Some Ground Rules

Posted: May 21, 2012 in Behind the Scenes

Everyone has their quirks, right?  I, for example, hate vegetables, with a fucking passion.  Unless they are cooked until there is no nutritional value whatsoever, I will not eat them.  But, do I impose my hatred of all things produce on the unsuspecting wait staff and kitchen staff at my favorite eatery?  You bet your sweet ass I don’t.


I don’t like ingesting other people’s saliva.

If you’re allergic to any type of food, TELL YOUR FUCKING SERVER and READ THE FUCKING MENU, DUMBASS!  If you are allergic to shellfish, let us know so we can take time to make sure nothing on your plate touches any surface shared with shellfish.  I hate special requests, and customers, for that matter, but I don’t want you to die.  And, I don’t want to kill you.  Also, if you are allergic to garlic, do not eat at an Italian restaurant.  Just saying.

If you are lactose intolerant, shut the fuck up.  I don’t care if you get the shits later.  You’re not going to die if you ingest some dairy.  Get the fuck over it.

If you are a vegetarian or vegan, don’t waste my fucking time.  Stay at home and feed yourself, you dirty hippie.  Or go to a vegan joint, if there’s one around.  Don’t  go to Friday’s or Applebee’s and expect them to cater to you.  Because they won’t.

There is a contingent of customers (I refuse to call these assholes “Guests”) that we, in the business, refer to as “Well-Eaters.”  These ignorant bags of douche eat their steaks well-done.  Why are they bags of douche?  Because they are the pickiest, most inconsiderate folks on the planet.  I have had some of these motherfuckers send steaks back because they were too juicy.

What the fuck?  Oh, I’m sorry.  I did my job, cooked your steak until it was a shriveled hunk of shoe leather, and I did a good job while I was at it (the flavor is in the juice), and made you a nice, juicy stake.  It will never happen again.

Seriously, anyone who loves meat should know that most meats are best consumed at the medium degree of doneness,  There are some exceptions (lamb, for one, should be medium-rare, while pork is good medium-well), but, if there is a God, he never intended that the tasty prime beef He created be consumed as a dried hunk of jerky.  I know I’ve cried inside every time I’ve served a medium-well or well-done slab of prime rib.

Imagine how God must feel.


A few years back, this guy named Anthony Bourdain wrote a book called Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly.  You may have heard of Mr. Bourdain.  He’s only a culinary badass who has pretty much seen and done it all in the restaurant business.  Oh, and he has a TV show called No Reservations.  I respect the shit out of him, even though I would probably last all of two minutes in his kitchen.

About the only thing I have in common with Bourdain is that we both work in the restaurant business.  He cooks quality, gourmet food.  I… don’t.  I don’t really even cook, come to think of it, unless you call microwaving pasta dishes “cooking.”  I like to consider my current place of employment as the underbelly of the culinary underbelly.  Holy shit, I think I’ve become jaded over the years.

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If only you knew what was involved in bringing your food to the table.

That’s why I’m here.  To educate the shit out of you.  You would never go out to eat again if you knew the bullshit behind the scenes.  So, I’m going to expose some of the secrets that my bosses don’t want you to know.

Why am I doing this? Because fuck ’em, that’s why.

Did you know…

… most of the time, restaurant workers are not allowed to call in sick.  That’s right.  We end up coughing, sneezing, and sometimes, vomiting, on your food.

… whenever you find a hair in your food, it belongs to your server, although the fuckers will tell you otherwise.  In the kitchen, we are required to wear hair restraints.  Your server is not.

… never get a lemon wedge with your water or tea.  Your nasty-ass server doesn’t use tongs or wear gloves when he or she cuts the lemons, or when he or she puts the lemon in your glass.  So, in essence, you’re touching all of the other shit and drug paraphernalia your server touches.  Nasty fuckers.

… when you order a low-calorie or healthy dish at a very busy restaurant at a very busy time, we don’t take any extra care of you.  We don’t have the time to cater to your stupid ass.  Never go out to eat at your local grill and bar when you’re trying to eat healthy, dumbass.  We don’t give a flying fuck about your little diet.  Want to eat healthy?  Stay at home.  Cook your own shit.  That’s the only way you can be assured that you’re eating what you are supposed to eat.  Otherwise, I’ll cook your shit in butter.

… never, and I mean NEVER, go to a restaurant within 30 minutes of closing.  You’re going to get horrible service, and bottom of the barrel food, especially if you try to eat at 10 minutes before closing.  I have served food from the trash because some stupid fucks were allowed to eat after closing, after I had thrown out the food I was required to throw out.  This doesn’t happen all the time, but it does happen.  Want to avoid it?  Avoid eating late at night, unless you’re at Taco Fuckin’ Bell.

That’s all for now…


Posted: February 23, 2012 in Uncategorized

There is a lot of craziness that goes on behind the scenes of your favorite restaurant.  Everything from serving you food from the trash to ramapant alcoholism and drug abuse (yes, while making your food), trysts between managers and employees, servers and cooks, hosts, servers, and cooks, and… you get the idea, right?

I promise to use as much foul language as possible, since that’s the way we talk in the kitchen.  And lots and lots and lots of sexual innuendo, because that’s how we act.  We need some way to relieve the stress from dealing with neurotic servers, lazy managers, and, least of all, YOU, the asshole customer who thinks you can customize the menu any way you want.  You know you’re not at Burger King.  Don’t act like it, dickhead.

Anyway, enjoy my writings and musings.  If you don’t, go fuck yourself.  Go read a fairy tale, pansy.