I come back to this feeling. This impatience, the lack of sleep, the brain that keeps wrapping itself around a fingers that it can control, but can't. It takes the mind to be able to control the surrounding situations, feelings, emotions. The mind controls the heart, the beating, blood pulsating through veins. Muscles contracting, ligaments streching, nerves feeling.
A heightened sense of touch, smell, taste, a passion living, a breathing living organism more so than that what the body can totally perceive. Rage makes drunks, depression makes pill-poppers, confusion makes stoners, the creator needs nothing more than a hammer, a nail, and an idea. For motivation is always deep within oneself. Much like inteliect is nothing more than opportunities that are found, and ignored.
Everyone should have to spend some time in the food industry. Have it be a mandatory thing like signing up for Selective Service. A statement I proposed tonight to a very sweet person, and her reply...
Well, would that make the world more appreciative or bitter?
If people could only see the mental struggles, the stress, the heat, the passion, and more so the drive that cooks and servers go through (and everyone in between) to give you your food hot, fresh, and on a clean plate? I don't think people would go out anymore. We work with hours for people almost shoulder to shoulder. You have your cubicles, and Ipod to relieve your stress and motivate you through the day. All we have at the end of the night is our pride.
Sure, it may make the world bitter and groan at first. I for one would love to see a rich lawyer's son have to wash dishes at a resturant, but would I want to deal with him? Of course not.
Appreciation and chivarly are not some distant cities in France. They may sound it, but they aren't. I promise. The best advice I can, and will ever give someone is Don't bite the hand that feeds, or delievers.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Born To Die
The only meaning behind the title is it just happens to be the title of the song I'm listening to, and I don't feel like being witty. This is more of a "journal" blog as opposed to a giant rant of thought, anger, rage, etc. It lacks a purpose, but what the reader gets out of it is all up to the reader.
The past few nights at work have been one giant blur. If you follow this I already talked about the drunk guy, and kitchen virgin. So, drunk guy comes back today finally and safely assuming he is going through withdraws of alcohol. Which made me feel strange. I wanted to attempt to console him and help him out (I learned deep secrets of his family life today from another guy I work with, and I can't condone his drinking but it does make sense. I won't tell the details)
I also saw his passion and desire for the first time in forever. I'm assuming he quit drinking just for this job, and sure it's not anything spectacular and I don't think he can handle it, and his time in kitchens is up but seeing the desperation in a man's eyes while he hasn't said a word to you in days? Made me think. It actually made me see if you will.
I commented to my boss about him being out of it, and still fucking things up but I also believe in him. I think for once this almost 40 year old man belives in himself. If he so happens to read this, I'm glad. If not, well it might be for the better but might not as well. I believe in you kid, hang in there.
I also believe in humanity again. My ride home tonight came from two girls "on the verge of missing curfew" as I was walking to the gas station to continue onward to home. I invited them in for lunch/dinner on me whenever I am there. One of them said "I'm glad to see chivarly isn't dead" I replied with "I treat someone as well or as poorly as they treat me".
That's the whole point. She is right. Chivarly is a dying cause, and being a complacent asshole wins everytime. Who is happier in the end though? The girl who gets treated like shit and is forced into submission, or the prick who knows how to control someone to get his dick wet?
My point is what goes around, comes around. The golden rule is a powerful thing, and karma is even more set in stone. You piss off karma and it haunts you. You mention murphy and his law and he's out to get you. In the end of it all where are you happiest at? Getting your ass kicked because you spoke up, or getting you ass kicked because you didn't?
The past few nights at work have been one giant blur. If you follow this I already talked about the drunk guy, and kitchen virgin. So, drunk guy comes back today finally and safely assuming he is going through withdraws of alcohol. Which made me feel strange. I wanted to attempt to console him and help him out (I learned deep secrets of his family life today from another guy I work with, and I can't condone his drinking but it does make sense. I won't tell the details)
I also saw his passion and desire for the first time in forever. I'm assuming he quit drinking just for this job, and sure it's not anything spectacular and I don't think he can handle it, and his time in kitchens is up but seeing the desperation in a man's eyes while he hasn't said a word to you in days? Made me think. It actually made me see if you will.
