Well Done Fillet

Crikey, this chap seems familiar...

2009-08-21T00:00:00.001+01:00

Best have a mosey along and have a look see...

Behold and weep at it's majesty....

2009-06-22T01:00:00.000+01:00

There are those dishes that chefs cheerfully claim include everything but the kitchen sink, but coddle is different – it looks like it is a kitchen sink. Watery rashers? Boiled sausages? Onions that induce heart-attacks? It’s an eccentric, contrary mess of satisfying meatiness, and doesn’t that echo beautifully as an aspiration for a motley mob of moderately funny Irish writers? A fire under our collective arse, a peppery pout, and the unfortunate glimpse of vegetable …

...this is Coddle Pot.

It’s more than just bunny.

Redirect your links and subscribe forthwith.

Has it really been that long?

2009-06-12T00:00:00.001+01:00

Soon my faithful friends, soon.......

That steak's been cooked, now for something else....

2009-05-18T00:00:00.003+01:00

Well folks that's your lot from Well Done Fillet. I quit.

Like eating a well done fillet steak it may take moment to digest that news.

After 2 and a bit years and nearly 700 posts I have decided to call it a day. I know what you're thinking, "Why now? Why not last year?". Pfft, whatever. My reasons, like trophies at Manchester United, are multitude.

I have truly loved writing Well Done Fillet but bugger me it doesn't half take it out of you and really does leave you with no free time for anything else. Like a politician forced to step down in disgrace I too want to spend time with family. Not specifically my family. But I also want to write about other things, there is more to life than waiters and chums of waiters or so I'm told. In a world filled with sheep and crooked politicians and where Adam Sandler is regarded as a comedic genius it seems wasteful just to write about the infinite joy of waiting tables. There is also a book that needs to be finished, rejected and started again and despite my best efforts and fanciful dreams it wont write itself.

Like I say, I have absolutely loved sharing my woes and wonders, my thoughtless thoughts and my foul mouthed meanderings with you. Ach I'm welling up. I hope I have made you laugh and I hope you have learned to love the waiters in your life. We are a noble breed, filled with compassion and charisma and an overwhelming sense of......ha! I cant even write that with a straight face. Seriously if you have learned nothing from me, and I assume you have learned exactly that then please just follow this simple advice - eat, pay, tip, leave or the waiter is gonna write about you on their blog.

So whilst Well Done Fillet will no longer be serving you truths from the restaurant floor (what?) I will be returning soon, in a new format and with bigger fish to fry. Or maybe just with stories of rude guests and courageous waiters. Who's to say?

Stay tuned.

I shall leave you with my second favourite waiter quote, “It's a good thing that life is not as serious as it seems to a waiter”.

Pfft, it was always serious.

It's a bloody good job I don't live in South Carolina...

2009-05-15T00:00:00.001+01:00

Meh. Thursday was so meh I was irascible all day. Irascible and crestfallen. Where has the sun gone? Where are the early signs of summer? I blame the credit crunch and politicians. They seem fair game at the moment. But then as I saw the curry shaped light of freedom and home I became rather chipper again. This chipper moment didn't last long as a table of 20 managed to squeeze and sneak their way into the restaurant not five minutes before we were due to close. The curry shaped light of home was snuffed out in an instance. I blamed myself at first for not doing the right thing (for the waiters and chums of waiters) by just saying we were closed. Damn my indecision and constant desire to be liked. I'd really rather be unpopular and at home than much loved and at work.

But meh, what ya gonna do?

I directed much narkiness and snarky comments at the late, very late, table of 20 and played the hero for quite a while until I realised they weren't really noticing/falling for it. So I just gave up and accepted that huffing and puffing wasn't really gonna get me to my big bowl of post work curry any quicker. I am so growing everyday, maturing if you will. As much as I wanted to both hit and shout at them I didn't. If I am being truly honest I just wanted to cry on them. I wanted them to know that their presence angered me and was keeping me from where I wanted to be and with what I wanted to eat. But you cant go around crying and huffing on punters, even if they really do deserve it.

Not that all waiter think as rationally as me. No some waiters really do go a step too far. Waiters like 29-year-old Yakeisha Ward. She got so pissed with one of her guests, not sure if they are called guests in a waffle house, that she went to her truck, retrieved her gun and damn well shot the guest that was annoying her. Allegedly that is.

Now obviously not even I can condone such behaviour but still it must have been a hoot. I mean imagine the look on the customer's face when faced with a waiter pissed off at your complaints of slow service. Ha, oh how I would love to do that, just once. I wouldn't want to kill someone but maybe just graze them a bit. That would put the whining out of them.

I'd stand over them in a Dirty Harry pose, "So, my service is slow then is it? Explain yourself?"

Ha, what japes. Still shooting the guest is never cool and bound to put a dent in your tips.....

There is more honour in serving gravy than riding the gravy train

2009-05-13T00:00:00.002+01:00

I was chatting with some guests on Monday evening after the early rush had died down. The conversation soon got round to the subject of MP's expenses. It's hard not to be shocked at the gall of the bastards even if you have pretty much always considered every politician in the world to be about as morally bankrupt as it gets. Jabba the Hutt has more moral rectitude than most of these so called servants of the people and he imprisoned Han Solo in carbonite. The bastard.

But say what you like about Jabba the Hutt he never claimed £2,000 from the tax payer to get a pipe fixed under his tennis court unlike Conservative Party Policy Chief Oliver Letwin. Nor did the Hutt family, (is Jabba married?), bill the tax payer for the cleaning of his moat. A MOAT FOR FUCK SAKE! A FUCKING MOAT! WHO HAS A MOAT THESE DAYS? WHY AREN'T THERE RIOTS IN THE STREETS? WHY AREN'T PEOPLE MARCHING ON PARLIAMENT ARMED WITH PITCH FORKS AND BURNING TORCHES? JESUS H CHRIST! If this isn't the right time to sharpen the blades of the guillotine then exactly what do the fuckers have to do to get their heads chopped off?

That said I would love a moat. I'd like to see the postman try and deliver me my phone bill when I have a moat.

Arf!

But still it's outrageous conduct from those in public office and shows the politicians up for what they truly are - self serving, blood sucking, pocket lining, lying crooked bastards thus making Oliver Letwin et al sleazier than Jabba the Hutt.

Obviously.

"Oh I'd love to be a politician...", says the convivial American chap I was chatting with.

"Really?", I replied with some disbelief. We had both come to the same conclusion only a moment earlier that anyone who even considers becoming a politician should be shunned and treated with contempt, skepticism and derision.

"Yeah, I need to get the house painted." We laughed.

Personally I would rather jab a red hot poker up my chuff than sell my soul into the world of politics. Oh definitely not for me is that life of bungs and backhanders. There is more honour in serving gravy than riding the gravy train. My reasons, as the title suggests, are tenfold.

Ten Reasons Why Waiting Tables is a Better Job than being a Politician.

