need to replace after running all over two counties to drum up business for you.

I'm underwhelmed, to say the least.

Google Surprises.

2007-12-14T23:01:00.000-06:00

Have any of you googled yourself before? It's a very enlightening thing. For shits-and-giggles, I did. The third item states in big letters:

Ex-Restaurant Manager Charged in Sexual Abuse...

I may have to change my chosen name.

I swear that I've never been to Salt Lake City. Really. Cross my heart.

Maybe I should be Former Restaurant Manager?

The Secret Recipe...Shhhh...Don't Tell Anyone.

2007-12-14T21:33:00.000-06:00

This recipe was handed down for generations. I might get kicked out of the family for divulging it, but screw it, I'm the only one with the balls to still make it. It's not easy, even though it only has 5 ingredients. It's all in the execution.

Grandma Hazel's Cookie/Candy

1 egg white
1 cup light brown sugar (must be fresh or you have to sift it [pain in the ass])
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups pecans (buy the halves and manually break up into 4 or six pieces. Save the prettiest
ones [approx. 24] to put on top of cookies)

Preheat oven to 250 degrees.

In a clean mixing bowl, beat egg white with mixer until stiff peaks form. Add brown sugar a little at a time, until thoroughly blended. Add vanilla and salt until well integrated. Mix should still be pretty stiff. Back away from the mixer. Have some egg-nog. Add in broken pecan pieces until all are well coated.

On ungreased cookie sheets, drop mixture by teaspoons. Place one pretty pecan half on each cookie, making sure it has contact with brown sugar mixture, but don't press too hard.

Bake for 30 minutes (baking time may vary, blah, blah, blah, see helpful pointers below). Set cookie sheets aside to cool completely. After 10 - 15 minutes cookies should pop right off the pans.

Tips for successful cookies:

If you live in Florida, do not make these on a humid day. You want them to be crunchy.
Moisture = no crunchy. Those up North should not have a problem this time of year. Do
not refrigerate, the humidity in the fridge will make them dissolve. Keep in a cool, dry
place for up to a week.

This recipe can be doubled, but do not triple or quadruple it. These take a long time to cook,
so you don't want this to sit for a long time. The brown sugar tends to re-crystalize after
a while.

Do a trial run first with a 1x batch. If the cookies are chewy in the middle, add 5 - 10 minutes
cooking time (they will still be yummy, but when they are that perfect crunchiness, they
are sublime). They should almost shatter when you take the first bite.

The best rule is to have 4 cookie sheets. While the first two are cooling, the other two can be
baking. If you double the recipe, you will have to scrub the pans before using again, for
they leave a deposit after popping them off.

I give these as Christmas presents to co-workers and others in those foldable boxes you can
buy. Place a paper towel in the bottom for cushioning and they should be fine. The most
successful present I ever gave was to my aunt. I bought an antique glass Hoosier jar and
filled it with these cookies. She thought I had stolen Grandma Hazel's cookie jar. Happy
tears ensued.

These go excellent with a hot cappuccino or latte while watching your favorite Christmas cartoon (The Grinch being my favorite. The original. Not Jim Carrey's over-acted version). Good luck and if you make them, let me know how it goes!

Cookies and Memories

2007-12-09T19:30:00.000-06:00

My earliest memories of the holiday season regard going to my great-grandmother's house. It was usually a 2 or 3 car processional, since my mom was the oldest of 7. I remember being on a lot of laps. Yes, this was way before laws regarding child retention in cars, Britney notwithstanding.

The drive up was not long, approximately 90 minutes or so. But we were always squirming in our seat (and laps), awaiting the festivities to come. Grandma's house had much to recommend.

First, was pulling into the quaint old town my great-grandma lived in, Camden, Michigan. Clean, well-manicured, turn-of-the-century houses line the streets. No 'bad side of town' to be had. There was a nifty soda shop/5 and dime, a small department store, a furniture store, and other small businesses at the main cross-street. Nobody does the holidays like small towns in the Midwest, and we always oohed and ahhed at the decorations in the windows.

Next was pulling up in front of my great-grandma's house, just off the downtown area. A quaint (there's that word again) stick house with a large porch and lots of gingerbread detailing, always painted a pristine white. We'd stand in line, usually tallest to shortest, and give Grandma Hazel a tight hug, usually commenting how we were catching up to her petite stature.