I commented to my boss about him being out of it, and still fucking things up but I also believe in him. I think for once this almost 40 year old man belives in himself. If he so happens to read this, I'm glad. If not, well it might be for the better but might not as well. I believe in you kid, hang in there.
I also believe in humanity again. My ride home tonight came from two girls "on the verge of missing curfew" as I was walking to the gas station to continue onward to home. I invited them in for lunch/dinner on me whenever I am there. One of them said "I'm glad to see chivarly isn't dead" I replied with "I treat someone as well or as poorly as they treat me".
That's the whole point. She is right. Chivarly is a dying cause, and being a complacent asshole wins everytime. Who is happier in the end though? The girl who gets treated like shit and is forced into submission, or the prick who knows how to control someone to get his dick wet?
My point is what goes around, comes around. The golden rule is a powerful thing, and karma is even more set in stone. You piss off karma and it haunts you. You mention murphy and his law and he's out to get you. In the end of it all where are you happiest at? Getting your ass kicked because you spoke up, or getting you ass kicked because you didn't?
Friday, June 25, 2010
Conflict of Interest
Tonight I was faced with the most troubling of situations...
Mix one part kitchen virgin and first rush, and one schooled veteran we shall name cork and bottle. I won't explain the nickname because it is rather self explanatory. As any good story, it needs a fufilling preface. Such as follows...
I always show up to work at least a good hour early. (I take the bus, and get bored at my house and feel the need to leave) So, I show up to my salad guy doing prep, after hearing we didn't have any one scheduled to open pizza. Surprised I didn't get called, but it would also explain why my mise was all fucked and out of order.
Our new "prep" guy if you will, good guy, hell a great guy. Doesn't understand the jewish ghetto world in which we live in. So I had to teach him how to use a busted ass slicer. My best advice was "watch you finger placement so you don't loose one. "
I was ok with playing host, bartender, watching him, organizing the walk-in, and working the line when needed, or should I say, as I could. Then the "oh shit, panic" button was pressed.
Here I am, standing between a drunk guy who's twice my age, been cooking as long as I have been alive having 30 minute ticket times. A kitchen virgin who had no clue, is still new to the world asking help. Along with the drunk guy needing help and freaking out, a salad girl who just happened to constantly be in my way and not move fast enough. Here I am. Torn between helping cork and bottle out, and FNG.
After cork and bottle got sent home, I actually had a hostess tell my chef "the people are wowed with how fast pizzas are coming out" Averaging at least 4 tickets at a time my shortest time was 6, my longest 10.
Oh, meanwhile my owner is there the entire time watching this go down. I swear I looked like a chicken missing it's head with sweat instead of blood.
After all of that was over I stopped at my friend's kitchen on the way home for well, more free drinks. Ran into old friends from high school, and a few new people. It was actually proposed to me that I question my owner for a raise. I want one, but I don't. Sure, I deserve it, but do I really want the money when I don't want to stay there?
Mix one part kitchen virgin and first rush, and one schooled veteran we shall name cork and bottle. I won't explain the nickname because it is rather self explanatory. As any good story, it needs a fufilling preface. Such as follows...
I always show up to work at least a good hour early. (I take the bus, and get bored at my house and feel the need to leave) So, I show up to my salad guy doing prep, after hearing we didn't have any one scheduled to open pizza. Surprised I didn't get called, but it would also explain why my mise was all fucked and out of order.
Our new "prep" guy if you will, good guy, hell a great guy. Doesn't understand the jewish ghetto world in which we live in. So I had to teach him how to use a busted ass slicer. My best advice was "watch you finger placement so you don't loose one. "
I was ok with playing host, bartender, watching him, organizing the walk-in, and working the line when needed, or should I say, as I could. Then the "oh shit, panic" button was pressed.
Here I am, standing between a drunk guy who's twice my age, been cooking as long as I have been alive having 30 minute ticket times. A kitchen virgin who had no clue, is still new to the world asking help. Along with the drunk guy needing help and freaking out, a salad girl who just happened to constantly be in my way and not move fast enough. Here I am. Torn between helping cork and bottle out, and FNG.
After cork and bottle got sent home, I actually had a hostess tell my chef "the people are wowed with how fast pizzas are coming out" Averaging at least 4 tickets at a time my shortest time was 6, my longest 10.