Waiters don't have off shore tax havens, secret bank accounts or slush funds. We have regular banks accounts, piggy banks for loose change and down the back of the couch for the tough days before pay day.
Waiters are more likely to be believed than politicians. I mean if a politician told me that this was the month of May I would check the calendar. But if the waiter was to tell you that today's soup was tomato and basil you would believe them right? Politicians say things like, ""Read my lips: no new taxes" and then promptly raise taxes. Lying bastards.
Waiters don't have to worry about Bob Dylan, Rage Against the Machine, Rolf Harris and that lot writing protest songs about them. Would The Dead Kennedy's "California Über Alles" really have lit that punk flame in your average teenager if it had been about waiters and their sometime proclivity for snootiness? I don't think so. There are no protest songs about waiters cause we are good people. Mostly.
Waiters look like....politicians look and smell and talk like this...
Waiters get to watch daytime television. Politicians don't even know who Fern Britain is nor who the principal characters in BBC afternoon soap, Doctors, are.
Waiters are free spirits and our wings are unbound are our thoughts, what thoughts we have, are free to express themselves - within the constraints of polite society that is. Politicians have to tow the party line at all times. They have to do and say what they are told no matter if the party line runs contrary to their own view. That's a shocking state of affairs. If I don't think that the special is as special as the chef thinks it is I say so. But if an MP thinks that selling of the post office is a terrible fucking idea they keep that thought to themselves so that they don't get a lashing from the party whips. Pfft, no backbone at all.
When did you last see a waiter get pied, egged, shot or require 24 hour police protection? Never! That's when. People love waiters and they detest the very ground politicians walk on.
Waiters also have no fear of democracy as you cant get a waiter shifted from his or her section, even if everybody at your tables wants a different waiter. Just like the pope we keep our sections until we die or get other jobs. Do popes get other jobs? Probably not. We are also infallible. And if by some miracle you did get the waiter moved to a different section the next waiter is going to be even worse, on purpose. Politicians fear democracy, they really do. They lie awake at night pishing into their pj's at the thought of elections.
Waiters sleep well at night, actually most of them sleep well at work. Our consciences are clear. Politicians don't sleep well. How could they with all the lies and soul selling?
And in the end being a politician is a morally repugnant job. Being a waiter is not.

Tony Benn is exempt mainly because he isn't a politician any more but as a politician he was ace. Oh and Carrie Gracie is aces. Watch this.

Fill in the blanks....

2009-05-12T00:00:00.000+01:00

This has been up for the best part of a month. It makes me sad. Good grief it's only May, the children are still and school and the shops still have Cadbury's Creme Eggs is stock. I don't want to sound like a grumpy old man but that really does suck balls.

Jebus wept.

The baby Jebus in the manger that is.

I'm tired from an afternoon spent gardening, whilst listening to Clutch - gardening really does get done quicker when you are listening to the stoner rock musings of Clutch, and an evening spent dealing with the giggly machinations of Enrique Iglesias fans so you fill in the blanks.....

"The Ramada Hotel Belfast are a bunch of .............. for putting up a Christmas poster in April. I really hope they get .............. for christmas."

The one that tickles my cantankerous fancy the most will win a prize, probably a packet of seeds. Maybe two packets of seeds. I'm generous like that. Like Santa.

Does it smell of pine? No it smells like mentalism...you mentalist.

2009-05-11T00:00:00.003+01:00

My taxi driver home last night was in fine fettle - you name it, he swore at it/about it/or just in it's general direction. Everything was annoying him, from the price of takeaway coffee, "It's just water awn some bloody nescafe.....sake.....I can get a whole jar for the price af that der...so I can" to the quality of pine used in the pine air freshener. This went on for ages, or what seemed like ages. I'll be honest with you, I could have lived without it. I mean he really was ruining my post work buzz, such as it was.

Not since the dawn of civilization has one man moaned as much about the smell from a pine shaped air freshener than this chap. I became quite frightened when he ripped the offending item from where it was dangling, experts tell me it's called the rear view mirror but whatever, and with more force required shoved it in the direction of my nose. Oh my.

"Does that there smell like a forest to you? Eh? Does it like?"

Now, I'm not sure if it was his fist that was shaking inches from my nose or because he was staring at me whilst careering through the city centre but I got confused. I'm sure confusion is a natural emotion to experience when staring down the barrel of a taxi driver shaped fist. Instead of replying in the appropriate manner, ie agreeing with the lunatic with the pine freshener in one hand and your life in the other, I said, "Doesn't smell too bad mate"

D'oh

"Doesn't smell too bad? Doesn't smell too bad? Wha?"

Oh dear, thought I, I've angered it. And I had indeed angered it. Checking the road for like a nano second he sticks the offending item up to his nose and goes at it like he was backstage at a Motley Crue concert. I mean he sniffed the pine right out of it.

"Doesn't smell too bad like? What you on mate? Here get a good whiff of that" and he reaches the bloody thing over to me.

"Get a good smell of it....", I did. I mean what choice did I have faced with the irrationality of the situation?! You know what I discovered you cant do? You cant fake the sound of sniffing without actually sniffing. This was very disappointing as I really didn't want my nostrils filled with the odor of fake pine.

"Well?", he says glaring at me.

"Aye yer right...", I wasn't sure now what I was supposed to be saying or agreeing to. Did he want me say that it did or didn't smell of something? Was that something meant to be good or bad? Jesus I was so confused. I just wanted to get home and nestle up to a chicken and chickpea curry and let it make everything better.

"Now does that smell like a forest then does it?"

"No...no I suppose it doesn't", said I handing the air freshener back to Crazy McMad-Bastard, the craziest maddest bastard driving in Belfast.

"You know what I'd like to do mate?" I did not know what he wanted to do. I didn't have a notion, maybe stick his winkle in a fish? It wouldn't have surprised me such was the manic nature of his discourse.

"I'd like til take the eejits that make this here shite to an actual forest and ask em if they think their air freshener smells the same." Christ it would be the scariest trip to the forest since Hansel and Gretel were abandoned by their parents. But his use of the word eejit made me giggle, into myself obviously, I'm not completely clueless about how to handle myself round grade A whack jobs. I mean right up to that point everybody was a "fucker" a "bastard" and a "cunt". Clearly went to a very refined finishing school.

He went quiet after that. I finished the holy rosary I had been reciting in my head whilst he was brooding. He was fingering the tree shaped problem with the intensity of a serial killer who has just lopped the ear of his 33rd victim. I thought he would probably regret doing that as his hands would stink of faux pine by now. Oh I just wanted to be home.

"Fuck this....", he yells.

Oh holy fuckarama I'm gonna die. He's gonna drive the car off a bridge with me in it. And me with a lovely fresh made curry in the fridge. Who would eat my curry after I'm dead, who?

But he just wound down his window and threw the offending item out.

"So were working tonight or just out for something til eat?", says he with all the calmness and gentleness of a visiting head of state asking the oik what they do for a living. I was stunned by his change in mood. It was all very perplexing and totally uncalled for on a Sunday night. Tree shaped air fresheners appear to work like some sort of angry kryptonite on him.

