This has less to do with waiting, than it does with wild boozing, which has a lot to do with waiters.
Anyway, one of the dumbest things I ever did in high school was to throw a toga party at my house while my Mom and Dad were away and a friend fell down the stairs into our lobby and broke this mahogany hope chest. I attempted to fix it, and simultaneously crossed "finish carpentry" off my list of careers to consider.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
It's Vagina Town Jake
I saw in the LA Times that Roman Polanski wants to come back to America after fleeing sentencing for the rape of a 13 year old girl in 1978. Let me be the first to tell Roman that the Poison Ivy has a patio table reserved for him and Jack Nicholson, with 3 gimlets ready and a couple of roofies, and if the Hannah Montana look a likes find him disgusting and mothbally, then he can slip one to one of the Oaxacan bussers and rape one of them if he wants.
--Blanche DuBois
Owner of the Poison Ivy
--Blanche DuBois
Owner of the Poison Ivy
Monday, December 1, 2008
Beckham Shoots...He Gyps!!!!!!!!!!!
Beckham once tipped me at the Poison Ivy with a wad of cash, in handshake fashion. I was over joyed, only to find $30 in 1s and 5s! It was still 20% but come on! I had to work real hard! I had to compose myself around Victoria as she kept pitchin woo at me.
Words of Wisdom from Wolfgang
Hi!
It's been crazy this November, sorry for the lack of posts. I'll be up to speed asap.
Here's a good one from Wolfgang Puck, that would make Yogi Berra proud.
Upon seeing a group of idle waiters chatting, Wolfgang barks out, "I never want to see more than one waiter together at the same time!"
It's been crazy this November, sorry for the lack of posts. I'll be up to speed asap.
Here's a good one from Wolfgang Puck, that would make Yogi Berra proud.
Upon seeing a group of idle waiters chatting, Wolfgang barks out, "I never want to see more than one waiter together at the same time!"
Friday, November 7, 2008
"Homemade" Crab Cakes!
Brought to you by Saltines, a cracker so good, you’d swear they were “homemade!”
Once upon a time at the Poison Ivy, I waited on a little old lady and she just loved the crab cakes, and she asked me how the crab cakes got their texture. My immediate thought was to say, “Shit Spackle,” but instead I replied, “Cracker”. She then asked me if we used eggs and I said “I can’t discuss preparations." Now this isn’t because the recipes are so complicated. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, our employee manual--about as long as the Warren Commission report--specifically mentions that we serve “simply grilled meats and fishes, with homemade bread and pastas.” What I should have said is “homemade bread crumbs”--another lie in the labyrinth of lies that is the Poison Ivy.
How can I say this? Blanche Du Bois, the owner of the Poison Ivy, is a liar. Pathological and so nested in her fantasy, the Poison Ivy is a labyrinth of lies so convoluted that Theseus himself would have to leave a trail of “homemade bread crumbs" to find his way out. The Poison Ivy is the biggest lie in a town filled with liars. She and her chimp of a husband, cook Dick, who calls himself a “chef” and “master baker”, have pulled the wool over the eyes of Hollywood for too long. In fact this resume fraud has been perpetuated by the great bullshit artist himself, George Christy, formerly of the Hollywood Reporter. George called Dick a “master baker”!
George Christy, “the Queen of the Run-On Sentence,” almost single handedly made Spago-a-go-go and Poison Ivy what they are today: overrated. If one ever wondered what the world would look like if “periods” ever went on strike, then look no further than one of George Christy’s Things You Should Know columns from the 1980s. The only thing dustier than some of the reviews hanging on the walls of the Poison Ivy, are the slices of “fresh” raspberry pie languishing in the dessert fridge since last week.
Master Baker Dick uses the cheapest ingredients available while forcing his staff to convey to guests that “everything is fresh and homemade” I ask you Dick, does that include the saltines we use as filler in our crab cakes, that you pass off as "home made bread crumbs"? Man, you pull that cracker shit in New Orleans, they kick yo’ po’boy ass. Speaking of New Orleans, how about the canister of actual chef Paul Prudhomme’s Seafood Magic, that the Poison Ivy uses in their Fried Chicken, grilled Vegetable salad, and other dishes? Or the frozen scallops? But I digress...