Oh, meanwhile my owner is there the entire time watching this go down. I swear I looked like a chicken missing it's head with sweat instead of blood.
After all of that was over I stopped at my friend's kitchen on the way home for well, more free drinks. Ran into old friends from high school, and a few new people. It was actually proposed to me that I question my owner for a raise. I want one, but I don't. Sure, I deserve it, but do I really want the money when I don't want to stay there?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Something To Think About
Now, don't get me wrong here. I don't have an ounce of racist blood in me, prejudice? Not so much. Jealousy? Perhaps. Now, do I find it justifiable? With some people I do. Figured I had to warn the reader(s) of the upcoming rant.
Don't get me wrong though, I would hire a Pedro, over a Peter ANY day in a kitchen. Hispanics you can train, teach them, and god damn do they work. A white guy? Sure, some you can train and then something inside of him might have a crazy idea and go What if I try it this way... It may work, but for the most part it won't. Don't change things that work just fine.
I do however find it strange (well, again let me preface this)...
I work with a girl. A Peruvian. My chef is Peruvian, and the original FOH manager was also Peruvian. They were all friends, so needless to say she hired all of her friends. No big deal right? Negate the fact it's a German engineered Italian joint, but that's besides the point. She also referred to them as Princesses. All of them left except for one. Who still thinks she is a princess and in my opinion can get away with murder.
She isn't at the host stand when people come in? No big deal. A different host isn't there? Look out, the pain train cometh and not from me. Phone is ringing? Don't worry, I'll walk around the entire place to go answer it because you are doing something that's no where near important. Use the company phone to make personal calls because you can't use your cell phone? Sure, go ahead. Eat for free and the kitchen can't? Yeah, that's acceptable...somehow.
The whole point I'm trying to get at here is this. This hostess of mine thinks she is a princess. Why you ask? Well, I'm not going to call her stupid because that's just mean, but I am not to be expected to drop all of what I'm doing just to make you food. Especially during a rush and I'm alone on my station. My chef, and a guy who worked already that day just hanging out SHOULD NOT have to jump on the line to make food because my anger level is far past what any other human should be able to withstand.
The other guy I was supposed to work with got put on what I want to call, bull shit work that could have been done tomorrow but it at least saved my ass from doing it tomorrow work. He also left where he worked a total disaster. Sucks to be him. He opens tomorrow with me, and I left him with a pretty hefty list of things to do. That's how the dice roll, sir.
Back to the giant picture of the rant. Have you ever noticed it's the people that aren't exactly legal, that get the most help in the world? The people that may have their visas, or cards (whichever one it is) that get the help from everyone? Yet! The average working class man who busts their ass all day, and all night sometimes is lucky if he gets a pat on the back?
Why is this Amurika? Why do we seem to ignore and neglect those who truely work, and the ones who "think they work" get praise from the heavens? Is it because they speak up when they need more money? Is it because they can give them the hours and not the same pay to save on labor? What it is? Why do they seem to get their 40 hours a week, and I have to scrape, cheat, steal, etc...to get the money I need to live on?
I don't want to say it, but I will. I feel like I am being shorted because I'm not gay, and I'm not hispanic. If I call into my shift? Oh holy shit, it's a giant deal. The lesbian I work with? She calls in more shifts than she works it seems, and it's ok somehow.
Por que guey? Por que?
Don't get me wrong though, I would hire a Pedro, over a Peter ANY day in a kitchen. Hispanics you can train, teach them, and god damn do they work. A white guy? Sure, some you can train and then something inside of him might have a crazy idea and go What if I try it this way... It may work, but for the most part it won't. Don't change things that work just fine.
I do however find it strange (well, again let me preface this)...
I work with a girl. A Peruvian. My chef is Peruvian, and the original FOH manager was also Peruvian. They were all friends, so needless to say she hired all of her friends. No big deal right? Negate the fact it's a German engineered Italian joint, but that's besides the point. She also referred to them as Princesses. All of them left except for one. Who still thinks she is a princess and in my opinion can get away with murder.