I was quite relieved to get home. I considered phoning the taxi firm to remonstrate about the quality of mentalist they entrust with their mid range saloon cars but changed my mind when I realised I didn't want to spend the rest of the night fending of an angry taxi driver/mentalist who reeks of faux pine trees. I've seen Assault on Precinct 13 and my house simply isn't prepared for such shenanigans. If this continues, the mentalism of Belfast taxi drivers, I may have to start walking home. Oh my!

For what it's worth the curry was good.

"Don't eat as if you have only moments to live...." and other wonderful ideas that will never take hold

2009-05-08T00:00:00.001+01:00

I've been chortling my way through Nicholas Clayton's, "A Butler's Guide to Table Manners" over the last day or two. It's been a welcome distraction. Any book that starts with "Never be rude or patronising to the people serving you- it's never justified..." is always going to find favour with me. But I'm not sure Mr Clayton would appreciate my guffawing and tittering as I read his informative and neatly written text. But it is very very whimsical, not sure it was meant to be but it is. Of course it's done nothing more than arm me with more ways to be offended by guests. You are, it has to be said, a crass and boorish lot with your pinkies poked out and your blowing on hot food (both are considered no no's) . Quite rum indeed.

Not all of you....but most of you.

"A Butler's Guide to Table Manners" is full of fascinatingly superb nuggets of information pertaining to how one should conduct oneself whilst dining. For example it is considered "beyond the pale" to discuss money, illness and medical procedures at the dinner table but sex, religion and politics are fair game. I assume not at the same time though. Could get ugly. I recoil at the idea that polite society should set the parameters of my dinner conversation.

But then again polite society has never had din dins at my house where conversation with The Cousin stretches no further than football and the lives, loves and whippets of the Coronation Street characters.

"Go on ye boy ye Ken", remarked The Cousin the other evening as Ken slipped off to his lover on a barge.

To which I replied, whilst shifting the plate on my lap of sausages a la mash, "Aye...". It's a dignified and humble household full of sophistication but mainly vagary and whimsy and farting. So much farting.

There are pages, with diagrams, on how to hold your cutlery. There are more pages than you would expect detailing the rules of etiquette for using a toothpick. This is a particular issue for me as I fucking detest, with a passion I normally reserve for stepping in dog poo and Scousers, the use of toothpicks at the table and the resulting leaving of them for me to pick up. Good grief surely you don't need a lesson in etiquette to realise that stuffing your sweaty man paw into your damp hot mouth and rooting around with a little piece of plastic whilst there are other people dining may be more than a little off putting. It's crassness in the extreme. Like this charmer here.

But Nicholas has the answer in a section amusingly titled, "Biting Talk". (There are also sections called, wait for it, "Plate Expectations" and "It's no choke" amongst others. Arf!

Before gouging around with a pick, try a swill of water to free the problem.
Go somewhere to probe the teeth in private, never do it at the table.
Never do that thing with a flattened hand over the top lip in a failed attempt to hide the picking going on underneath; this is unparalleled in it's vulgarity and in, on a par with sniffing.

Sniffing? That's right sniffing. No sniffing at the table, apparently. How disappointing.

In the same section Nicky baby, as I'm sure he would be delighted to be called, lists some other don'ts for the dinning table. Some make good sense, some are just fanciful dreams...

Don't pick your teeth at the table (or anything else for that matter)
Don't lift your glass for a refill, as a moving target can be hard to hit.
Don't gulp at drinks; it's looks desperate and greedy

and

Don't get drunk; you'll look absurd. (Arf!)
Don't make a fuss; if you don't like something just leave it. (More arfs than I can possible manage. If only. Sigh)

and my favourite

Don't treat the waiting staff badly, or you might end up with more than you ordered.

Well that's just sage advice right there. But really at the end of the day I couldn't give a fudge which spoon you use to scoop your soup and I wouldn't bat an eyelid if you were graphically explaining the intricacies of your last anal exam, as long as I don't hear it that is. Etiquette is one thing manners are another and manners matter more.

A Butlers Guide To Table Manners is a great read and I urge all waiting staff to get a copy. But you mustn't be tempted to carry it in your apron pocket and quote lines to the rude and boorish mouth breathers that clog up your restaurant. It will take an age to pull it our of your ass.....

Bring back the IRA*....

2009-05-07T00:00:00.000+01:00

...so that our kids don't turn into booze monkeys, obviously. Eh? Am I drunk? Is there gin hidden in the toilet and whiskey under the bed? No, no I'm not drunk but when faced with a headline like this...

...it seems like the most obvious answer. Maybe they could get government funding? Heh. The Belfast Telegraph quotes The Joseph Rowntree Foundation's report and conclusion that,

"The peace process has led to increased investment, employment, urbanisation, improved financial status and independence amongst the population and among young people generally. The social and economic emancipation, when set against a historic low baseline of alcohol use because of religious and cultural norms, may have led to increases in alcohol drinking over recent years towards the levels in the rest of the UK"

So there you have it then. If the last thirty years of bombing, shooting, capping - both knee and elbow didn't get you the booze will. Pass me the bottle, I'm gonna get snoshled.

Just our fucking luck eh?

* obviously I am only joking about with the headline before people start messing themselves. And anyhoo, they haven't gone away ye know, apparently.

Manuel and the Infinite Smugness of Marathon Runners.

2009-05-06T00:00:00.002+01:00

You know it's not going to be pretty when the infinite smugness of marathon runners collides, not literally you understand, with the barely repressed jealousy and tubbiness of the waiter. I mean one is a self important egomaniac with insecurity issues and a need to constantly challenge themselves and others around them and the other is.....oh wait. Makes for an interesting day at work though.

cheesy does it...

The restaurant was overrun, ahem, with self-satisfied types on Monday following the Belfast City Marathon, a marathon that is very similar to the likes of the New York City Marathon and the London Marathon. Well okay the distance is the same but that's about it. Has the NY marathon ever had to be stopped because a bunch of irate lorry drivers got a bit mouthy about being late with their deliveries? I very much doubt it. Quality work Belfast, quality work.

But yes the restaurant was full of people who rejoice in the smell of their own farts. This upping of the smug level was particularly annoying for me as I am the guardian and indeed master of the smugness round these parts. It's all fake, obviously, as I have nothing to be smug about what with my chubster paws and Quasimodo'd posture. But it keeps people guessing.

The afternoon diners weren't as annoying as the evening diners. They were smellier for sure and inappropriately dressed for a late lunch but substantially less annoying. Obviously like all right minded people I believe that tracksuits and shorts have no place in a restaurant unless of course that restaurant is at a gym or one of those imaginary places that I hear people talking about, leisure centres and that sort of thing. [Shudder]

Yes there was far too many near cock n ball popping incidents for my liking for a Monday afternoon what with the stretching between courses and the constant need for bending over. Why must they bend and stretch so much? Why? I'm an innocent child and found all these near escaping genitals quite frightening. One minute you are serving sausage on a bed on mash, next there it is poking out and winking at you from a pair of loose fitting Adidas. All rather frightful I must say.