Back to Granny...Well, what harm could come from mentioning Saltines, you ask? A lot. Granny here, looks at her coffee cup, filled, by the way, with cheap coffee from a wholesale roaster in Santa Ana--and asks where she can buy “these lovely dishes”. Without thinking, I chirp, “Next door at our shop Hepatitis Seas.”
I can’t make this shit up. A waiter at Poison Ivy at the Shore--our sister restaurant in Santa Monica, otherwise known as Siberia by the Sea--was fired for showing a guest the coffee bag. Now, the guest actually liked the coffee, and the waiter was merely being hospitable. They fired him for discussing our purveyors. Blanche and her monkey boy Dick want the public to believe--and believe me, the public believes it like lemmings believe in cliffs--that our ingredients are so special, so unique, that we must be secretive, lest someone copy our recipes. The reality is that the Poison Ivy uses the cheapest ingredients available: De Cecco pasta at the Poison Ivy at the Shore, fruits and veggies from the Central Market downtown. There is no quality difference between the Poison Ivy and Andre’s Italian Cafeteria at 3rd and Fairfax. Now I love Andres, but they charge $6.75 for their lasagna, not $26.75!
Back to granny...
Fast forward 30 minutes. I’m in the middle of lunch. I get called to the front. It’s the GM on the phone. “Oh dear, sorry to bother you, but can you come upstairs?” It’s the worst thing for a single dad with two kids to support to hear. Getting called upstairs at the Poison Ivy can age you a year or two in ten minutes.
I was being sent home. Why? Discussing Poison Ivy recipes. "Oh shit," I thought, "Granny was a plant." Turned out she wasn’t. She had merely followed my suggestion and went next door, to Hepatitis Seas where she was greeted by a mysterious woman (Blanche) who inquired how her lunch was. The little old lady exclaimed what a wonderful lunch she had had, and how fluffy the crab cakes were, because of those “crackers”! Blanche, quizzed her politely. “Oh, really? Who, pray tell, told you that?”
“The waiter.”
“What was his name?”
“INSERT DOOMED WAITER HERE. He’s wonderful.”
Anyhow...I narrowly escaped being fired. I survived because Blanche and Dick still viewed me as a loyal employee due to my help with the Lindsay Lohan lawsuit. But that’s another story. ;-)
FACT: The Poison Ivy sells their cheaply made plates at outrageous prices, covering up the fact that they are made for pennies in Peru, not Santa Barbara CA, as Blanche would have you believe. She has the audacity to sign the plates with Santa Barbara--obviously trying to make an allusion to the California Pottery movement. Another lie.
Blanche and Dick use the cheapest glasses and silverware from Sysco, not because of the rustic setting, but because of their price. Flowers? Our handbook says we are to tell folks--another colloquial phrase to make us seem old fashioned. BARF!--that the flowers come from the garden of the owners! Can you fucking believe this shit? I can’t make this up.
The flowers come from the flower mart downtown. It’s the place people buy flowers. I swear, if the Poison Ivy could say their Mexican slaves came from their garden they would. I can just see Blanche tilling the soil and harvesting a new crop of Central American busboys locating them with the help of specially trained pigs, just like they do in Alba with truffles.
BRB I’ve got to apply some Preparation H, as the mere act of writing this shit makes my ass itch.
Once upon a time at the Poison Ivy, I waited on a little old lady and she just loved the crab cakes, and she asked me how the crab cakes got their texture. My immediate thought was to say, “Shit Spackle,” but instead I replied, “Cracker”. She then asked me if we used eggs and I said “I can’t discuss preparations." Now this isn’t because the recipes are so complicated. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, our employee manual--about as long as the Warren Commission report--specifically mentions that we serve “simply grilled meats and fishes, with homemade bread and pastas.” What I should have said is “homemade bread crumbs”--another lie in the labyrinth of lies that is the Poison Ivy.
