I worked with the boy yesterday for Mother’s Day brunch. My feet are killing me.
All in all, i had a good time. At least nobody said to me, “Thank you, young man”, like at Easter brunch. I didn’t realize that wearing a baseball cap and chef whites automatically makes one look like a man, especially since i have hips and long hair. oh, and boobs too. although i can understand how the jacket flattens the boob area, but you know. they still show.
A bit of advice. Don’t show up for the last reservation of the day after we’re just about to start clearing up, stand in the middle of the room glaring at everyone in your white spandex stretch pants and bleached-out hair and bitch openly that there’s no medium-rare roast beast left. Then proceed to bitch at the GM, who immediately gets a steak thrown on the grill for you; confront other guests by asking them if smoked salmon used to be on the buffet; and holler a bit more for your own plate of lox. First off, 1985 called and they want their pants back. Secondly, by the time she showed up, we’d been on our feet for 7 hours and didn't feel like dealing with her; however we did, and we were pleasant as hell with her. but she still barked orders at us. I don’t like people barking at me. It makes me want to go stabby. And since i was at the carving station, i had ample opportunity to get stabby; i had three knives in front of me, one of them the boy’s sashimi Shun which was sharp as a razor. But i didn’t. so instead i repressed those feelings and had World War II dreams all night long.
Seriously, do they still sell spandex pants? Not that i really want to know... I don’t need a pair, thanks. I may have been dumb back in the 80s, but at least i had enough fashion sense to leave that one be.