Near escaping woo woos and wee wees aside the real bell ends didn't reveal themselves until night time. Now don't get me wrong I am all for people running marathons and if you do it for charity whilst dressed as a Dalek or a whilst balancing a roll of £1.00 coins on yer elbow then who the hell am I to criticize or belittle your sparkling effort. I say more power to you. But the self satisfied, smell of their own fart loving, Nikeeeeee wearing (and wankily pronouncing), carb munchers, Lucozade Power drinking douche bags and sons of douche bags that think they are the only people who have ever run a marathon ever and wear it like a badge that they think affords them special privileges and the right to be a total ass can go fuck themselves with a four foot wide pedometer.

Phew, feels good to get that out.

"Oh hi man....", said the tall tanned cheesy looking guy at the door. Obviously by calling me "man" he was down ten waiter points. Waiter points? That's right, waiter points and he was minus ten already for inappropriate greeting.

"Yes indeed and how can I..."

"Yeah man can you hook me up with a table for like six or seven" asked the tall tanned cheesy looking guy. His tallness and super fake tan combined with his cheesiness reminded me of a tube of smoked German cheese. Now clearly he was down another 20 waiter points. Ten for interrupting me and ten for using the phrase, "hook me up". I am a waiter and not a pimp/drug dealer. I do not hook people up with shit or as it comes to it, tables either.

"Oooooookay then", says I adopting my, "are you for reals?" face.

"And what name are you reserved under then.....man?"

He was too busy poking about in his iPhone to hear me which forced me to repeat the question. Minus a further ten waiter points.

"Reservation? Ah man, don't have one. Do I need one?"

"Well yes sir, it is a rather busy night."

Still with a tan finger hovering over his iPhone he replied with, "Maaan, I couldn't get a table booked this afternoon.....I was.....well...you know....doing a bit of running...the eh...you know marathon....this afternoon."

He said it like I was supposed to be impressed. I was not impressed. He was down a further twenty waiter points after this pitiful exchange but not for what he said but for the way he said it and the painfully cheesy facial expressions he made whilst saying it.

Ignoring this I offered him a table at half eight. This wouldn't do as he was meeting other "pals" later for "champers". The cheese was oozing from him worse than from a busted tube of Primula in the hands of fat kid. Just then one of his "pals" arrived.

"You get our table yet Johnny?", asked the rather excitable pal. He was bouncing about like a horny Spaniel.

"Not yet Marky, my man here says they have nothing 'til eight."

"Half eight". My man? My man my hole. Cheeky fucker. I enjoyed correcting him. Hell I enjoy correcting most people. So I awarded myself twenty waiter points right there for quality correction.

"Half eight Johnny? Ain't gonna work. You tell him we ran the marathon today?" It was if the horny Spaniel guy couldn't see me and this despite me being right beside him and with the build of a small out house. I'm not exactly ninja like.

"Yeah Marky, no dice though, no dice."

They tried again with the pleading and the hero routine but alas all to no avail. I wasn't being a bastard, we just didn't have any tables until half eight. I was enjoying myself though which is a little bastardish. But they then pulled a shit little move that really annoyed me.

They slunk off and had a little chat outside. Within a minute or two the rest of their ill fated, and doomed not to dine with Manuel, party arrived. There were three women with them now. So guess what they did? They tried the old, "send in the honeys routine" cause all men like a honey. Manuel likes honey on his carrots and maybe occasionally in his breakfast cereal but that's it.

The ladies were rather pleasant and I enjoyed talking to them, didn't get them a table though.

"Just like I told your friends, Mark and Johnny, we don't have any tables for you even if you have just run a marathon."

Their little faces were precious when they realised that I had rumbled their ruse. They were just about to walk away when the horny spaniel man came bounding in all horny and spaniel like and blundered out, "Well did it work? We in?"

No, no horny spaniel man it didn't work. Minus four thousand to you and plus fifty to me. I waddled off and had a Snickers to celebrate my little victory. You cant bullshit a bullshitter and you cant give out tables you just don't have, even if the person wanting the table has just run a marathon.

What's that noise?

2009-05-05T00:00:00.000+01:00

I went back to work on Monday fearing that I would hear the dreaded crunching of egg shells as my chums tippy toed round me. I'm prone to emotional outbursts at the best of times but given the current situation I would have understood if they were a touch wary of me. I didn't need to worry. I wasn't back five minutes but I was being regaled with the usual fantastic tales of woe and magnificent accounts of customer uncouthness and hideousness. Oh how I missed the humdrum yet reliable hideousness and uncouthness of customers. Bless their little open mouths.

The best of these stories was the lovely woman who ordered lovely tuna and then poured lovely creamy pepper sauce all over it. This was washed down with expensive Chablis. Waiters peered from behind plant pots and and through the cracks in the velvet curtains as she gulped it down, one fishy peppery forkful after the other. Pepper sauce? With tuna? It's just so wrong. I mean who does that?

Cheers for all the well wishes and what have you. Normalish order will return with a proper post on Wednesday.

You can keep your melancholy and fuck right off with your infinite sadness too.

2009-05-02T00:00:00.003+01:00

The melancholic waiter lumbered towards the perky threesome as if he was carrying more on his shoulders than in his hands. His graceful shimmying between tables had given way to laboured and heavy movements and for a larger chap it is indeed a remarkably dexterous dance that he normally weaves. It was if the weight on his shoulders was pushing down on him with a pressure he couldn't bear. He was a pitiful sight.

As he got to the table he made an abject attempt to force a smile and raise his voice above the gleeful din of the three ladies seated under him. But his, "Excuse me ladies" was as morose as it was impotent. He faked a cough, probably not what you want from a waiter all things considered.

One of the ladies looked up at the sullen faced plate schlepper and after taking a glug of her wine announced to her friends that the food was ready.

"Now ladies, who's having the ribeye tonight?" He could have been Death incarnate offering one of them sweet repose such was his monotone delivery. They never noticed. One of them squealed. But no one noticed the waiter's gloomy disposition. He placed the steak in front of the squealingly excited lady.

"And the pork?", asked the waiter again employing the same life sucking, doom hued voice as before.

"PORK?", screamed the loudest of the ladies as she stared at the plate of belly pork with fear. It was all very reminiscent of the mid 1990's, thought the waiter, when people looked at plates of beef in much the same way as they look at Gary Glitter - fond memories but never again.

"Aye, I'm having the pork....what's yer problem Trish?" Goodbye joyful camaraderie and jolly japes and hello defensive stand off. Normally such a to-do would tickle the waiter's fancy but not tonight. He just wanted to set down the food and flee to his hiding place where there were no people and no reason to have have to force a smile, no matter how pathetic it was.

"There's nothing wrong with the pork. I've had it here loadsa times. It's totally delish Trish." She let out an exuberant laugh as she realised she was the next Pam Ayers. Or maybe not.

"But what about the swine....". But she never finished the sentence as the waiter plonked, with an uncharacteristic lack of class and flourish, the risotto in front of her.

"The swine? He's at home watching football.....he can get his own."

And the three of them fell about with laughter. Big laughs, big big laughs. The sort of laughter that disappears for a moment only to come crashing back round your ears again as they are forced to take breath. Maybe she was the new Pam Ayers.