After the greet was what we were all waiting for. Who cares about the presents? The tree had no relevance to us yet. Our main object of affection was the back pantry and the Hoosier cabinet stationed there. For inside were the cookie jars of the Gods. No one, and I repeat no one, could make cookies like my Grandma Hazel. There were usually at least 3 large glass jars with tin lids. Each held a different variety, all delicious, my favorite being the Brown Sugar - Pecan delicacies referred to as Grandma Hazel's Cookie/Candy. It was like Amazing Race getting to the cookie jars, pushing, elbowing, even though there were enough for everyone, and then some.

After the great sugar massacre, all us kids were shussed outside to play, while the grown-ups got dinner together and chit-chatted. We had plenty to keep us busy. There was the old-fashioned water pump in the backyard that endlessly fascinated us. Unless it was frozen solid. From there, we'd hit up the veterinarian across the street to say 'hi' and see if he had any cute dogs in. If he was not there, we'd go for the main object of our adventures, the abandoned school down the street.

It was a neat old school, abandoned when small-town schools fell prey to larger, incorporated school districts. We usually found a way inside (breaking and entering was a foreign concept to us back then), and would explore the dusty rooms, keeping us occupied until an older relative was sent to fetch us.

All in all, good times. All good memories, as if nothing bad ever happened. The only bad thing I can remember is how long my grandma would take to unwrap her presents. Methodically and pain-stakingly unsticking each piece of tape, so as not to tear any of the beautiful wrapping paper. Then folding each piece as if it were the finest silk. It must have come from depression days, but we did not have the patience she had. And we had to wait for her to open each present before we could open another one. Faster, Grandma, faster!

All of this comes flooding back because I made a practice batch of my Grandma Hazel's famous cookie/candy. I'm the only one left who still makes them because they are such a pain in the ass. But, oh, so worth it. This week, I'll post this super secret recipe. Tune in, you won't be disappointed.

By the way, the cookies only turned out so-so. It was way too humid today. And 75 degrees. Eat your heart out, Northerners!

Sweet, Sweet Justice

2007-12-06T20:03:00.000-06:00

With age comes the realisation that risk comes with repercussions. I've had my sports car moments, those nightclub bacchanals, challenging normal and safe and sane. Things have changed since then. Been there and done that, according to the title of this little blog.

Years in the restaurant biz have taught me patience, the up-side of orderliness, how rules and laws lead to structure.

Which is why this morning's commute made my day, nay my week.

I'll preface this by saying that I hate people who weave in and out, and out and in, of traffic to gain 10 extra feet of asphalt. Eons ago, I was one of those who could not abide that traffic abomination who left an extra car length between them and the car ahead. Those people obviously had too much time on their hands! Get out of my way! I have places to be and people to see!

Now, I take solitude knowing that if I stay in one lane, and one lane only, I will end up in the same place at the same time as those who weave in and out wantonly. I giggle to myself when I pull up to a stoplight at the same time as one who I've observed trying to be a speed-demon.

And why this morning was so gleefully rewarding.

An impatient woman made her presence know from the time I entered traffic this morning commute. She was in a shiny new red Toyota RAV4, and was noticeable changing lanes many times amongst the orderly bumper-to-bumper traffic. But she never seemed to gain any ground, always staying within sight, no matter how many times she cut in and out. I've always remarked to myself that there ought to be a law limiting how many lane changes someone should be allowed each mile travelled. (I know I sound like an old fogey, but really, in slow-moving, orderly traffic, what's the use?)

The big bottle-neck I face each morning is approaching Gulf Breeze High School. Four lanes turn into three with people trying to merge from one side to the other for various reasons. The speed changes from 45 to 35, and then to 20 in the school zone. The far left lane often gets backed up with those needing to turn into the school. Just past the turn lane, it turns into a long expanse of open lane, beckoning those who are patience-challenged. And the perfect place for a cop with a laser gun.

Miss red RAV4 couldn't pass up the opportunity to swerve to the left and zoom past all of us lemmings in the middle lane. I was doing my usual 24 in the 20mph school zone, and she left me in her dust.

And there was Gulf Breeze's finest, where he should have been. One slammed door, two chirping tires, many swirling lights, and one fist pumped in approval signalled someone finally getting her due.

I hope I wasn't the only one celebrating. Speeding in a school zone has grave consequences at worst. I'm hoping the hit to Miss Rav4's pocketbook will make her think twice about why she's in such a damn hurry.

What Can You Say....

2007-12-04T22:51:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while, we happen upon someone who touches our emotions in a way we don't expect strangers to do. A seemingly normal woman, 70ish, 80ish, entered my store looking over assorted cooking paraphernalia.

