Friday, July 31, 2015

An Open Letter to the Bitch at Table 15

There’s no congenial way of saying this so I’ll just come out with it.....but I hope you die of dehydration brought about by venereal disease.  I know, I know, I know.  You’re probably saying, “Oh, you don’t REALLY mean that.  You’re being hyperbolic and exaggerating so that you can put this on your food blog that you haven’t touched in three years.” 

But no, I really do mean it.  Your visit to my normally delightful little restaurant has been nothing short of a mini-holocaust for the soul....but without the satisfaction of a History Channel documentary. 

First, you paraded in waving a coupon around (it expires today) which historically has been a ‘get out of tipping free’ card.  But I explained to the staff that this was a cynical way of viewing a first time customer, and so we got down to the business of pleasing you. 

And that’s when the trouble started. 

Next, you complained loudly to your server that the wine list didn’t include your favorite Costco swill in a cardboard box (I googled it).  Luckily, for all of us, you managed to find a bottle - the cheapest bottle - which would pair nicely with the food you had no idea you were going to order and have never tasted before. But more on that later. 

***********************DISCLAIMER**************************Now at this point, ladies and germs- I’d like to point out that I, in no way shape or form, have an issue with Costco swill.  I love that shit.  Gallons of sub-par booze for rock bottom prices.  It’s really the only way that a human man of my....oh lets call it grandeur (although I think we can all agree ‘fatassery’ is probably a more apt term for my lapse in judgement) can get shit-faced for $.06 a brain cell.  Most other alcohols of repute do the job for $.09 and who can afford that in THIS economy?
*********************END DISCLAIMER******************

 After gazing at the menu you made a face.  Not a nasty face...more like the face that a dog makes when you decide to teach it algebra. 

“What’s ‘Aioli’?” you asked like a dog who’s being taught algebra.
“It’s basically another word for mayonnaise” your server responded.
“Mmmm.  Sounds weird.  I don’t think I’ll have that.” 

Good to know. You won’t be having MOST of the menu this evening. The question I think we’re all chomping at the bit to hear is what you WILL be having tonight. 

“Where’s the kid’s menu?”

Oh fuck....that’s right. I forgot. You brought your fucking kid. I cannot compliment enough the logic of bringing a child to a restaurant (where actual people are trying to eat and gain a moment of respite THEIR horrible children) where food is served and bringing along your own food.  And the logic of why that food is Cheerios.  WHY IS IT ALWAYS FUCKING CHEERIOS?!?!?!  Is little Timmy not equally entertained and nourished by a food that doesn’t come in a million pieces?  Why not give little Rosilyyn (yes, it’s spelled that way because people don’t think properly) a giant bowl of rice or orzo (shit, I forgot you don’t know what food is. Orzo is a little pasta that kinda looks like rice....ah, forget it).  Cheerios are the legos of the food world. Everyone is having a great time until they step on one.  But your horrible progeny aside, let’s get back to why you suck.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  The kid’s menu.   We don’t have one.  I’m sorry, but we simply don’t have one.  Why not?  Because we have kids in here about as often as often as Michael J Fox has really good penmanship.  But here’s a little industry secret: almost all restaurants have a bag of chicken fingers in the freezer for exactly this occasion.  And no, it’s not because they care about your little fuck trophy.  It’s because we don’t want to hear you bitch about how little Jayden can’t go a single meal in public without having something you’ve never served them at home once ever.  And no, we don’t have mac and cheese.  Unless we do...but it’s not the kind little Michaelangelina will enjoy because it doesn’t come out of a box, glow in the dark, is shaped like their favorite cartoon character, and has ingredients one can find in nature.'ve ordered your food.  You ordered the house specialty.  Awesome!  You’re gonna LOVE it.  It’s dish we’ve really worked and focused on to iron out all the kinks in flavor and service.  It makes money, it tastes great, it’s reasonably priced and really shows off the talents of the kitchen and what we can do with the raw materials presented to us. We’re so excited to serve it to you and maybe when you’re done you can tell us....

What’s that? 

You don’t want any of that stuff on it?

Oh....and you want us to make sure it’s well done.
No pink.
WELL done.



Look, lady....I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but I had to physically restrain Jose from coming out there with a knife and asking you what the fuck your problem is.  You see, Jose is the one who created the pineapple chutney that is kinda the binder of the whole dish you just ordered.  He makes each batch lovingly, babysitting the pot which slowly renders astringent pineapple, abrasive peppers, sulphuric onions and a melange of spices and seasonings into a rich, velvety, sweet but not cloying, spicy but balanced, smooth but with texture....sauce that, frankly, ties the whole thing together.  

You ordered it on the side.  Where you can taste it with zero context and decide it doesn’t fit your expectation of what this thing that you’ve never heard of before should taste like.  Your server tells me you took a little bite of it and decided it was ‘too ethnic‘ for your tastes and didn’t touch it after that.

Not only that, but you had a couple of suggestions about what we COULD put on it to make a bit more palatable to you. 

“ I think this would be good with some Ranch!....Ooooh!  Or Dorothy Lynch!!” you said like a dog who's failed his algebra test but doesn't realize it.

“I just LOVE Asparagus spears!  Why don’t you guys serve Asparagus spears!?!”

Your server told you it was just the chef’s choice.  But the real reason is because it’s January and only an idiot would ask for Asparagus.


Now where’s your date in all this?  Where IS that guy?  What’s HE doing?  He’s sitting there.  Having ordered his food exactly as it comes, enjoying it with the same abandon as he enjoys a night to himself when you’ve decided to leave town.  So overwhelmed with the ecstasy of his food that he’s having a hard time keeping his hand from shaking while he simultaneously wipes his sweat from his brow, Instagrams the shit out of this meal, and hides his ever growing erection.  That’s who you should be.  You should be the person who....for lack of a better word.....TRUSTS. 

Who hurt you?  Why do you have to hurt others with your fuckery?

In all honesty, I’ve stopped caring.  I’m already outside having a cigarette and joking with Jose.  It’s only been 8 minutes since you got your entree and we’ve already written half the jokes for this blog.

We’re now moving on to what happened in your childhood to make you behave in the manner you have tonight. 

In conclusion, I would invite you to disappear.  Disappear in the same way that the only black person in a horror movie disappears.  Disappear in the same way that a parent in a Disney film disappears.  Disappear in the same way that a minor female character disappears in American Psycho.

Just disappear. 

Hugs and Kisses,
Chef Rob

The Planned Parenthood to Your Self-Inflicted Culinary Abortion