She isn't at the host stand when people come in? No big deal. A different host isn't there? Look out, the pain train cometh and not from me. Phone is ringing? Don't worry, I'll walk around the entire place to go answer it because you are doing something that's no where near important. Use the company phone to make personal calls because you can't use your cell phone? Sure, go ahead. Eat for free and the kitchen can't? Yeah, that's acceptable...somehow.
The whole point I'm trying to get at here is this. This hostess of mine thinks she is a princess. Why you ask? Well, I'm not going to call her stupid because that's just mean, but I am not to be expected to drop all of what I'm doing just to make you food. Especially during a rush and I'm alone on my station. My chef, and a guy who worked already that day just hanging out SHOULD NOT have to jump on the line to make food because my anger level is far past what any other human should be able to withstand.
The other guy I was supposed to work with got put on what I want to call, bull shit work that could have been done tomorrow but it at least saved my ass from doing it tomorrow work. He also left where he worked a total disaster. Sucks to be him. He opens tomorrow with me, and I left him with a pretty hefty list of things to do. That's how the dice roll, sir.
Back to the giant picture of the rant. Have you ever noticed it's the people that aren't exactly legal, that get the most help in the world? The people that may have their visas, or cards (whichever one it is) that get the help from everyone? Yet! The average working class man who busts their ass all day, and all night sometimes is lucky if he gets a pat on the back?
Why is this Amurika? Why do we seem to ignore and neglect those who truely work, and the ones who "think they work" get praise from the heavens? Is it because they speak up when they need more money? Is it because they can give them the hours and not the same pay to save on labor? What it is? Why do they seem to get their 40 hours a week, and I have to scrape, cheat, steal, etc...to get the money I need to live on?
I don't want to say it, but I will. I feel like I am being shorted because I'm not gay, and I'm not hispanic. If I call into my shift? Oh holy shit, it's a giant deal. The lesbian I work with? She calls in more shifts than she works it seems, and it's ok somehow.
Por que guey? Por que?
Friday, June 18, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
It's Been Said
It's been said that bad decisions make good days.
I beg to differ. I make bad decisions all the time and what is I live with? A pounding head. Sure, it lets me know I'm still here, I'm still alive but why do we go to such great heights to neglect feelings?
We drink copious amounts of alcohol, someone of us smoke pot, some do both. Yet all we do is try to find a fix to escape the reality of what is our life. We try to take it as it comes, roll with the punches, take it all for face value, but we fail. We all have a vice gripping us to the wall that is life.
Passionate as we maybe to our calling, but I've learned passion works in two ways. A passion for love, as well as a passionate hatred. It's a sick cycle we all abide by, but than again, without passion where would we be? We would have never evolved. We would still be more barbaric than what we could have ever been, or would have ever been.
We are too concerned with things that don't mean a shit. Think about it. Global warming? Oil spill? Both great things to ponder/worry about. A poor child's education? Education in general? It goes un-noticed.
To be frank here, I don't know where this rambling/rant/poetry is going, I'll go as far as to say I don't even like it.
6 AM is going to come once again far too early.
I beg to differ. I make bad decisions all the time and what is I live with? A pounding head. Sure, it lets me know I'm still here, I'm still alive but why do we go to such great heights to neglect feelings?
We drink copious amounts of alcohol, someone of us smoke pot, some do both. Yet all we do is try to find a fix to escape the reality of what is our life. We try to take it as it comes, roll with the punches, take it all for face value, but we fail. We all have a vice gripping us to the wall that is life.
Passionate as we maybe to our calling, but I've learned passion works in two ways. A passion for love, as well as a passionate hatred. It's a sick cycle we all abide by, but than again, without passion where would we be? We would have never evolved. We would still be more barbaric than what we could have ever been, or would have ever been.
We are too concerned with things that don't mean a shit. Think about it. Global warming? Oil spill? Both great things to ponder/worry about. A poor child's education? Education in general? It goes un-noticed.
To be frank here, I don't know where this rambling/rant/poetry is going, I'll go as far as to say I don't even like it.