As the waiter walked away from the table he chuckled to himself. He was suddenly aware that he hadn't as much as smiled in four days let alone let out a chuckle.

Life is short, too short for morose thoughts and melancholy. Life should be celebrated and as one large life is coming to a premature and untimely and god damn fuck it unfair end the waiter realised that he needed to do just that, celebrate it. There will be time for tears soon enough but for now lets just revel in the life of a man who never spent a second feeling sorry for himself.

My father has been given a couple of months left to live. It's a short time for sure but I assure you it will be filled with more laughter than tears.

Man down, very down....

2009-05-01T00:00:00.001+01:00

You still remember how to serve yourself?

Back in a day or two. Probably tomorrow.

Here, play with this 'til I'm back....

Or you can catch me in Olive Magazine, page 86, "BYO's that make you proud to be British". Obviously I went for a French restaurant.

"I can't believe that Bryce prefers Van Patten's card to mine"

2009-04-29T13:15:00.000+01:00

When you have a blog called Well Done Fillet you really do deserve a business card that matches the meatiness of the title.

That's why I need these...

meat cards
whoop whoop!

"We start with 100% beef jerky, and SEAR your contact information into it with a 150 WATT CO2 LASER. Screw die-cutting. Forget about foil, popups, or UV spot lamination. THESE business cards have two ingredients: MEAT AND LASERS."

There is only one word for this kind of blatant meatiness, AWESOME-O.

"MEAT CARDS do not fit in a Rolodex, because their deliciousness CANNOT BE CONTAINED in a Rolodex."

Well exactly.

You should have a butchers at the comments on the Meat Cards site. Some people just need smacked, hard, with meat.

I have become comfortably dumb

2009-04-28T00:00:00.000+01:00

I had always assumed that the dullest thing on gods green earth was the verbose, prog, rock stylings of those hideous bastards Pink Floyd. Philosophical lyrics? Sonic experimentation? Elaborate live shows? Meh, who gives a rats ass? The fact that they are credited with influencing Genesis is nothing to be proud of. In fact the shame of that alone should have driven them into the hills to live the life of a recluse only surfacing from time to time to warn the kids to stay away from keyboards whilst under the influence of drugs, maaaaan.

there's a charming toilet scene in this story too...

I will never forgive Pink Floyd for unleashing that 95 minute long art college wankfest, "The Wall" on the world. Watching it was seen as a right of passage moment and no dissenting voice was tolerated. You had to play along and ooh and ahh and make like you were going home to write in your diary about it before cutting yourself to sleep in the bath. Depressing? Oh good god yes. Depressing and insanely boring. I was sixteen and full of Gothy joy and wonder. I did not share their dystopian view of the world. I had seen a real boobie and new that life was gonna be okay.

But oh good Gordon they are dull, so so dull and like I say I had always assumed that they, Pink Floyd, were the dullest thing striding the planet. But Sunday changed that, for the only thing duller than Pink Floyd is in fact fans of Pink Floyd. So much corduroy, so many beards, so much mumbling into beards.

It was Sunday night and all the lovely seats were filled with the corduroy'd bottoms of middle aged men most of which were sporting beards. I have never seen the beautiful restaurant filled with so many genuinely ugly people stroking their beards and rubbing the elbow patches on their home knitted sweaters. It was like a "Pink Floyd Fans Think-in" or Pfft for short. The Australian Pink Floyd were in town so hairy men were out in force. This was obviously to the delight of the women who are married to hairy men.These are the sort of chaps who own £500 Sennheiser headphones and refer to themselves, without any hint of irony, as audiophiles. They are philes alright.

Anyhoo most were easy enough to deal with, mumbling, beard stroking and waffling about live bootlegs aside. But one guy on one table was enough to bring all my distrust and repressed dislike for all things Pink Floyd, Australian or otherwise, back to the surface.

He was beardy in the extreme with grayish black hair emanating from not only his face but from his ears, nostrils and I swear to god his forehead. It was like there was no discernible break from head hair to face hair. I'm not sure if this hirsuteness was the cause of his bitterness or if it was the years of listening to Pink Floyd but he was unhappy about life. It didn't help that we were down a few menu items due to having had our asses handed to us the day before.

"So there is no tuna, no Caesar salad and only one seabass. What exactly do you have?", asks the bearded one with a tone that simply wasn't required. I wouldn't mind but he hadn't even looked at his menu.

Sunday night isn't the night to be snippy with me, I'll not be for taking it.

I stared at him for a second or two longer than he expected and this made him twitch. One nil to the waiter. "We have everything else....sir."

His bearded chums were actually rather pleasant despite none of them having apparently seen the inside of a shower in many a few years by the smell of it. And who the blinkers wears a heavy sweater to a gig, who? But I put my own health and well being to one side and tried a few one liners and witticisms which raised a few polite guffaws.

Yer man wasn't having it though and continued with the sniping and acerbic barbs. "Jokes a plenty but no tuna eh." I ignored him. When I asked him what side order he wanted with his lamb he replied, "Well what have you not run out of?" I was getting very fucking tired with this. "Chips? Do you have chips? Will you still have chips when my food is ready?" Again I ignored him but did cast him a very dirty look. Ooooh get me!

Just like most Pink Floyd albums/concerts he carried on along this repetitive, sardonic route for what seemed like an age. One irascible, sarcastic, captious remark after the other. I wished there had been a wall and he was on the other side of it. Bearded buffoon.

The arrival of his food seemed to shut him up if only for a moment. But finally there was some relief and all round the restaurant the bearded wonders were happily chomping away and when they weren't chomping they were pulling dropped bits of food from their beards. Nice.

I took this opportunity to go to the bathroom mainly to check emails but I also needed to go. But Gordon damn it the stalls were all taken leaving me to bob my phone back in to my pocket and having to brave the uncouthness of the urinal trough. Oh my. And guess who walked in? That's right my bearded and sardonically witted chum with all the smart assed remarks. Personally I think nothing messes up the waiter/guest relationship more than the sighting of each others pee pees.

Just as he approached the light that had been flickering finally snuffed itself out. With only the light from yonder window breaking I'm not sure he realised it was me that was in the bathroom with him. So I seized upon this opportunity for revenge. All those nasty comments had bothered me and it's rare that a waiter is presented with such an obvious opportunity to get their own back.

"Oh what a big cock!", I remarked in the direction of his teeny weeny.

Well I thought he would appreciate some dark sarcasm in the bathroom.....

Arf!

2009-04-27T00:00:00.002+01:00

Yahoo Answers eh, there's an slightly odd/icky concept. ~~Idiots~~ Ordinary people, in search of the answers to life's prosaic and in many cases embarrassing little conundrums, turn to the wise and great oracle of Yahoo in search of enlightenment. Not that Yahoo itself answers the questions, no Yahoo turns the question over to the general populous. It's like getting to the end of the yellow brick road and finding not a lovely wizard but three taxi men, an unemployed PR consultant and a whole nest of level seven nerds. Oh my, imagine. In many respects Yahoo Answers is a bit like Wikipedia but for six year olds and with just the same level of accuracy and incisiveness. That is to say none whatsoever.