How can I say this? Blanche Du Bois, the owner of the Poison Ivy, is a liar. Pathological and so nested in her fantasy, the Poison Ivy is a labyrinth of lies so convoluted that Theseus himself would have to leave a trail of “homemade bread crumbs" to find his way out. The Poison Ivy is the biggest lie in a town filled with liars. She and her chimp of a husband, cook Dick, who calls himself a “chef” and “master baker”, have pulled the wool over the eyes of Hollywood for too long. In fact this resume fraud has been perpetuated by the great bullshit artist himself, George Christy, formerly of the Hollywood Reporter. George called Dick a “master baker”!
George Christy, “the Queen of the Run-On Sentence,” almost single handedly made Spago-a-go-go and Poison Ivy what they are today: overrated. If one ever wondered what the world would look like if “periods” ever went on strike, then look no further than one of George Christy’s Things You Should Know columns from the 1980s. The only thing dustier than some of the reviews hanging on the walls of the Poison Ivy, are the slices of “fresh” raspberry pie languishing in the dessert fridge since last week.
Master Baker Dick uses the cheapest ingredients available while forcing his staff to convey to guests that “everything is fresh and homemade” I ask you Dick, does that include the saltines we use as filler in our crab cakes, that you pass off as "home made bread crumbs"? Man, you pull that cracker shit in New Orleans, they kick yo’ po’boy ass. Speaking of New Orleans, how about the canister of actual chef Paul Prudhomme’s Seafood Magic, that the Poison Ivy uses in their Fried Chicken, grilled Vegetable salad, and other dishes? Or the frozen scallops? But I digress...
Back to Granny...Well, what harm could come from mentioning Saltines, you ask? A lot. Granny here, looks at her coffee cup, filled, by the way, with cheap coffee from a wholesale roaster in Santa Ana--and asks where she can buy “these lovely dishes”. Without thinking, I chirp, “Next door at our shop Hepatitis Seas.”
I can’t make this shit up. A waiter at Poison Ivy at the Shore--our sister restaurant in Santa Monica, otherwise known as Siberia by the Sea--was fired for showing a guest the coffee bag. Now, the guest actually liked the coffee, and the waiter was merely being hospitable. They fired him for discussing our purveyors. Blanche and her monkey boy Dick want the public to believe--and believe me, the public believes it like lemmings believe in cliffs--that our ingredients are so special, so unique, that we must be secretive, lest someone copy our recipes. The reality is that the Poison Ivy uses the cheapest ingredients available: De Cecco pasta at the Poison Ivy at the Shore, fruits and veggies from the Central Market downtown. There is no quality difference between the Poison Ivy and Andre’s Italian Cafeteria at 3rd and Fairfax. Now I love Andres, but they charge $6.75 for their lasagna, not $26.75!
Back to granny...
Fast forward 30 minutes. I’m in the middle of lunch. I get called to the front. It’s the GM on the phone. “Oh dear, sorry to bother you, but can you come upstairs?” It’s the worst thing for a single dad with two kids to support to hear. Getting called upstairs at the Poison Ivy can age you a year or two in ten minutes.
I was being sent home. Why? Discussing Poison Ivy recipes. "Oh shit," I thought, "Granny was a plant." Turned out she wasn’t. She had merely followed my suggestion and went next door, to Hepatitis Seas where she was greeted by a mysterious woman (Blanche) who inquired how her lunch was. The little old lady exclaimed what a wonderful lunch she had had, and how fluffy the crab cakes were, because of those “crackers”! Blanche, quizzed her politely. “Oh, really? Who, pray tell, told you that?”
“The waiter.”
“What was his name?”
“INSERT DOOMED WAITER HERE. He’s wonderful.”
Anyhow...I narrowly escaped being fired. I survived because Blanche and Dick still viewed me as a loyal employee due to my help with the Lindsay Lohan lawsuit. But that’s another story. ;-)
FACT: The Poison Ivy sells their cheaply made plates at outrageous prices, covering up the fact that they are made for pennies in Peru, not Santa Barbara CA, as Blanche would have you believe. She has the audacity to sign the plates with Santa Barbara--obviously trying to make an allusion to the California Pottery movement. Another lie.