6 AM is going to come once again far too early.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Definition Of Passion
Passion cannot be defined by hours work, miles traveled, or praise given. It can only be measured in the direct result of actions. Smiles across faces, laughs to be had, memories that will forever be set in the minds of those who not only choose to embrace the moment, but cherish it. Tonight I heard a fellow cook talking to his son on a cell phone and before I left I’ll never forget the smile on this giant man as he said “I love you more” and chuckled slightly, gleefully if you will. The look at the barber shop today from a dad hearing from his wife “well, you could always help out with the kids too” and he chuckled and replied “well I could…” while reading a magazine and smiling at me. Something told me it was her idea to bring the heathens out into public and it’s something he was used to by now, and probably
proposed it to be a bad idea.
The passion of the cook expressing love to a son he can hardly see. An overheard conversation of “I have a baseball glove for him…yeah, I’m doing my best to break it in for him too…” Someone could write something magical about it, but what can I write about it? An elaborate story of a memory a father wants to have with his son? No. I can only tell the truth about what I heard and share the passion of father and a son.
Perhaps insomnia is a direct result of being overpassionate. I do belive there is a fine line between passion, and neurotic. Passion is wanting to share your love for said thing with others, neurotic is drilling other people into the ground because you have a degree for “what you love doing” yet you never show it. People never get to see it, taste it, hear it…and when someone does? It’s viewed by others as “why does he get special attention? Where is he when I really need the help?” The list could go on and on. And on and on.
Passion is a desire. Passion is sitting at the back door for an hour waiting to get in. Passion is walking upwards of five miles a day in extreme heat to make it to work. Passion is waking up still drunk and not complaining because you made the mistake the night before and working your shift. Passion is blood, sweat, tears, physical fatigue, muscles on fire.
Desire it what drives it. Desire for a raise, for a notice, a pat on the back, a heartfelt thank you, a satisfied customer, a customer who says they will return, a customer who gets sad when you aren’t there to make their food the way they like it without having to even order. Sure, they may not remember my name, but I remember their face. I know what they like, I can see when their day isn’t up to par, and they can read my face like I can theirs.
They know that if I make their day, they just made mine.
proposed it to be a bad idea.
The passion of the cook expressing love to a son he can hardly see. An overheard conversation of “I have a baseball glove for him…yeah, I’m doing my best to break it in for him too…” Someone could write something magical about it, but what can I write about it? An elaborate story of a memory a father wants to have with his son? No. I can only tell the truth about what I heard and share the passion of father and a son.
Perhaps insomnia is a direct result of being overpassionate. I do belive there is a fine line between passion, and neurotic. Passion is wanting to share your love for said thing with others, neurotic is drilling other people into the ground because you have a degree for “what you love doing” yet you never show it. People never get to see it, taste it, hear it…and when someone does? It’s viewed by others as “why does he get special attention? Where is he when I really need the help?” The list could go on and on. And on and on.
Passion is a desire. Passion is sitting at the back door for an hour waiting to get in. Passion is walking upwards of five miles a day in extreme heat to make it to work. Passion is waking up still drunk and not complaining because you made the mistake the night before and working your shift. Passion is blood, sweat, tears, physical fatigue, muscles on fire.
Desire it what drives it. Desire for a raise, for a notice, a pat on the back, a heartfelt thank you, a satisfied customer, a customer who says they will return, a customer who gets sad when you aren’t there to make their food the way they like it without having to even order. Sure, they may not remember my name, but I remember their face. I know what they like, I can see when their day isn’t up to par, and they can read my face like I can theirs.
They know that if I make their day, they just made mine.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
So, What's In The Bag?
I'm on my way home from work and walk past the same set of houses I always walk by, cross the same corners at all the same places, and this time this one was different. There was a cop in the middle of the intersection at one I had to cross. Now, here I am knowing I haven't done anything wrong, hell I didn't even have a drink before I started for home.
I get across the street, and see nothing but my shadow in the road in front of me. I was on the spotlight and they stop. I was then asked What's in the bag?
Ironically enough, I had a bag of trash in one hand and my knives across my back.
It's just my knives sir.
Oh. Are you a chef?
Yes. I work at Vapiano's at Mockingbird Station.
Oh. Cool. Well we just had to make sure, it looked almost like a gun case for a second.
We exchange our "be safe's" and say goodbye.
Now, thank god for the dam between my smart ass brain, and my tongue otherwise the conversation could have gone a totally different way. Now, granted I know he has to ask such questions, but when I'm walking home with a chef coat on, and tell you I have knives on my back? Of course I'm a chef.