"Hi, how are you? What can I help you with today?"

"Well, I'm looking for a coffee cup that's not too heavy. Not one of those porcelain ones. Those get too heavy when you add coffee."

"Okay, so you're looking for maybe a plastic or melamine cup?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Right this way, we have a small selection of those, not too many restaurants request that, but we have some that we sell by the each. Here we are, but I'm afraid these we have are not the most fashionable of colors."

"Oh, The colors don't matter much, as long as they're not too heavy."

By now, I've noticed the not-quite-straight fingers signalling arthritic digits. I've also noticed a slight down-trodden attitude from this amiable, but sullen woman. Wanting to fill the silence that has intruded, I probe for a talking point.

"Have you visited our store before?"

"Oh yes, I've been here 3 or 4 times before with my late husband. He absolutely loved to cook. It was his passion. He could shop for pots and pans for hours, but not me. This was his world, and I only came because he loved it so."

"So he was the cook in the family?"

"Definately, I hardly boiled water, but he spent many hours cooking for us and for friends and family. I have so many big pots and pans, I don't know what to do with them. I don't use them, and I can't handle them very well either."

At this point, she was getting semi-emotional, which was getting me big time. It was obviously a fairly recent loss, but she remained fairly composed. I blathered on a bit about how I love to cook, and how many pans I have also, blah..blah...blah. What I wanted to do was to hug this poor woman who was missing her late husband so much. The store had no pull for her beyond it's magnetic pull for her deceased spouse.

She was looking over these salmon-colored melamine coffee cups we had that had probably been there since Madonna was a virgin. They had a riduculously high price on them, and she said that they were more than she had planned on. She probably didn't need them, but wanted something from the place her husband felt so at home.

"Let me look these up on the computer. I can probably get you a better price than that, they look like we've had them awhile." (Probably from when I still had a full head of hair)

She started talking more about her late husband, how much he loved to cook, and how she never got that involved with that aspect of his life. I stood there, trying to respond to her small talk, trying not to get too involved, all to no avail.

Although I didn't ask, her loss must have been recent, and I felt the deepness of her emptiness. It really touched something within me, and I had a hard time not succombing to my feelings. She truly exuded that much pain and loneliness.

I only wish there will be someone who feels that way about me someday. And I wanted to tell her how lucky she truly was.

Honey, Sweetie, Darlin', Buddy

2007-11-25T14:38:00.000-06:00

Whether buying a six-pack of brew, a new pair of shoes, or lunch at the local eatery, I'm continuously astounded at the lack of manners shown by service personnel. Call me "old-school" if you will, but, until you know me better, my name is "Sir". This phenomenon is more prevalent here in the deep South, but the virus has spread wherever I go.

I remember a sweet, young thing named Allison in Massachusetts who was one of my best servers. Hard-working and with a permanent smile, she was a breeze to manage. I never had a complaint about her until one day a table of business men responded with silence when questioned about how their lunch was going. One man, obviously struggling with the decision, finally told me, "Allison is sweet, and a good server, but when we're out on a business lunch with our customers, we feel being addressed as 'Sweetie' is a bit unprofessional". I wholeheartedly agreed with him, apologized, and told him I'd take care of it without telling her where the criticism came from. At the first opportunity, I pulled her aside, and let her know that I had overheard her addressing patrons as 'Sweetie', and as calmly as possible told her to refrain from this too-personal addressing of guests. 'Gentlemen' was thrown out as a possible replacement, while also explaining the professionalism might also incur higher tips as well. With big puppy-dog eyes, she agreed. I made it a point to be within earshot more often as she was greeting tables. She had a hard time learning this new technique and was caught many times. Finally, tough love had to be employed. "Allison, unless you want to be waiting tables at Denny's (no affront to those of you who may work there, I swear!), do not address tables as sweetie, honey, or darlin".

She was never the same after that. I guess it threw her off her stride or something. But, there are some things that just won't fly if you're trying to project an upscale image. Like chewing gum, my personal bugaboo. I know it's my personal upbringing, but seeing someone chew gum with their mouth open makes me think of cows chewing their cud. In my opinion (as humble as that may be), it instantly takes 20 points off your I.Q. One of my current peers does it, and it drives me bat-shit. Whenever I would see one of my servers sneaking a chew, I would grab a bev-nap, walk up to them, wherever they were (not in front of their guests), hold it out, and say, "Spit it out!" (I would, however, do it in front of their peers, to prove a point). If they were worried about their breath, I would offer them a mint from my briefcase (my man-purse I would joke). I still kid my dad about my gum aversion, since he was the one who instilled that into my psyche.