Take this doozy of a humdinger, that's right it's a humdinger of doozy proportions, I wandered across the other day. I spat tea, beautiful life affirming tea, all over my Mac as I read it. You can imagine my consternation at this loss and waste of precious tea.

"Can a very handsome, but quiet, guy be successful at being a waiter?", asks someone who refers to himself as "Good Guy". [Snicker] Thankfully he goes on to explain his vexatious dilemma, "I'm good looking, but I'm not sociable and it's almost impossible to make small talk with strangers. Could I make it as a waiter?"

Where do you start? I mean where do you start when the laughter stops?

There were a number of fantastically ludicrous and downright preposterous answers given. My favourite response was from "Milo's Mommy" who said, "You don't have to be sociable to be a waiter..." Oh really, is that right now is it? Yes Greta Garbo would have made for a fantastic company through a full house Saturday night shift.

Milo's Mummy also goes on to say that a good waiter needs to be a good listener and have a good memory. Again not so sure about that. I mean my memory is for shit but I have an order pad which really does a smashing job at "remembering" orders. As for being a good listener, I have one ear that is about as useful as a trophy cabinet at manchester city but still I manage to hear all the bits n bobs that I need to.

There were many other arseholey answers all testifying to the fact that a good waiter doesn't need to be able make small talk or be sociable and that being prompt and courteous and have the ability to check on the level of water in a jug is all faaaaar more important than being able to pass a few civil words.

Bobbins. These people are talking absolute bobbins. Bobbins and balderdash.

If I may be so bold to suggest I think these people haven't a bloody clue what they are talking about. The best waiters I have ever worked with have been the ones that could talk. They could talk themselves into your wallet. They could talk themselves into your bed. They could talk themselves out of trouble. Give me a kid that can talk and I'll give you a waiter back.

A good waiter knows when to talk and when to shut the fuckity up. But dull as dishwater waiter who remembers to refill your water and is more ghost than human can do that as he cant talk at all.

So in answer to your question "Good Guy", no you cant be a successful waiter if you cant small talk and are lacking in social skills. And lets be honest you'd probably just spend your time looking at your ever so handsome reflection in the wineglasses.

But that's just my opinion, what say you oh great unwashed readers. Do you prefer your waiter hot and silent or squat and chatty?

Swine Flu and the Delicious Side Effects

2009-04-26T11:51:00.001+01:00

Bacon sweats...mmmmmmm.

Coming soon...

2009-04-25T11:38:00.004+01:00

Ahem, cough cough...

National Waiters Day 21st of May.

Website coming soon

You'll probably want to start thinking about what you are getting me....
...oh and all the waiters in your life.

This week I was mostly

2009-04-24T00:00:00.001+01:00

This week I was mostly getting my hands dirty with actual work. Which was odd. I have taken to planting vegetable in my backyard. Oh happy day. I have planted aubergines, broad beans, chilli plants, basil, and coriander or cilantro as you crazy Americans keep calling it. I would post photos but I am too insecure and worried about green fingered old people telling me I ma doing it wrong. I get enough of that when I go home. But it's all very exciting and left me feeling very at one with old mother earth and all that hippy balls. Saying that I really wanted to be at one with next door's cat. I went out the next morning to bask in my green fingered triumph only to find that a certain fat ginger bastard had done a poo on my aubergine plant. Obviously I went to The Cousin first but assured me he didn't do it.

it's a tough life....

The cat thing has to be dealt with before I move on to stage 2, and the most exciting part at that, of my subsistence revolution - the growing of potatoes! Whoop whoop! That's right I whoop whooped for the growing of potatoes. I need to do some research into the whole affair as I don't have any ground into which to plant the spuds so I am intend to do it in a bucket. Youtube had the answer....

Brilliant! Just brilliant. I could listen to that chap talking about taters and pertaters all day long. Seriously. I wonder if he has any YouTubes on how to do a Wordpress Install. Heh. But whilst checking out all my growing options I came across this little beauty of a site, "Fuck Yeah Cilantro". As the title suggests it's all about coriander/cilantro. Passion, they has it. Yer man from the YouTube should start his own potato site, "Fuck hell goddamned yeah sirreee Pertaters". Ha! It should be noted that I have a poor track record when it comes to the raising of living things, whether they be plants or animals. The fish tank was a hotbed of death and tragedy on a scale not witnessed since the second world war. But ho hum one must try....

This week I was also mostly stuffing croissants, vegetarian quiches, eclairs - both chocolate and coffee and some weird Grand Marnier choux thingy-ma-jig down my pie hole with uncontrollable haste. There's a new bakery opened near Well Done Towers and I am besotted with it's delectable French fancies and rustic breads. So much so in fact that I fell of my bike on the way home from the Boulangerie yesterday, such was my rush to get inside and let the eating begin, and as I careered towards the ground my only concern was for my box of precious buns and not my head. I got away with a grazed elbow and knee but the buns made it home safe. I am such a fat master.

there used to be six...

The funny thing about The Lisburn Road Bakery is the staff. They aren't the usual bakery staff, fat kid in a tabard wearing a hair net, but rather they all look like Apprentice candidates with their million dollar smiles, lovely hair, crisp white shirts and stockbroker ties. But they seem much nicer than Apprentice candidates and none of them look like back stabbing egomaniacs who would push over and old lady just to get ahead.

Next week I shall mostly be having a heart attack.....probably.

Have a good weekend.

There are many things we would love to do but don't, for obvious reasons

2009-04-23T00:00:00.000+01:00

It was Wednesday morning and I was at my local coffee shop enjoying my usual Americano and chocolate muffin when I became very aware that there were two guys standing beside my table. This was not what I needed nor wanted. I wasn't really enjoying the whole coffee experience as it was, due in part, to the disappointingly stale muffin that the emo man child had served me. I would have returned it but he bore the look of an emo man child who no longer cared for the freshness of his own underwear let alone my muffin. And as the place was busy I was forced to sit at a large table beside the counter and not my favoured small table beside the window. Everything was all wrong and my sunny disposition was floundering .

oh the injustice
the humanity!

And then there were these two dudes, for they no doubt considered themselves to be dudes, loitering beside my large table. I did not want to share, Manuel is not the sharing sort. I was not in the mood to have my morning routine disturbed, any more than it currently was, by a brace of bronzed douches. Alas my attempts to avoid eye contact and the spreading out of the various flotsam and jetsam across the table, notepad, phone, niquitin/farting tablets etc did not put them off. So there I was in the wrong seat, eating a sorry excuse for a muffin, whilst doing the booth seat shuffle to make it clear to all and sundry that I was not with Douche A and his chum Douche B.

My chagrin was complete.