Without the smart ass filter it could have gone as follows...
I'm actually an avid Jeffery Dahmer follower and walk around late at night with knives on my back to look for small woodland creatures and make them into dinner...well, sometimes I do. I'm trying to work my way up to stalking people on the bike trail and wearing their skin around for a day. Oh, the chef coat? It just helps further my facade.
Or...
Actually dude, I work at this place with a great new concept. The waiters dress like chefs, and the chefs dress like waiters in the back. That way, all the customers actually feel like they are getting their asses catered by a chef. The tips are amazing, and you wouldn't believe how gullible some girls are. If you know what I mean. Oh the knives? Yeah, I cut a lot of fruit garnishes at work.
Surely, I would never say things like that to someone carrying a gun and with my safety in mind, but sometimes you really want to. Much like when wearing a chef coat at a bar. "Oh, so what do you do?" I'm a bartender. I mean, really people? I know it's a means of small talk but fuck. Open your eyes.
I get across the street, and see nothing but my shadow in the road in front of me. I was on the spotlight and they stop. I was then asked What's in the bag?
Ironically enough, I had a bag of trash in one hand and my knives across my back.
It's just my knives sir.
Oh. Are you a chef?
Yes. I work at Vapiano's at Mockingbird Station.
Oh. Cool. Well we just had to make sure, it looked almost like a gun case for a second.
We exchange our "be safe's" and say goodbye.
Now, thank god for the dam between my smart ass brain, and my tongue otherwise the conversation could have gone a totally different way. Now, granted I know he has to ask such questions, but when I'm walking home with a chef coat on, and tell you I have knives on my back? Of course I'm a chef.
Without the smart ass filter it could have gone as follows...
I'm actually an avid Jeffery Dahmer follower and walk around late at night with knives on my back to look for small woodland creatures and make them into dinner...well, sometimes I do. I'm trying to work my way up to stalking people on the bike trail and wearing their skin around for a day. Oh, the chef coat? It just helps further my facade.
Or...
Actually dude, I work at this place with a great new concept. The waiters dress like chefs, and the chefs dress like waiters in the back. That way, all the customers actually feel like they are getting their asses catered by a chef. The tips are amazing, and you wouldn't believe how gullible some girls are. If you know what I mean. Oh the knives? Yeah, I cut a lot of fruit garnishes at work.
Surely, I would never say things like that to someone carrying a gun and with my safety in mind, but sometimes you really want to. Much like when wearing a chef coat at a bar. "Oh, so what do you do?" I'm a bartender. I mean, really people? I know it's a means of small talk but fuck. Open your eyes.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Desire
No matter what your desire, the severity of the desire and passion in life you have for one thing, on certain beautiful moment, opportunity...it only takes one person to cause a snowball effect of momentous occasions. That my friends is human nature at it's finest, one greedy soul, battling wits against another.
The more you want it, dream it, breath it...it only takes one person to let you down. I'm not meaning to be pessimistic by any means, I could be far off course on my rantings. When you have your "immediately family" of friends, co-workers, and even bartenders rooting so hard for you, pushing you so hard you yourself even have convinced your mind to not beat yourself up so bad. That you nailed it. After all, I have confidence right?
Welcome to the breakdown. This blog I've accepted will make no sense to most, maybe a little to some, but that's not the point really. It's far too pessimistic to make a point.
Destruction is creation. With my tearing myself down back to stage one again will only make me stronger. All of us stronger. Life shouldn't be this rough, but it isn't given to us right? We make it.
The more you want it, dream it, breath it...it only takes one person to let you down. I'm not meaning to be pessimistic by any means, I could be far off course on my rantings. When you have your "immediately family" of friends, co-workers, and even bartenders rooting so hard for you, pushing you so hard you yourself even have convinced your mind to not beat yourself up so bad. That you nailed it. After all, I have confidence right?
Welcome to the breakdown. This blog I've accepted will make no sense to most, maybe a little to some, but that's not the point really. It's far too pessimistic to make a point.
Destruction is creation. With my tearing myself down back to stage one again will only make me stronger. All of us stronger. Life shouldn't be this rough, but it isn't given to us right? We make it.
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