Blanche and Dick use the cheapest glasses and silverware from Sysco, not because of the rustic setting, but because of their price. Flowers? Our handbook says we are to tell folks--another colloquial phrase to make us seem old fashioned. BARF!--that the flowers come from the garden of the owners! Can you fucking believe this shit? I can’t make this up.
The flowers come from the flower mart downtown. It’s the place people buy flowers. I swear, if the Poison Ivy could say their Mexican slaves came from their garden they would. I can just see Blanche tilling the soil and harvesting a new crop of Central American busboys locating them with the help of specially trained pigs, just like they do in Alba with truffles.
BRB I’ve got to apply some Preparation H, as the mere act of writing this shit makes my ass itch.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
How to Get the Waiter Vote
Any candidate for President could win the service employee vote by a landslide, regardless of personal politics, if he did the simple act of rescinding the IRS's ability to tax gratuities. Contrary to what the IRS says, tips are not income. They are gifts for services rendered. It's really similar to when I was a paperboy and got paid per newspaper each month, but around Xmas I received a "gift" for a job well done from the customer.
It's a gift and at the very least the first $11,000 of a gift should be tax free. This is the amount the IRS says one can receive without being taxed.
Ask any waiter what they do with all their dough and they will say, as sure as Sarah Palin says, "You Betcha!", that they SPEND it! They pour it right back into the economy, often at bars and restaurants, which perpetuates the growth.
Of course this means states that pay less than minimum wage would have to start paying more, but I firmly believe this would help the over all economy more than a $800 stimulus check. I already get all the stimulus I need watching Sarah Palin bend over to pick up some notes that she dropped. :-0
It's a gift and at the very least the first $11,000 of a gift should be tax free. This is the amount the IRS says one can receive without being taxed.
Ask any waiter what they do with all their dough and they will say, as sure as Sarah Palin says, "You Betcha!", that they SPEND it! They pour it right back into the economy, often at bars and restaurants, which perpetuates the growth.
Of course this means states that pay less than minimum wage would have to start paying more, but I firmly believe this would help the over all economy more than a $800 stimulus check. I already get all the stimulus I need watching Sarah Palin bend over to pick up some notes that she dropped. :-0
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Some Thoughts on Foreigners Tipping
I was reading one of my favorite blogs: http://waiterrant.net/ and a waiter had written an open letter to Prime Minister Gordon Brown demanding that Brits be educated on proper tipping.
I commented on the site but thought I'd pass them on to my infant blog audience. ;-) More on this at a later date.
"I love tourists from foreign countries. They often order nice wines, and are adventurous eaters. Many tip very nicely. If they don’t it’s a lack of understanding of our custom of hiring bitter, underachieving failed actors and actresses, who actually think the world owes them something. 
20% of waiters do 80% hospitality, leaving the other 80% to stink up the joint with their pissy attitudes.
--VIP Waiter
Snoop Dogg Visits the Poison Ivy
Life in LA and especially life at the Poison Ivy can be surreal with all the celebrities and paparazzi, but what happened one Friday afternoon in July a few years back, just takes the cake.
Jay-Z--a big east coast rapper--was having lunch on the garden patio with his ‘posse’. LL Cool J invented ‘posse’ to replace ‘entourage’. Now, I’m just a white boy from the ‘burbs, but I know enough about the rap scene to know that there is a true rivalry between East and West coast rappers which transcends music and settles into good old fashioned street violence. Tupac and Biggie could testify to that but they're both dead.
Anyway, it goes without saying that Jay-Z has heavy professional security, that literally stand out in front of the restaurant like the secret service does for dignitaries. These are serious dudes-definitely packin’--you can always tell ‘cause they don’t tuck in their shirts.
Everything went fine. He’s actually a nice guy. Jay-Z and the posse had a good time. They paid, tipped big and left. End of story? Read on...
10 minutes after they left, a large flat bed truck pulls up right in front of the patio. It has a ‘jail cell’ set on back, complete with iron bars, beds, and black people--you know the typical stuff you’d see in jail. And there’s this band! Guitar, bass, and drums, with sexy girls, and big black bouncer types. And they have their own posse of guerrilla videographers that jump out of a few cars.
