:: Life on Planet Dan-E ::

:: I'm not as Thunk as you Drink I am ::

Yesterday was the 11th anniversary of The Abbey Brewing Company, one of my favorite bars here in South Beach. Their celebration offer was a $25 all-you-can-drink draft beers all day from 8am (Sunday morning) to 5am (the following morning). The fact that The Girlfriend was the one who told me about this is yet another item on the What Maker her Cool List (tennis racket choices notwithstanding).

What that means is that you can theoretically show up at 8am, drink till your heart's content, (or you liver screams for mercy) go grab some food or sober up at home, return and drink some more, repeat. For 22 hours.

I got a bit of a late start but I got my money's worth (and then some) anyway. The Abbey has four of their own recipes and another ten beers from around the world on tap, and except for the one from Canada, which they ran out of - which I can understand since they only had 70% of the amount of the American brews (I'll never get tired of that joke) - I got through them all. And I even tried a few of them a second time. Any maybe a third.

I have a pretty good tolerance (practice) but I still ate a large lunch beforehand so I could (pretend to) be sober enough to enjoy all the beers longer before passing out drunk. And yes, I was planning on getting drunk (I got that day AND the day after off from work). It just`, ummm, didn't quite work out that way. Granted there was a break in there involving greasy foods and maybe a short nap but all I got was mildly tipsy. And honestly, I was a little disappointed at myself. Seriously, who goes out to get drunk and then fails?! Is that an even bigger failure than the guy who tries to kill himself but screws it up? Or is it worse? Please, someone tell me. On second thought, don't.

I guess my 220lbs does a better job of absorbing alcohol than I realized.

:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 4:15 PM [+] :: | 0 comments
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:: Conversations with The Girlfriend: I ::

I try to play tennis twice a week and The Girlfriend, in a show of support, also tried to get into it at one point. This despite the fact that she's never played once her 29 (*cough*) years and tennis - kinda like the West Coast Offense - is something that can take a couple of years before you get the basics down and a couple more before you become truly proficient.

She hasn't played since she moved to Miami, partly due to lack of time but mostly due to her lack of a racket. We talked about getting her one after stopping by a Sports Authority a while back.

Me: Wilson and Head make some pretty good rackets.

The Girlfriend: Do they make one in pink?

M: (Pause) No.

TG: (Mildly whiney) Why not?

M: (Ignoring the question) I've seen some yellow ones, some red ones, some...

TG: But I want one in pink!

M: If I see one, I'll let you know. (Thinking that could never happen.)

TG: What kind do you have?

M: A Prince Graphite.

TG: Do they have one called "Princess?"

M: (At a loss for words. I'm still not sure if that was a real question.)

So last week, we're at another Sports Authority and much to her excitement (and my utter disbelief) she sees this thing.

TG: Oh my gawd!!! Look! It's pink!!!

M: ... yeah.

She grabs one and plays with it a little bit. She doesn't remember how to grip it properly. I smile at her and grab one off the rack to see for myself. I'm not impressed.

M: I don't know...

TG: (Annoyed) What?

M: It doesn't seem like a very good racket...

TG: But it's pink.

M: ... and there's other rackets that'll suit you better...

TG: And it comes with pink tennis balls!

M: I'm serious, this isn't a good racket. (It's a metal piece of crap. You have to believe me.)

TG: But it's PINK.

M: If you want, I'll chip in for a better...

TG: (Rather sternly) Dan-E, you need to learn what's important in life.

M: (Defeated pause) Yes dear.

I can't belive this is the same girl that knows more about football than some guys.

:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 12:30 AM [+] :: | 0 comments
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:: Server Tales V: A very Blonde Moment ::

It was the tail end of a very slow lunch shift and the few of us working just wanted the place to close so we could take our break and grab some lunch. About an hour before closing an older gentleman and a young blonde come in and take a seat. It's too early to say we're closed so I put on my best fake smile and tell them to sit anywhere they want (there's only two other tables taken at the moment).

They're friendly enough; the blonde orders the tilapia and the guy gets the Shrimp Scampi and they share a bottle of wine. I drop off their food, they ooh and ahh and dig in. I check back a few minutes later to see if they like everything and this happens:

Me: So how is everything?

Blonde: There's, like, a hair in my fish

My first thought is "oh shit." Then I look at her plate. I don't see anything.

M: Oh, sorry about that. If you want... umm... uhh... can you show me the hair?

B: It's right here. (She points to a spot on her fish.)

