Monday, December 17, 2007


Idiots Speak

Not sure if Idiots Speak is the title I'm going to use forever, but I like it for now. I haven't done one of these in a while but it's been mostly due to a lack of material. Now that I spend 90% of my time in the kitchen and we've finally trained the new drivers to work the phones and computers correctly, I just don't overhear as much as I used to.

Fortunately for y'all (unfortunately for those of us that actually deal with them,) we've had significant turnover in the wait staff. The new servers are, to be polite, some of the worst servers I have ever worked with. To be not-so-polite, I firmly believe that a schizophrenic midget with no arms and a severe speech impediment could do a better job.

A lady (well, lady isn't the correct term. In all actuality, she was kind of a bitch) came to the kitchen window, wanting to know how many pieces we could cut a pizza into.

Mike: Well, we usually cut the pizzas into eight pieces, but we can do whatever you would like.
Bitchy Lady: I don't think you understand what I'm asking you. I want to know the maximum number of pieces you can cut a pizza into.
Mike: Well, what size pizza are you going to order?
Bitchy Lady: Does it matter?
Mike: Yes. For instance, if we cut a 12 inch pizza into more than eight pieces, the pieces will be incredibly small.
Bitchy Lady: All I want to know the maximum number of pieces you can cut a pizza into. How hard is that?
Mike looked to me for help at this point
JT: Ma'am, in theory, we could cut the pizza into two thousand slices. However, they would be so small, it would be pointless. How many people are you trying to feed?
Bitchy Lady: About 12.
JT: Well, since it's still happy hour, I recommend that you just get eight cheese slices and cut them in half. That should be more than enough for everyone, and they're only $1.00 each right now.
This worked out for her. After we explained to her waitress what she wanted, this was the ensuing conversation:
Amy: I don't see why that was so complicated.
JT: It wasn't once I explained that cheese slices are only $1.00 during happy hour.
Amy: Well, why didn't someone tell her that in the first place?
Mo: You're her waitress! Who do you think was supposed to tell her?!

One night, we were out of chicken. This caused no small amount of confusion.

Drew: Randi, we can't make that Rajun Cajun pizza.
Randi: Why not?
Drew: We're out of chicken.
Randi: But that has blackened chicken on it.
Drew: What exactly do you think blackened chicken is made out of?

Lindsey: Hey Josh, I know we're out of chicken - can we still make the chicken parmesan sandwich?
JT: Please tell me you're not serious.
Lindsey: (blank stare)
JT: Oh sweet Jeebus. No, we cannot, as one of the primary ingredients is chicken. For the record, we also cannot make the grilled chicken sandwich, the chicken jersey, the chicken philly, the barbeque chicken sandwich, or add grilled chicken to any of the salads.

However, tonight was one of my favorites. We were all but closed down. Last call had been called, the kitchen was closed, and I was taking out the trash. Out of nowhere, a guy walked in the back door. This is no small feat, as our back door is at the end of a very poorly lit alley, and up a flight of death-defyingly rickety stairs. There is absolutely no reason for anyone but employees to be back there.

Random Drunk Guy: Hey...where am I?
JT: You're at the Willage Idiot, but we're closing down.
RDG: How the hell did I get here?
JT: Your guess is as good as mine. Where did you come from?
RDG: I'm not sure.

At this point, he walked through the bar, down the front steps, and out the front door. Brian told me I should have said he was in Alberta, Canada.

Well, that's it for now. It's almost 3:00 AM, and I'm going to bed.

JT out.

You know, I might have to eat at the Idiot if I ever get to Columbia, as your discourse on the "chicken" thing indicates that your cooks actually know how to, well, cook, and don't just take pre-breaded or pre-blackened frozen chicken breast and throw it on the grill or in the frier.

(my hunch is that the new waitress' culinary training consists of the "throw frozen something in the something or other and watch it fry")

You'll serve a teeotaler a coke with his parmesan chicken sandwich, right?
I would be pleased to.

Actually, I think the waitress' training is: I'm cute, so give me money.
These make me laugh every single time. One of my favorite near-regular Blogger features. Keep up the good work, buddy.
Your bar is magical...just getting NEAR it makes you drunk, apparently.
Little did you know, the bitchy lady was ordering for her 8 year old's birthday party. Ka-Chow!
HATHERY - Well, yes, but I like to think that I help.

BLU - Boo-ya.
Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?