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.”