And what did I do about this whole sorry situation? Nothing, that's what. I did nothing. I just sat there trying to read Robin Cooper's, "The Timewaster Diaries" and block out the Tommy Hilfiger clad "delights" in front of me. But it was difficult what with their constant yapping, chortling, loud guffawing and over use of the word, "faaaan-tastic". But I just sat there and took it all. Even when Douche A knocked the table thus spilling my coffee a little as he tried to cross his massive tree sized legs, I just smiled. Leg crossing? In a booth? DOUCHE! But I just sat there politely smiling and accepting it all. My morning routine, one that I hold in high esteem and reverence, had been ruined. It will be many days before I get to right this wrong. But I just smiled and sucked it all up.

I put this ability to take injustice, and you cant call bad muffinry and bad company anything less than injustice, down to my training as a waiter. We are constantly at the receiving end of injustice. I mean there are tables you want to run after and ask them what there problem is. There are nights when I would pay someone just to get the opportunity to question the punters. I mean you whore yourself for them, you bend over backwards, you are charming and witty and they leave you nothing. You wanna confront them, you wonder what was it that you did wrong (even though you know it was them and not you).

But you don't do it. You cant do it, no matter how much you want to, you just cant confront the guest apres stiffing. I assumed no waiter would do it until I read this blog post on Serious Eats.com. I was flabbergasted to say the least. The waiter, feeling unhappy with her tip from a table, confronted the diners and even corrected the guest's maths. Seriously what? Not a fucking chance would you get way with that where I work and at a guess in many places. Not cool, not cool at all.

Getting stiffed by a guest is all part of the game. You win some, you lose some that's just the way it is. Don't get me wrong I get really freaking angry when I get stiffed by a table I know I did a good job on but you just have to let it go, or blog about them. Heh.

The guest from the story accepted that they had made a mistake and changed her tip amount. But for an extra $8 was it really necessary to embarrass the guest and leave yourself open to some major grief from the management. I'm all for waiters getting what we are due but not like that....

So what would you do if confronted by a waiter doing an Oliver Twist and asking for more? Personally I would just walk away shaking my head and never, ever, dine there again. And then blog about it, obviously.

Hat tip, Fork it Over.

Budge up Salman

2009-04-22T00:00:00.005+01:00

Ah Jaysus lads, they're kidnapping waiters now.

From the BBC...

Man kidnapped in Ukraine released

A London waiter kidnapped in Ukraine has been released after his family paid a ransom of £10,800.
Eren Parker, 25, from Penge, south London, went missing while on holiday in southern city Odessa on 9 April.

His cousin, Erol Kesen, said Mr Parker was kidnapped by a gang who stunned him with a Taser gun and bundled him into a van after he had left a casino.

He returned home on Friday suffering from shock, cuts and bruises after his family paid a ransom, Mr Kesen said.

Believed 'rich'

He said Mr Parker was initially held in a garage then taken to a flat in the city.

The gang originally demanded $60,000 (£41,360) to release Mr Parker but agreed to hand him over in exchange for a smaller amount.

Mr Kesen said: "I was told the average wage in that country is $100 a month so I guess they thought he was rich because he was a Westerner and had been in the casino."

A Foreign Office spokeswoman said: "We were informed on 16 April that Mr Parker is safe and well."

Oh my! Be safe in the knowledge that Manuel has been moved to the same secret location where that insufferable bore Salman Rushdie was kept after the release of the Satanic Verses. Little Miss Manuel insists that neither she nor The Cousin will, on principal, negotiate with terrorists and that they are welcome to keep me as long as they want.

Charming.

But there's no point to kidnapping a waiter unless you really want a collection of random pens, corks, battered black shoes and their penny stash. Because that's all they have. And lets be honest waiters would make for pretty difficult kidnap victims. They would enjoy the rest, sitting doing nothing appeals to them and there are very few things you can threaten them with that they don't hear from both chefs and guests alike on your average Saturday night.

Plus they would ask for a percentage of the ransom....a Manuel's Ransom

eh 20% of that's mine if you don't mind Mr Kidnapper man....

Is he really a waiter and how can he prove it?

2009-04-21T00:00:00.000+01:00

Waiters eh, lovely people and easily identifiable by their hearty laugh, beaming smiles and proud upright walk. Seriously. Even in a busy restaurant on a busy night the waiters are normally easy to pick out what with the matching uniforms, aprons and the plates of food and trays of drinks that they schlep from chef to table and back again.

There was a chap in the restaurant the other night dressed in black trousers, black shirt and black shoes and looked every part like a waiter. I had to double take as I thought for a moment they had hired a new guy without first informing me. Not that they have to inform me of anything but I would have been upset if they hadn't. And by upset I mean a barrel of rage and anger. But the fact that he was swigging from a Coors and pawing over the young lady beside him, and he was very much pawing all over her, assured me that he wasn't a new waiter.

Honestly it ain't hard to identify who is a waiter and who is not when you go to a restaurant. Finding the waiter can be a little tricky for sure but you would never approach or call over a chap just because they slightly look like a waiter now would you? Or maybe you would. I chuckled out loud, Manuel doesn't LOL he is too old for LOL'ing, when I read this story from Hoboken New Jersey. I knew a hobo called Ken, lovely fella, used to shout at the birds. Actually he used to shout at parked cars. Mentalism isn't funny.

What?

Anyhoo here's the story from NJ.COM....

'READY TO PAY?' Slick 20-something thief tricks restaurant patrons Saturday, April 18, 2009 By AMY SARA CLARK JOURNAL STAFF WRITER
HOBOKEN - A man who posed as a waiter made off with $186 in cash from unsuspecting patrons at two restaurants, police said yesterday.

Wearing a button-down dark blue or black shirt, a yellow tie and khaki pants, the spiky-haired 20-something pinched the first check at Hobson's Choice, 77 Hudson St., at about 7:20 p.m. Thursday, police said.
The man approached two women who had recently received their bill and asked if they needed anything else before paying.

The women - a 22-year-old from Secaucus and a 28-year-old from Hoboken - said no and handed him $90 in cash, police said. Waitstaff at Hobson's Choice have no dress code, a Hobson's employee said.

The man next went Margherita's Pizza and Cafe, at 740 Washington St., about 9 p.m. that night, gave his name as "Steve," and asked to be put on the wait-list for a table.

He sat in the waiting area for about 20 minutes and then approached three women and asked them if they were ready to pay, police said.

"He took the money from them and walked straight out of the restaurant," said Anthony Buzzerio, a manager at the restaurant.

The women - a 41-year-old from Manhattan, a 42-year-old from Woodbridge, and a 42-year-old from Scotch Plains - told cops they gave the man $96 for a $66 bill and expected change. The report did not explain why the women paid so much extra, police said.

Margherita's waitstaff wear black polo shirts with the store's logo on the front, Buzzerio said.

"The man was dressed very professionally," Buzzerio said. "Obviously (the customers) were a little confused."

Buzzerio said the restaurant absorbed the cost of the meal. "One we saw that they had put the money on the table - we wouldn't charge the customers twice."

"This is the first time I've come across something like this," Buzzerio added. "Hopefully he gets what's coming to him."

Oh my! What a brazen little scam monkey! Doing it once was bad enough but having the Henry Halls to do it twice? Well that's just too cheeky for words. I assume the tips were in the piles of cash that he squirreled away back to his evil geniuses lair, probably on top of a mountain or something or maybe just a grotty one room self contained studio apartment. You know the sort of place I mean, the sort of dwelling where old pedophiles go to die a lonely death. I hope they get him and get him soon and I hope they rip the spiky hair from his 20 something head.