And their hammering out some catchy R&B/rap tune live. At first I thought, “Oh, this is some unsigned band trying to get attention. Maybe they knew Jay-Z was gonna be here and they’re trying to get his attention...but no!
Out from behind one of the big dudes comes Snoop Dogg himself, all tall and wiry with wacked out buckwheat hair. And he’s singing,
Your fooling yourself,
your fooling yourself,
your fooling yourself!
And then launches into a bitchin’ rap. This went on for at least 5 minutes, then abruptly ends with Snoop Dogg slamming the jail doors shut with a BANG, taking a bow, and the truck speeds off.
We were floored, and the restaurant was still pretty busy and the customers couldn’t believe it. Now my head started spinning. Was this a coincidence? Was Snoop Dogg, who, by the way hails from Long Beach, doing a video, or was he sending a message to Jay-Z, who had just left? Was he saying, “You may act like this bad ass hoodlum, but you’re eatin’ at whitest, richest place on earth. Of course, as the lyrics were kinda spooky in a “We’re comin to get ya’ kind of way...” we pondered if this was gonna end up being some video that mocks the rich clientele in general.
We speculated on this for a while, but then had to serve another $30.00 salad. After all, it was just another day at the Poison Ivy.
10/30/08
PS--thanks to Penny C @ Universal Music Publishing for the Rapper Spell Check
Jay-Z--a big east coast rapper--was having lunch on the garden patio with his ‘posse’. LL Cool J invented ‘posse’ to replace ‘entourage’. Now, I’m just a white boy from the ‘burbs, but I know enough about the rap scene to know that there is a true rivalry between East and West coast rappers which transcends music and settles into good old fashioned street violence. Tupac and Biggie could testify to that but they're both dead.
Anyway, it goes without saying that Jay-Z has heavy professional security, that literally stand out in front of the restaurant like the secret service does for dignitaries. These are serious dudes-definitely packin’--you can always tell ‘cause they don’t tuck in their shirts.
Everything went fine. He’s actually a nice guy. Jay-Z and the posse had a good time. They paid, tipped big and left. End of story? Read on...
10 minutes after they left, a large flat bed truck pulls up right in front of the patio. It has a ‘jail cell’ set on back, complete with iron bars, beds, and black people--you know the typical stuff you’d see in jail. And there’s this band! Guitar, bass, and drums, with sexy girls, and big black bouncer types. And they have their own posse of guerrilla videographers that jump out of a few cars.
And their hammering out some catchy R&B/rap tune live. At first I thought, “Oh, this is some unsigned band trying to get attention. Maybe they knew Jay-Z was gonna be here and they’re trying to get his attention...but no!
Out from behind one of the big dudes comes Snoop Dogg himself, all tall and wiry with wacked out buckwheat hair. And he’s singing,
Your fooling yourself,
your fooling yourself,
your fooling yourself!
And then launches into a bitchin’ rap. This went on for at least 5 minutes, then abruptly ends with Snoop Dogg slamming the jail doors shut with a BANG, taking a bow, and the truck speeds off.
We were floored, and the restaurant was still pretty busy and the customers couldn’t believe it. Now my head started spinning. Was this a coincidence? Was Snoop Dogg, who, by the way hails from Long Beach, doing a video, or was he sending a message to Jay-Z, who had just left? Was he saying, “You may act like this bad ass hoodlum, but you’re eatin’ at whitest, richest place on earth. Of course, as the lyrics were kinda spooky in a “We’re comin to get ya’ kind of way...” we pondered if this was gonna end up being some video that mocks the rich clientele in general.
We speculated on this for a while, but then had to serve another $30.00 salad. After all, it was just another day at the Poison Ivy.
10/30/08
PS--thanks to Penny C @ Universal Music Publishing for the Rapper Spell Check
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Some Thoughts on Projectile Vomit.
A friend of mine worked at Bastide, and he told me of a man. This man was celebrating an anniversary with his wife, and upchucked at the end of dinner. He spewed everything: the amuse, and courses 1-7, including the truffles, and all the wine pairings. A fitting end to a $500 tasting menu. This reminded me of a story.
