Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Up? More like 'Down'! (Snap!)

     Welcome to the high stress world of cooking for strangers. If you've ever worked in an eatery or a restaurant of some type then you probably already know what terrible slave labour it involves. Crying babies, stacks of dishes, crotchety cooks making terrible food. It's rotten like the tomatoes they use in the gumbo! But for once, I can relate to you commoners reading this.

     I used to sling hash at this little grease pit in France called 'Restaurant-Le-Voilier'. Man-o that place was, "How you say..." shit hole. I tried soooo hard to make this little place reek of class and all it reeked of ... well it wasn't class and it wasn't pleasant, (It was more like dog poo). I'd scream so loud at the rest of the kitchen staff that I'd literally make some of the weaker ones cry. But still they couldn't get it right. The Orange Pressee was hardly that. Pulp the size of baseballs! And the Foie Gras? Don't even get me started on how puny they made it. I swear it's like they weren't force-feeding those ducks fast enough. Well I tell you when you serve poor "Assiette de foie gras de canard," it's not the bird or the cook who suffers. It's the patron.

     The worst were the croissants. The croissants were way too brown for my liking but when I'd spend 15-75 minutes trying to peel off that top layer of crust with a paring knife the manager would be all, 'Blah blah blah I'm French! Blah Blah People are leaving because it's 2pm and they still haven't gotten their breakfast! Blah Blah Blah we need liberating some more!' 
     God I hate terrible bosses. Jacque, (probably French for "Jack-in-the-shitbox") wasn't even a manager! He was an assistant. But all that aside, I'm not reviewing eateries I'm slamming bad movies! Which brings me to this weird little cartoon everyone's been chatting about. If you can even call a two-hour cartoon a movie in the first place. That's like putting lipstick on a dog and trying to take it to prom. It doesn't work no matter what back story you give her. 

     So late one warm, May night I'm in the kitchen slaving over some spaghetti carbonara and i just can't get the egg yolk right. We all know it doesn't take a rocket scientist to yolk an egg but the cream sauce was too viscous and it just wasn't working. Jack-ass marches in, fiddling with his tiny mustache and throws the sauce in my face. He tells me it's been almost an hour and that he'll do it. So I get sent to serve a party of people that have come in. 

     They're a bunch of American snobs falling over how good this flick 'Up' is and how 'It's going to change the way 3-D flicks are going to be done' and all that megalomaniacal yank bullshit. Oh they're clapping and patting themselves on the back and it's all making me sick. So naturally when I'm waiting a table without really being asked to I but in. 
     'I've seen Up!' I ask him, 'That was the one with an old geezer and a fat kid pulling a floating house through a jungle, right?
     This squirrelly little poindexter sighs, 'Yeah that's the one. What did you think?
I don't like his tone so I demand that he and everyone else at his table produce some ID. His passport reads "PETER DOCTOR". 
     'Fuck you, you're not a doctor!' I scream in his puny little face. 'And I have seen Up it's terrible! The worst cartoon movie ever made!'  

     I really hadn't seen it at all but this dude was just rubbing me the wrong way and I really wanted to make him cry. And that's exactly what I did. After only five or so Paris minutes* of stickin' it to this "PHD in terrible movie taste" he's at my feet sobbing like a baby. In front of all his buddies no less! I was about to leave the poor guy alone and try and put the sexy moves on his hot lady-friend named Ratzenberger but then someone at the table had the absolute nerve to ask me for more toast! MORE TOAST?! Bitch please. 
     'The trouble always is,' Giacchino explained to me, 'not how to get enough caviar, but how to get enough toast with it.' 

     As if! So I slammed that dirty sloo in the face with my iron fist of doom and stormed out. I swear to god after all that stress I'm never working in a diner in the south of France ever again and I'm never, never, never going to go see that movie Up! Well I might go work at Baoli down the road, (hotter waitresses) but I'm still never going to see Up. 


     *A Paris minute is slightly longer than a regular minute, a lot longer than a New York minute, is a little more high-strung and has a little more armpit hair.** It also has terrible taste in fine art.

     **A lot more armpit hair in the winter.

1 comment:

  1. ohhh fuck off...

    There are plenty of good restaurants in the south of France! And I should know, I once received a postcard from someone* staying there!

    *A complete stranger. The postcard was addressed to the guy next door but it came to me by mistake. I still kept it.