I had lunch a couple of weeks ago at a Denny's. Everything went fine until my male server greeted me. A server young enough to be my son, if I had been so inclined. "Hi buddy, what can I get you?" Long pause. This is not my restaurant, keep calm. I went on with my order. He did a really good job with all the steps of service, but each visit was injected with the sobriquet 'buddy'. "More sweet tea, buddy?" "Would you like dessert today, buddy?" "I'll be right back with your check, buddy." At least 8 times I was addressed as 'buddy'. It's a wonder I could chew with my teeth clenched and tongue bitten like they were. What's worse, the table of women next to me were addressed as "ladies" throughout their meal. I know, I should have done him a favor and left him a nice little note, but I constantly remind myself that I'm not in the business anymore. People couldn't care less about my experience, and are not looking for tips on how to improve their service. I just left him 20% and left, wishing I had the balls to say something.

Twenty years ago, I would have replied to being called 'Sir' with the standard, "I'm not 'Sir', that's my dad". When I was a server, I was guilty of calling tables 'you guys', as in "Would you guys like to see the wine list?" Or the other stand-by was 'you folks'. With experience and age, one learns that tables like to be called 'ladies and gentlemen', whether they are or not. Now I like to be called 'Sir', and don't take it as an affront. I view it as respect.

And next time, I'm leaving a note if they don't.

Catching Up

2007-11-23T16:19:00.000-06:00

Sorry, everyone, for the lack of posts lately. Like many of you, this is a hectic time of year. I just returned Sunday from the frigid North, giving Thanks with relatives I haven't seen in way too long. Since so much has happened in the last two weeks, I'm going to write this in a non-associative, stream-of-consciousness type of word-play. In other words, I can't be bothered to write 20 posts, catagorized by time-lines, locations, etc. I can get lazy, don't ya know. So sue me.

*Flying has changed a lot since the last time I braved the wild blue yonder. The changes I've noticed:

People dress a bit nicer than before. Used to be, I was horrified at the amount of sweat-suits
everyone wore to travel in. Grannies, fatties, and everyone else were wearing togs that I
would not be seen in public (besides the gym) in. Public decency seems to have won out over
absolute comfort. I wonder where that came from?

The employees at check-in are alot nicer than they used to be. I was met by a friendly
woman at the Pensacola Airport Delta check-in (at 4:15am) who was so chipper. She
checked my reservation time, "Good job, you're here over 1-1/2 hours early!". She weighed
my bag, "50 pounds, good job!". I think she used to be a kindergarten teacher. Or she has
access to really good drugs. Pass them on, Alicia!

Flight attendants: No changes. Still as aloof and fake-smiley as before. Can you get any faker than you are? Is that part of your training? I know you're paid for shit, but you know that from the get-go, so what's up with that? You're a glorified waitress, for goodness sakes! And don't remind me about the "safety" shit and all that. Burger King cashiers deal with more emergencies that you do. Get over yourselves already.

*How do you respond when a relative (who looks like death warmed over), tells you that you haven't changed a bit? Do you say, "Thanks, you too!"? I usually say, "Thanks for lyin'!" and change the subject. Really, some people really let themselves go. It makes me feal good, but also bad at the same time.

*Flying in and out of Atlanta, the thing I noticed the most was how brown all the lawns were. No green anywhere. All the colorful leaves were gorgeous, but the lawns were dead. How sad.

*All my fears about flying out late on Sunday (on the worst-in-the-nation rated airline) were realized. Luckily, I was at the airport 3 hours early to see off my aunt, who was leaving earlier. Instead of a two-leg trip, it turned into a 3-leg. And a lot of rushing. And finger-crossing. But it all ended well, except for a flat tire on my waiting vehicle. Luckily, I keep an inflator in my car.

*I have one aunt who I'm closer to than any other relative. It's been five days absent and I miss her desperately. She's the one that will drive me to tears upon seperation. I just got off the phone with her, and I'm having a hard time right now. [small break]

*Being non-communicative with my mother makes it difficult to enjoy the holidays fully. Mother's Day is the worst, but Thanksgiving and Christmas are tough too.

*Having an uncle, who's four years younger than me, dying of cancer puts life in perspective. I have so much respect for him. He's got one son, two step-kids, four step-grankids, and one step-great grandkid.

*I have a step-cousin my age that I used to have the biggest crush on. He was the pretty boy on that side of the family. Today, he is an HIV-survivor for 15+ years. I'm no longer envious. He looks old enough to be my dad.

