- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 1251
New waiter, R#4 likes him, he's nice enough, but I'd say "a bit sketchy". He's staying at the shelter in Nelson, takes the bus to work - not a lot of help, given the restaurant closes later than the bus schedule will allow, and to show up and not do the formidable side duties - sweeping, mopping, cleaning - etc. seems a bit of a cheat.
So I volunteer to give him a ride back to Nelson, and he's telling me about his plans to open a restaurant. He's got it all figured out, has friends he's gonna hire, knows the menu, the suppliers, has a business model by which he can work only 3 days a week...
...and I'm thinking that maybe buddy you should be worried about finding a place to live, a reliable means of transportation, it seems obvious, but that's the furthest thing from his mind, he's worrying about linen and cutlery...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 1114
And every single one of 'em in the kitchen is coming to me for an advance...not one has a nickel to their name, not enough to buy a pack of cigarettes, bottle of vodka, Chef, the 2 assistants, they're penniless. They've been working here, 8, 12 weeks. Every payday it's the same. I raise an eyebrow, ask one of the younger ones if they don't save anything, "Nope", pretty matter-of-fact, it's payday to payday and when the summer's over if they have enough for a bus ticket it'll be off to look for the next job...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 1315
The child came in, maybe 14, 15 years old, looking for a hot-dog. We don't serve hot-dogs. We did, for a bit, for the 70th anniversary of the ferry landing, at the concession outside, but the kid, he's late, 8:00 PM, and the hot-dogs are done and I know nothing about it, I'm not the hot-dog waiter.
I know nothing about this, I call R#4, he speaks to the kid, gives him the story. No, we don't do hot-dogs.
A few minutes later his pa comes in. His pa, maybe 35, 40 years old, dull, maybe not dull so much as drunk, you get it from the accent, they're Irish.
And he's spoiling for a fight.
"So you won't cook my kid a hot-dog..." he begins, and R4 is dealing with it, "Nope..." he replies "We're all out...".
He's the short man with the chip on his shoulder. He's pissing me off.
Pissing me off, we've a bat behind the bar for exactly this sort of situation...WTF, these people, go to another country, give the locals shit for not being exactly what you expected in your own country (which, if, in Ireland, you're out of hot-dogs, well, then, fuck, I'm pretty sure you're outta hot-dogs)
I know there's Canadians that do the same, I say revoke their passports, everyone that leaves your / our country is an ambassador for it, if you haven't the rudiments of good manners there's no way we're letting you out to prejudice the world against us...And for foreigners, you're guests, dependent on our grace, bloody hell, don't like it? Tell your countrymen. Go ahead. We don't fucking need you. Give us a miss. We've plenty enough assholes as it is.
This Irishman , he's pissing me off, I want to grab the bat from behind the bar and just give him the education he's been waiting for his entire life, his kid, well, he'd be learning too, the rest of the patrons, well, let's be real, no one likes to be told off by a foreigner, full of shit, they've all got bats of their own. It could become a national custom, holiday, beat the shit out of the rude drunk Irishman, we've plenty of space for the body, fuck, we're in the Kootenays, but somehow or another the Irishman mollifies his tone ... "Well, if you're out your out..." ... and takes the menu to consider other options for his hungry child.
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 1522
I've noticed her, hard not to, slender figure, a fine shape, beautiful face. We've chatted, briefly, she's beautiful, a mild flirtation, she's usually in to catch the ferry, a short window, and here, I'm busy, always busy...
The other waitress knows her, they live on the other side of the lake, small community, she tells me she's a Doula.
Tonight, she's in, alone, 5 minutes after the last ferry left, meaning for 2 hours, or an hour an 50 minutes , and so tonight, slow enough to chat, a wee bit, and I ask her about the Doula bit...
She's not a Doula, she's a registered nurse. But funny I should ask, she's thinking about becoming a death doula....
Curious, for me, because I knew somebody else once who had an interest in this. Me, death, pretty cut and dried, I've lots of practice, it doesn't particularly scare me (anymore) but I'd like to be ready. Not "Doula" ready, but - well, have my locker organized, have certain of my creative projects out of the way. But I'm not everyone, and I've met a lot of people who were scared to death of it...no pun intended. People who hung on far longer than was seemly, becoming, people who had this inarticulate fear and apprehension of death and would do anything to avoid it. Anything, in Canada, means anything that we - the taxpayers - are willing to pay for.
It's curious, I get it, and no, at the same time, death is the end, embrace it, live well and nave nothing to regret. Make room for the new generation. I sometimes worry that I'm a little too cavalier about it all, I think I just get it in a broader, metaphysical sense.
She's 55. She drops her age and it explodes lite a fucking nuclear bomb. "No Way!!" I tell her, she looks good for a woman of 40, 35 even, good period, she's a beautiful woman, well composed and collected, but she's not taking the flattery, "YES", absolute, I've never seen this, in Calgary, wherever, never. She's beautiful, and I hate to be ageist (being old myself) - but - well, you don't see this. Amazing. All my prejudices out the window.
The night gets busy, the conversation lulls, I want to buy her a drink, lead the conversation away from here, discover her a bit more thoroughly, but work and professionalism forbid, I'll break that taboo for sure, soon, I know, don't want to be "that waiter", but I'm here, she's keen, and while nurses aren't my thing I'm curious...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 1960
Isabella, the longstanding sous-chef, name in full only because nobody knows it, she's not front line, comes in twice a week to make Tiramisu, Oso Buco, do the prep work, she should be retired but...
...she runs into a cardboard box filled with Panettone, the hallways are tight, it struck her just beneath the eye and she imagines she sees blood...
...faints, first off, thank goodness it's not a busy lunch, she's lying on the floor, can't stand the sight of blood (or mice), imagines that she saw blood, there's no blood.
But she can't stand. The salad girl, the owner, they're on to her, we give her time to recover. Take her to the bathroom, show her her reflection - no blood, sit her down in a chair, she can't speak, won't speak, imagining her afterlife as a saint...
Eventually, 3 hours later, she's fit to leave. Doesn't need an ambulance, although we offered again and again, she feels she's fit to drive.
In the evening I reenact the days events for the mirth of the night chef and comrades...
We have a new salad girl, the old one left, she can't look at me and keep a straight face. Always she laughs, this is due, I suspect, to my little merry pranks that I play on her and her helpers. Luciana, older Italian lady, bawdy sense of humour, solid helmet of dyed red hair, sneaking up behind her to pinch her large ass with a pair of chef's tongs, she's screaming "Rape" in Italian at the top of her lungs, the salad girl merely doubles over in laughter...
...or putting a mouse, dead, caught in a trap, in a little container they use for things like cheese or olives, she shakes it up then opens it, sees it dead and curled, panics...
The owner, he quizzes me on this, I explain that I left it for the salad girl, she shouldn't have been nosy, was none of her business, the owner, he understands, it's her fault, the salad girl merely doubles over in laughter every time she sees me, Luciana, she threatens me with death. I shrug it off, you can't please everyone...