This story sticks in my mind just like the hemorrhoid cream that leaked through my pants the other day and left a smudge on the upholstery of my car. No matter how much I scrub it, the stain remains. (If you wait tables, you’re familiar with chafing).
Anyway...I remember this guy at the Poison Ivy who had too many Gimlets. The Poison Ivy Gimlets are these vodka mojito like drinks that are truly delicious. They are one of the few “authentic” menu items one could hope to find at such a fraud factory. But they’re strong. In fact, we say, “You’ll love the first two, and the third will start loving you.”
So, there's this guy drinking on the patio. Let’s call him Lurch. Suddenly, Lurch has to go to the bathroom, presumably to throw up, as he had knocked back like six gimlets! The only way to the bathroom is through one of the dining rooms called “the bakery”. Lurch makes his way quickly through the maze of patio tables as only the dying can, weaves past the host stand, enters the bakery, bumps in to the cake counter, then proceeds to pull a Linda Blair, Exorcist style. He projectile vomits all over a man having lunch at a nearby table. Ironically these bakery tables are where we seated “walk-ins”, thus making them feel special even though they didn’t “call ahead”.
BTW “walk in” is someone without a reservation, but Poison Ivy doesn’t use the bad-kitty word “Reservation”. They use “Call ahead.” “Call Ahead” is one of those asinine Poison Ivy double speak euphemisms where we try to be extra courteous, and pretend we are NOT in the business of serving food and drinks, at tables that you sit at, which are often, and actually in reality, RESERVED!
But wait...it gets better. The waiter and manager comfort the guest, while the busboy mops up the slop (some guys have the glory jobs!). His shirt is ruined, so the manager rushes next door where the owner’s have their trinket shop of over priced crap from India and Morocco. They also have Poison Ivy T-Shirts for sale. He tells the owner (aka Blanche du Bois), “We need a T-shirt to give to a guest.” Her ears perked up at the word Give, for Giving is not the same as Buying.
“Darling, why are we giving away a t-shirt. These cost us money.”
Flustered, the manager explains quickly, “A customer--”
“Guest, Darling. We have no customers. We only have guests.”
“Sorry...anyway...he has vomit all over his shirt.”
“Did he get sick on himself?”
“No, he was thrown up on by someone else.”
Intrigued, Blanche inquires, “Was it vomit from one of our employees or another guest?”
Exasperated, the manager squeaks, “Another guest.”
Blanche frowns then commands one of her minions to fetch a t-shirt. “Well, find out what table the vomiter is sitting at and charge the t-shirt to him.”
Imagine the bakery “guest” telling his friends, “I got puked on at the Poison Ivy, and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.”
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
SOLD to the Highest Bidder...
...a mint condition copy of Looking Hard by Joel Grey, autographed by Joel Grey!
This story is just too rich! And one of the reasons I had to go through with this "cleansing" blog.
BTW the book was sold to a man from Florida.
AD COPY:
Mint condition First Edition copy of Looking Hard by Joel Grey, signed by Joel Grey!
When I was the Maitre 'd at the Poison Ivy Restaurant in 2006 I was given this as a "gift" from the owners. Mr. Grey is a regular guest and "friend" of the owners, Dick and Blanche Du Bois. Actually Mr. Grey is one of the few "friends" they have as they are evil, greedy, heartless reptiles with arctic cold blood flowing through their veins.
As much as I respect his artistry, I really have no use for the book, and perhaps one of his fans would appreciate it
Listed at $5.00 (no reserve)
Sold for $6.05
Shipping: $6.67!
Anyway...I felt bad so I contact buyer and tell him I'll look for cheaper shipping as it costs more than the book sold for.
He then writes back:
"A money order for $12.72 is in the mail and on its way to you. Its worth $12.72 just to keep reading your description of your boss(LMAO). The devil is alive and well and living in south Florida bosses too!"
This story is just too rich! And one of the reasons I had to go through with this "cleansing" blog.
BTW the book was sold to a man from Florida.