Or alternatively they could give him the same sort of punishment that Larry David got on Curb when he got done, unfairly at that, for stealing forks from a restaurant. That'll learn him as we say round these parts.

But if you aren't sure if the guy or gal taking your money is a waiter or not just stare deep into their eyes, again much like Larry David does. If they stare back at you with the haunted and dead eyes of a slightly psychotic and unhinged individual who probably spends all day in bed only waking to feast on the remains of cold pizza and flat beer then bingo, you have a genuine waiter. If there is any sign of life, any sparkle at all then you should scream, from the top of your lungs, that he is an impostor.

Remember the scammers just want your money and the waiters....oh wait...

The bitterness of Waiters shines most when the sun comes out

2009-04-20T00:00:00.000+01:00

I was filling the empty moments whilst the credit card machine performed it's dramatic whirring and beeping with the usual banal chit chattery. It's always the same, "Heading on out this evening are we?" or "Any plans for the weekend?" or if conditions are right, "Beautiful evening sir, could be a good weekend for [insert any number of prosaic middle class activities here - boat sanding, horse grooming, writing angry letters to the Daily Mail/Belfast Telegraph and so on]

I went with the weather, obviously, as it was warm and pleasant, outside that is, it was hot and sweaty and generally disappointing conditions for the waiting of tables inside.

go away...

"Looks like a cracker couple of days ahead sir. Do you have plans for the weekend?", I asked with no real care for the answer as the machine performed it's overly complicated ritual of dialing and waiting and dialing again.

"Oh it looks fabulous doesn't it?!", exclaimed the previous sullen looking fifty year old gentleman.

I mean right up to that point he had shown no enthusiasm for anything, not the exquisite duck and foie gras terrine he dined on nor the spiffing bottle of Chablis he took 15 minutes to choose and certainly not the playful hugging of his super sweet grandchild. No right up until that moment he was a contrary old bastard. But as soon as I mentioned the favourable weather conditions predicted by scientists, farmers and old people (they can feel it in their bones, apparently) for the weekend he was Mr Saturday Night, Mr Jovial even. His change from sour faced old bastard to the campest man in the restaurant was really rather remarkable.

"Fabulous! It's going to be just fabulous!", he repeated with an unnerving and unexpected swing of his arms. Oh my. I had to take a step back lest he strike me with one of his flailing arms. But he was still to tip so I had to play along.

"Indeed sir, any plans?" I was staring at the machine and willing it to process the payment quicker with every fibre of my sweaty being.

"Well I fancy a jaunt up the coast, let the old girl out", the previous look of death and bitterness that had haunted his eyes was gone and had been replaced with an impish twinkle. I wasn't sure how to respond, was he talking about his wife? She was sitting right there for fuck sake! Oh please god no, I wasn't in the mood for an all boys together type nudge-nudge wink-wink conversation.

Treading where even angles fear I carried on, "Right so...eh..up the north coast then is it?"

"Yes yes....", he was so excited little bits of saliva where forming on the edge of his mouth, nice "...I have a little MG sports car. Gonna let the old girl out, let her rip"

My relief was palpable.

He droned on about the car for what seemed like four hours, "saved her from a scrap dealer.....restored the old girl myself....gotta treat them right...blah blah fucking alloys fucking racing green...blah blah blah" but in fact only about 30 seconds.

Cars bore me senseless but people who talk about cars make me want to hurt something, normally the person talking about them. I glanced, between politely nodding, at the credit card machine. It finally clicked into life and spat out the little receipt. Thank fuckity.

"And there you go sir, you have a fabulous weekend now." I was gonna say fierce but thought better of it.

"Oh I will", says he as he lifted his jacket.

"And what about you, will you be out taking advantage of the sun this weekend waiter?" People who call me "waiter" as if that was my name also make me want to hurt something. Douchery at it's best.

"Me? Oh no sir I'll be working all weekend", I said applying some final leverage into his wallet. Sympathy rarely pays off but worth a try.

"But it's the weekend!", he says all aghast at the thought of someone having to work an entire weekend, more douchery thought I.

"Ah yes sir but your Friday is my Monday and it's a very busy weekend for us."

Slipping some dosh, a decent amount at that, into my sweaty, wet, paw he bade me farewell and off he trundled, no doubt with dreams of racing round the north coast with the wind blowing through the part of his head where there used to be hair.

It's easy to spot waiters on their way to work when it's sunny outside. They walk like whatcha call him from The Verve in that video for that song, Bitter Sweet Symphony. But they slouch like they are carrying the woes of the world and they begrudge, they begrudge everything for everybody. Even happy go lucky me (arf) threw a tantrum on the way to work on Saturday. Repeated punches to the face from Little Miss Manuel put me right. Bless.

Seriously, I hate working when it's lovely and sunny and all your tables are late because they are all drinking outside soaking up the final rays of delicious sunlight and I am left to stare out the window like the child with the debilitating illness that means he isn't allowed to go outside and play with all the other boys. I am off on Tuesday and Wednesday this week, have your brollies at the ready, it will pish down.

Todays post was brought to you by bitterness, an almighty persecution complex and prayers for rain, but not for Tuesday.

Desked and iPhones and nefarious types.

2009-04-18T11:26:00.003+01:00

bad iPhone....

It has come to my attention, via a very scary email, that if you take a photograph of your desk with an iPhone and then submit that photo to Desked and then I or my good chum Mr Red Leeroy then publish the photo of your desk along with some pithy lines about the tidiness or otherwise of said desk then nefarious people with nefarious minds COULD, with a bit of jiggery pokery, find out where you live or work.

And they can do this with frightening accuracy.

Oh my.

The email came from blog chum and photographer, Toast. He can explain the whole thing better than I....

"Ha... when you take a picture with a digital camera, it by default adds in some extended data from the camera, 'exif' data, now traditionally this was info to help the photographer such as f-stop used, lens type etc - all very useful, also adding more information for filing - remember that Manchester congestion thingy I rumbled? I did that by looking at the exif data for one of the photos, after seeing 'mom with kids on white background' i knew that it was a) America ('mom') and b) from a stock agency ('on white background') so i went to istockphoto and searched the term and found it... Well I digress, now the iphone also has a gps it puts this info into the exif data as well, thus giving your location away in each photo... its not something I realised until I looked at that photo of yours...[FROM WELL DONE FILLET-NOW REMOVED] maybe worth bearing in mind... there are things that you can do to strip out exif data, and i think, that uploading only to a certain size in blogger might do that."

He also linked to my place of gameful employment, which was nice. Sorry did I say nice? I meant pant wettingly scary. Anyhoo I thought I should let you all know, just incase you worry bout such things. My advice is probably best not to submit photos to Desked that have been taken with your iPhone. But if you do, you do so at yer own risk.

Seriously, you cant take a poo without someone knowing about it....

(This post is a copy of the post on Desked)