M: I don't... I don't see it.

She picks up the offending hair with her fork so I can see it. "See?" It's very long.

It's very blonde.

There's only two other guys working during that lunch. Our bartender Nick, is a Latin guy with black hair. Our cook Lee, is a Chinese guy also with short black hair with a lot of grey. And there's me with long hair but it's almost black. I'm racking my brain trying to think of a way to tactfully tell her that the intruding hair is, in fact, hers.

M: Ummm miss, I'm not trying to be difficult but that hair isn't from the kitchen.

B: What do you mean? Where else could it be from?

I see the guy suddenly put his head down, either from shame or he's trying to suppress laughter. I'm not sure which. It's at this point I realize I probably should have just apologized and offered to replace her fish with a new one but that line was crossed eons ago.

M: Well, that hair is long and rather, umm, light and... well... look at our chef.

She looks at her plate and then over to the kitchen. A half second passes - but it feels like hours - and she finally puts two and two together.

B: Oh! (She starts to giggle in that quintessential ditzy blonde manner). Ohmigawd you must think I'm, like, sooo stupid!

M: (Thinking) You have no idea. (Actual reply) It could happen to anyone miss, no big deal. If you want I can get your another fish.

B: No, it's ok this one is fine. Thanks!

Me: (Smiling) Enjoy your lunch.

I look over to the guy. His head is still down, his hand is covering his face and his head is shaking. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 12:25 AM [+] :: | 0 comments
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:: Server Tales IV: Looking back, looking ahead. ::

Anyone who's ever worked at a bar or restaurant will tell you that although you get your share of customers who border on insane, it's nothing compared to having to deal with the freaks who sometimes manage the restaurant. Every restaurant I or my friends have worked at have either a crazy owner, a power-tripping (micro-)manager, a temperamental group of cooks, or some insidious combination of the above. I'm fortunate enough that the managers at my restaurant are actually almost normal people.

Except for a waiter/bartender who likes to think he's the manager and enjoys barking orders, micro-managing, and nitpicking over stupid stuff that real managers would hardly glance at. For whatever reason, he seems to have it in for me. He's been in the service industry most of his adult life and will likely be a career waiter. So on some level, I can understand his anal-retentiveness but mostly, he just gets on my nerves. We've had a few intense conversations where he invoked the "they'll fire you" line of crap.

And honestly, there are worse things that could happen to me. If I get fired, all it would do is kick my ass into going out and finding my real job. And I could have pointed this out to him by saying something immature and snooty like "you'll be a waiter forever and three months from now I'll be making $50,000 at a cushy ad job." Which may or may not be true (I'll probably only start off at $40,000).

But I stopped myself because if I were to say that, I wouldn't be putting just him down, but I'd also be disparaging the server profession as a whole and I won't - can't - do that.

If it weren't for my jobs as a server, my student loans would be even greater. Being a server helped pay for rent, beer, school supplies, beer, plane tickets, my internship in Prague, and beer. In three months, I may finally be settling into my "grown up" job and my server days might be permanently behind me. But I've enjoyed the last six months of my life far more than the last couple of years before I moved to Miami. (The Girlfriend probably has something to do with that, and she'll kick my ass if I don't acknowledge it). I've always had a certain respect for waiters and the shit they sometimes of have to put up with but being one gave me an even deeper respect.

While it is hard work, it can be fun enough at times that I wish I started doing this waitering thing a lot sooner. But right now, looking back, I'm glad I did it. And right now, I'm glad I'm experiencing the things I am because ten years down the line, just in case I do become a rich ad geek, I can look back at this and smile.

:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 3:26 AM [+] :: | 0 comments
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:: Black and Tan ::

After a long day of selling seafood, fending off drunk middle-aged women, and dealing with obnoxious customers and ornery managers, this is what I love coming home to. My version starts with a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale instead of the usual Harp Lager, after which you slowly top it off with a can of Guinness Draught.

The key is to use a larger half-liter glass (I brought this one back from Prague) and pour the Guinness s-l-o-w-l-y over an overturned spoon.

Once it settles, savor it and think of red sunsets and brown women. (Or in my case, rare steaks and my girlfriend's blue eyes.)

:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 1:07 AM [+] :: | 0 comments
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:: Server Tales: Part III ::

I'm a pretty good waiter and most of the time, I come home with pretty good tip money, relative to my sales but since I work in one of the two or three restaurants in South Beach that doesn't charge an automatic gratuity I still get my share (as do all the other servers) of cheap bastards almost every night.