AD COPY:
Mint condition First Edition copy of Looking Hard by Joel Grey, signed by Joel Grey!
When I was the Maitre 'd at the Poison Ivy Restaurant in 2006 I was given this as a "gift" from the owners. Mr. Grey is a regular guest and "friend" of the owners, Dick and Blanche Du Bois. Actually Mr. Grey is one of the few "friends" they have as they are evil, greedy, heartless reptiles with arctic cold blood flowing through their veins.
As much as I respect his artistry, I really have no use for the book, and perhaps one of his fans would appreciate it
Listed at $5.00 (no reserve)
Sold for $6.05
Shipping: $6.67!
Anyway...I felt bad so I contact buyer and tell him I'll look for cheaper shipping as it costs more than the book sold for.
He then writes back:
"A money order for $12.72 is in the mail and on its way to you. Its worth $12.72 just to keep reading your description of your boss(LMAO). The devil is alive and well and living in south Florida bosses too!"
“Poison Ivy” or How I Got That Itch from Working for that Bitch
The Truth Behind the Lie
For those of you not familiar with restaurants, let me say this. Waiters are waiters because of the flexibility it allows. This explains the long and noble part that restaurants play in the lives of aspiring alcoholic artists, musicians, college students, etc...
The Poison Ivy is alone in its disregard for this tradition. They demand loyalty to them. They have, over the years, assembled a team of immigrant employees, mainly from Mexico and El Salvador, who, if not illegal to begin with, are nonetheless grateful to have an income 4 times that their high school education warrants.
Make no mistake about it. The Poison Ivy is a beautiful restaurant. An old farmhouse transformed into a quaint “shabby chic” cafe with wrought iron tables and handcrafted wooden chairs with exquisite floral arrangements on each table. The owner, forever to be branded as The Bitch, really nailed that Ralph Lauren/Town and Country/ Sunset Magazine fantasy of western living. The waiters wear spanking clean white tennis shoes, white jeans, pink oxfords and floral ties. The only thing we leave behind when we walk in the door is our masculinity and self esteem. Ah...what we will do for $250 in tips for lunch. Fucking whores. I’m often mistaken for a being gay in real life--clean cut, handsome, and bathed will usually send out the “I’m a homo alert” on the Gaydar--so the outfit never really altered my self image; however, the Mexicans have had more than their share of cat calls from their neighbors and children over the age of twelve. “Puto!” is a common refrain heard in the barrios as a Poison Ivy Latino heads off to another day on the Poison Ivy plantation.
Archetypes Vs. Stereotypes: a Disclaimer
Archetypes versus Stereotypes.
Disclaimer: this blog mentions ethnic backgrounds of subjects discussed. In no way is it implied that certain ethnic groups are inherently cheap, vulgar, etc..; however, there are archetypes of cheapskates, and Spago and the Poison Ivy have attracted a veritable rainbow coalition of cheap, uncouth, overly compensated, halitosized, smelly boobs that would make any fan of the legendary Italian miser Pantalone proud.
There's a fine line between being satirical and just being a whiny little bitch. So before you have the chance to do it yourself, allow me the self description: I am a disgruntled former employee, an axe grinder extraordinaire, and a resentful little twit.
Working as a VIP waiter in LA almost defies parody. Therefore, I have decided to tell the truth.
XOXO
The VIP Waiter
Los Angeles CA October, 2008
Disclaimer: this blog mentions ethnic backgrounds of subjects discussed. In no way is it implied that certain ethnic groups are inherently cheap, vulgar, etc..; however, there are archetypes of cheapskates, and Spago and the Poison Ivy have attracted a veritable rainbow coalition of cheap, uncouth, overly compensated, halitosized, smelly boobs that would make any fan of the legendary Italian miser Pantalone proud.
There's a fine line between being satirical and just being a whiny little bitch. So before you have the chance to do it yourself, allow me the self description: I am a disgruntled former employee, an axe grinder extraordinaire, and a resentful little twit.
Working as a VIP waiter in LA almost defies parody. Therefore, I have decided to tell the truth.
XOXO
The VIP Waiter
Los Angeles CA October, 2008
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