The Trials and Tribulations of Strict Asian Waitresses

The Slackmistress just blogged about her younger brother’s birthday and the challenge of a waitress who thinks she knows best. (Or just wants to cover her ass during a mistake.) Well, it reminds me of a story. It isn’t as crazy, but it does span a longer period of time…

One of my favourite cafes offers a decent selection of food, all for under $10. You can get a ham and cheese that challenges mustard haters, a pretty tasty plate of fried tofu, some french onion soup, pad thai… Basically a lot of normal cafe fare mixed with some Asian nibbles here and there.

The place is cute, with funky art on the walls, great tunes piped through the speakers, and beer and booze to make it the perfect night time spot as well.  But things don’t always go smoothly there.

Years ago, as I prepared to order my favourite ham and cheese, I noticed that they were serving fries with their hamburger special. I asked the waitress for my sandwich, plus a side of fries.

“No.”

That’s it. That’s all she replied with.

“No?”

“No. It doesn’t come with fries.”

I tried to explain to her that I knew this, and that I was asking for a side of them anyway.

“No. They cost extra.”

Again, I tried to explain that this was okay. All I wanted was a flipping side of fries. Money was no object! Finally, after some more tough negotiations, I got what I wanted.

A few years later, I was going out for a bite with a friend and as we neared the cafe, I told him this story. All this reminiscing had made me crave the sandwich and fries, so when the waitress came to take our order, I asked for the same meal I had gotten before. (Fries had become part of the menu.)

“No.”

It took everything in me, and in my friend, not to burst out laughing. This was the same woman from a few years before. Luckily, however, she was a bit more reasonable this time around. I explained that I wanted them as a side, and that I would pay extra. Crisis averted.

Perhaps this was the universe trying to rid me of my strong and undeniable love of fried potatoes. I prefer to think of it as a great story about the reliability of craziness.

Writer’s Envy

I’m a writer who always has writer’s envy. I blame much of this on the fact that while I make a living at this keyboard, typing my fingers off, I almost never get feedback. Really, there’s only so far you can grow without someone telling you to stop doing this, or start doing that.

However, the one thing I continually work on is my ability to write at length. Sit me down to muse, think, and chatter in an e-mail to a friend, and I will write pieces that rival the most epic novels. Ask me to write on a topic, or expound on a subject, outside of that, and I’m finger-tied. I blame this on an exercise I did years ago, where we had to keep taking out extraneous writing from a long, 500ish word piece, and sum it up in something like 50 words. I ripped through that sucker like a pro, and ever since then, any amount of length seems awfully superfluous.

Add to that a hugely-picky brain that can read very little long-winded web writing, and I’m just about screwed. But, I’m trying.

One of the steps on my path is hunting down those that can write long pieces that keep me glued ’til the end. The latest:

Anthony Bourdain

Man, he can write. I’ve always wanted to see his shows, but I am never around a television with cable to catch them. I hear great things about him, but haven’t had a chance to really appreciate any of it until now.

He’s got a new blog over at the Travel Channel, and I’m completely hooked. They’re long; they’re fun; and I’m hoping that I can learn a thing or two. If you like food, travel, and that mixture of personal commentary, social relevance, and life, it’s worth your eye time.

But right now, I need to take a break. For the last 8 days, I’ve spent monumentally more time working than I have doing anything else. It’s time for a breather.

In the immortal words of Slater: Check ya later!

Black Coffee Bliss

First, a little background: My apartment consists of two main rooms — a large kitchen/living room, and my bedroom. Connecting the two is a curtain that I throw down to block the insidious smells of stinky cooking, or to give my baseboard heaters a rest when heating the space.

When I’m working in my main room, I turn off the heat in the other rooms, because really, why pay for a room to be heated when you’re not spending any time in it? This means that treks to the bedroom or bathroom require opening the curtain and facing the refreshingly cold slap of crisp air. It is, at once, both a shock and a welcome pinch. When you’re pounding the keys and watching the white-etched numbers slowly fade away on your keyboard, it’s easy to forget that it’s a cold, barren wasteland outside.

Sometimes, when I feel the inclination, I make coffee while in the warm confines of the main room. The green beans come out, the roaster is plugged in, and soon the smell of roasting and brewing fills the space from floor to ceiling. On those days, walking back through that curtain means the warm, thick smell of black coffee bliss.

Henry Rollins has the Black Coffee Blues, but that sharp, crisp taste, and the smell of roasted beans in the air is nothing but the finest of life. It’s better than any cup of Starbucks. It’s better than any old, frozen grounds.

A quick roast means a room thick with the smell of coffee.

A cup of black wonder means pure, unadulterated pleasure.

There is no cream.

There is no sugar.

There’s just that steaming cup that makes everything just a little bit better.