*I can't believe what airlines allow as carry-ons nowadays. It seems the standards have been relaxed, with people bringing on a small suitcase and a catch-all bag. I bring a regular lap-top bag only for ease, and I wish more people would follow suit. Maybe smaller carry-ons would equate to a little more knee room somehow.

All in all, there are many, many things I'm Thankful for:

+The high temperatures I left in the North are my lows.

+I've got a job I really like, with the hours I've always wanted. My job also keeps me in touch with the industry I've always been attached to, for better or worse. It will always be in my blood.

+I can make the best banana pudding on Earth.

+I like who I have become, metaphysically.

For now, that's it. As always, a work in progress.

Feast, Famine, Deluge

2007-11-12T21:15:00.000-06:00

I read the newspapers. I subscribe to restaurant magazines online. I peruse way too many blogs dealing with the "industry". No matter what the pundits say, restaurants will not be hurt by the down-turn in the economy. Americans are not willing to sacrifice their valuable time to buy groceries, cook said groceries, and clean up their mess. We've become too spoiled, too time-challenged, to do these things ourselves. Not to say all restaurants will fare well. We have more choices than ever before. And we will have more.

There are many hungry restaurateurs-to-be waiting in the wings. Many, many people are watching Emeril, Rachel Ray, Iron Chef, Top Chef, etc., and thinking, "How hard can it be?".

The ones who do their homework will do okay. The ones with experience and do their homework will do well. The ones with foresight, a sense of quality, and respect for service, will flourish. I meet very, very few of any of them. Mostly, I see people with dollar signs in their eyes, and few dollars in their pockets.

Little do they know the expenses involved. Shiny new Vulcan ranges, Frymaster fryers, and fine linens do not come cheap. Often, these are people far removed from the economics involved with running a restaurant. I meet many acclaimed sous chefs, proficient servers, and barbecue aficionados who think that will translate to culinary stardom.

I'm sure Emeril, Alain Du Casse, or Phil Romano did not start with spanking new equipment in a pristine building. And I get tired of hearing people who are shocked at the price of brand new fryers, char-broilers, and bar-stools. It must be the Wal-Mart-isation of America. $900 for a fryer? $4 per crystal wine glass? $200 for a lemon wedger? Sorry, I cannot pull a brand-new, stainless steel reach-in freezer out of my ass for $500. Dreamer, meet Reality. Reality, dreamer.

Despite all this drama, more people than ever are looking to start their own little Tavern on the Green here in the Redneck Riviera. Some will succeed, most will be the next blurb listed under bankruptcies in the local paper. And It's getting easier to forecast who will fall by the wayside. They are the ones who think they have all the answers. Fools.

By the way, I don't really think I have all the answers. This is all opinion on my part. Lord knows, I didn't get as far as I wanted in the "biz", just learn from my short-comings.

Shoe, Meet the Other Foot

2007-11-09T21:53:00.000-06:00

After years in the trenches of the restaurant wars, I look back in amusement and dismay at the way I treated vendors. Everyone knows what a vendor is right? He or she is that poor schlub who intrudes on your busy work day to entice you into buying their brand of rum, high-ball glass, bar stool, or two-door reach-in freezer. Hello, I am now that schlub, nice to meet you. I admit, I was borderline rude on more than one occasion to various vendors who dared intrude. I was too busy to waste my valuable time. Curt blow-offs(with eye-roll) were not unheard of. They had to accommodate my ever-changing schedule. In my twisted view of reality, they worked for me. They existed to serve me. Bow down, my subservient friend.

Kharma is a vindictive bitch, and I now experience her wrath. Luckily for me, and my creditors, I'm salary, and not commission. I'm still learning the ebb and flow after almost six months. My boss is not losing money on me by any means, but I'm still looking for that one impressive sale that will validate his faith in me (remember, I'm a feedback-junkie). Plus, I could really use a raise.

Now, there has been no pressure from above to produce bigger numbers. I manufacture plenty of that myself. I not only have to earn my salary, but that of the delivery people and the book-keepers. I keep a constant tally of profit to justify my paycheck. I actually want to make money for my company. It's sick, I know, but a precedent learned from the past.

I still have vendors who visit now, only now they are area representatives from Manitowoc, Sheila Shine, and Cambro. I've learned to listen a little closer, trying to learn from them instead of blowing them off. Please treat them right, one might be Ex-Restaurant Manager :) Or just a hard-working salesperson trying to earn a living.

Just trying to earn back some good kharma.