Tag Archives: drunks

10 lies, in 60 minutes.

19 Oct

New Yorkers distrust Waiters, and they should; we are forced to lie constantly.

In one hour alone, the following 10 lies were told tonight:

1) “I’m sorry sir but we’re out of that Burgundy.”

Translation: Management has reserved 12 bottles of your Burgundy for a private party.

2) “You’re still waiting on that Cosmo… oh.”

Translation: You’re cut-off, Drunkard.

3) “It is cold… I know… I just told a manager to raise the temperature.”

Translation: Management is literally chilling the walls because this place is going to be packed with hundreds of people, and your individual body temperature is of no concern to me, or to them.

4) “I don’t own a TV.”

Translation: Yes, that is the girl from The Sopranos.

5) “Oh, yes, I love the Monkfish.”

Translation: Your date just ordered the Monkfish, after I recommended the Halibut, and now you are asking me if it’s any good.

6) “The busser just cleared your water glass? Oh– so sorry, let me get you another.”

Translation: You’ve been holding this table for two hours; get the hell out!

7) “Yeah, unfortunately that table’s taken.”

Translation: You can’t sit there, douche-bag.

8) “He said thanks. He got the joke.”

Translation: The NFL superstar didn’t get the “Blow-Job” shots you ordered him, and I’m not going to solicit him, asshole. Did you really think I’d give a football player “blow-job” shots?

9) ”   —   .”

Translation: If I say anything right now, “yes,” or “no,” to whatever sexually inappropriate question you just asked me, I’ll be fired.

10) “It’s a good time. You’ll have fun.”

Translation: I’d rather wait two-hours for an G-train, than see that Broadway show.

“Fashion” Night Out

11 Sep
Even before I got to the restaurant, I knew that desperate people were out: every store on Fifth Ave. had strobe lights, a doorman, and European tourists snapping photos outside.  Girls unaccustomed to heals were falling into  intersections. The whole energy of the street secretly whispered, “Somebody, look at me.”
    
Apparently it was “Fashion Night Out,” a city-wide event for Fall Fashion week, sponsored by Vogue. Nobody had warned me. I had seen a fashion show being set up earlier in the day at Lincoln Center, but I didn’t realize there was a singular night designated for the faux fashonistas to prove their worth in consumption.
 
After I clocked in, and entered the service alley, I noticed that not only were the patrons overdressed for 6pm, September the 10th, 2010,  but so were the front of house girls. The hostesses looked and smelled like they were off to some Christian-Dior-80’s-whore-bath, and happily modeled their costume of choice for the occasion.
 
     -“Fashion night out is Halloween,” I observed.
    
 I was relieved when I realized that all the real models were actually going to be working tonight, and I wouldn’t have to contend with the Aliens this evening (Aliens, def: women from the Netherlands: inexplicably tall, over-featured, and demanding) . Incredibly, there are several evenings a year, where the Aliens must hit their angles, and trot about, for that yearlong supply of sugar-free RedBulls.
    
 With the Aliens off at work, there was a lot of freed up table space for the common folk, the pilgrims from Jersey, and Long Island.   And so the typical patron profile of the night included  1) Consumer women in their thirties who wished they were models, and are still trying to be models, despite living in a city where there are several thousand Aliens ; and 2) The insecure men who fund aforementioned women, for sex, and marriage, and constant emasculation. The evening was table after table of socially programmed pairs, still in awe that they scored a corner-booth downstairs.