You know (or should know) that proper protocol requires you to leave at least a %15 tip if you get good service and your meals served in a timely manner. There are instances where if the service is truly bad, you absolutely should leave less. But that's a different post. (Which I will do in the near future.)

So instead, I'll regale you with stories of horrible tippers I, and a few of the other servers at my restaurant, have had to deal with.

• It's a slow Tuesday night. I get a tourist couple who walk in with big smiles on their faces after a nice, warm weekend in SoBe. They order a $34 bottle of wine after a couple of martinis each, as well as an appetizer, main course, and dessert. They're quite friendly, and I take good care of them. When they're done, they hand me the book and the guy shakes my hand while telling me I gave them "the best service in Miami all weekend." I wince and force a smile. I check the credit card slip: they spent a $159. They tipped me $15. There's a saying among servers: "beware the verbal tip." Compliments are nice but they don't pay my rent.

• My buddy Chuck is working a Sunday lunch shift (lunch sucks to begin with). He has two tables that were very pleasant but when they leave, they leave prayers cards instead of tips. I try to be sympathetic. "Well, there's nothing with people wanting to pray for you." "Fuck that," he replies. "Their prayers don't pay my mortgage." He's right. Those customers are going to hell.

• A six-top of Italians sit in my section (20 minutes before closing). They're loud, obnoxious, and very demanding (why don't have you have Alfredo sauce?!?! "Because this is a seafood restaurant?") At least I can tag them. (Most restaurants charge an automatic gratuity for parties of six of more.) One of them leaves early after finishing his meal. I fail to notice this since it happened while I was printing up their bill. They wave down the manager and argue their case - completely unbeknownst to me since I was off doing closing sidework - and since our manager had a very long night he tells me to remove the gratuity. I'm pissed. Their bill: $192 and they leave me two $100s. And they took the cannolis.

• We have some handwritten menus hanging on our walls that describe the menu. They look nice but are a graphic designer's nightmare in that the prices don't always line up with their items. However, the paper menus we give each diner should (in theory) clear up any questions about price. A distinguished-looking older gentleman orders a lobster. He's quite pleased. I drop off his check. When I return he asks me "you told me the lobster was $29.95 right?" "Yes?" "Then why does that menu say '$19.95?'" I look up. The $19.95 is for the Fra Diavlo. The lobster is very clearly marked "Market Price." I look back at him with a wry smile; "Wishful thinking?" is my reply. He tips me $3. I guess he doesn't get my humor either.

• A decent looking English girl dines by herself in my section. It's slow, she's charming and in a talky mood so I engage in conversation with her and do some flirting while she dines. She shakes my hand and gives me a peck on the cheek before she leaves. Her lips are soft and her hair smells like a forest fire. She tells me she left me something special. I pick up the book from her table: there's a slip of paper with her cell phone number on it. I figure I could tolerate her smoking for an evening. Then I look at her slip: she left me only $2 on $35. I suddenly remember just how much I hate smoking and I toss the paper. Although, if she was a little more attractive I probably would have tried to get my tip another way. (And before you start crying foul about whether or not I should be behaving this way when I have a girlfriend - especially The, uhh, Girlfriend - I should probably point out that this happened before we started dating.)

• I wait on an older French couple. Considering they're on vacation, I wonder why he's so surly and she's so sullen. They're not much trouble but there's never a "please" or "thank you" though they at least seem pleased with their fish. He leaves me a $50 for a $47 dollar bill. Could have been worse. I say "thank you" after picking up the book and tend to my other tables. 15 minutes later, they're still there. Cranky, cheap, and now they're squatters. Five minutes later he yanks on my shirt (don't EVER do this to your waiter) and asks me where his change his. I look at him with my Server Stink Eye. It says right there in the book at gratuity isn't included. He looks away uncomfortably and says "my change, please." (At least he said "please.") Right there, I pull out my bank, peel away three singles, place them in a book, and toss the book on the table, never once taking my eyes off him. He grabs his change and walks out in a hurry, leaving his wife in a cloud of dust. The hostess, oblivious to what just happened, cheerfully tells him "have a nice evening," yet he barely acknowledges her. I think I know why the wife is so sullen.

That's the ones I can remember. It sounds bad but these types of customers are a very small minority. But like so many, they're a very vocal minority. At least they give me stuff to blog about.

:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 12:46 AM [+] :: | 0 comments
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