When meeting with potential clients, we try to do so in as much of a "non-business" atmosphere as we can. While we don't go so far as to ask ourselves for dinner or share secrets only our best friends know, we do try to make a connection with the people we are going to work for. Making food for people can be a very personal thing and when you're completely on the same page as The Client, things go better. The atmosphere is one of mutual admiration and everyone comes out a winner.

Clearly, as you have read over and over and over, that doesn't always happen. But when everyone clicks, it's fabulous. We've made some very good friends in this business. Some are repeat customers, and some are just those people you run into on the street and you greet one another like old friends.

Two days ago we met with The December Client who's panicked message on Sunday night left a lot of room for speculation.

"This is Mrs. Smith and I am hoping and praying you have the 3rd of December still open. Please. I pray. Please don't be booked. I know it's short notice but we've got a wedding. Call me as soon as you get this message."

There are a few reasons weddings are rushed. Like...the groom's visa has expired and in order to stay in this country he needs to marry a citizen. Or...the couple met and fell in love on a flight home from Tampa and they need to be married before running off to teach at the Department of Defense school in Greece.

Or... someone's going to have a baby. And even though this is 2005, babies before bridal registries still causes panic in many, many people.

The December client is a repeat customer. We've tricked for her many times, both large and small functions. And she's strictly business. No light chit chat, no personal banter. Which is fine. She's a very reserved and classy dame with impecable taste in food - and impecable taste in Whores. (If I do say so, myself) We enjoy working for her.

So to hear the panic in her voice was odd - very unlike her normal professional manner.

We met over coffee with The December Client and her Bride-to-Be Daughter. The meeting was not our normal meeting. There was an anxiousness and urgency in the air, and The December Client was actually somewhat fidgety. Very odd behavior. But we didn't ask. We have always respected her professional manner and we kept to the task at hand.

Our last topic of discussion was champagne service for the toast. "We would like to have a few bottles of sparkling cider on hand. Is that possible?", she asked.

"Of course", I replied.

The B2B Daughter shifted in her seat and gave a glance to her mother.

The Partner gave me a smile and I asked, "And as far as placement goes, shall we place a bottle or two at the head table?"

And with a wink and a nod The December Client replied and not another word was said.

There's a baby coming.

The Husband and I were out at a burger joint a couple of nights ago, and in the middle of enjoying our greasy burgers we witnessed a scene not unlike situations I have dealt with, myself.

The Customer was dressed in his business suit, tie loosened. The Waitress was dressed in stained khakis, a Jimmy Hendrix t-shirt, and nose piercings.

Customer: "Waitress! I don't want these onions on my burger."
Waitress: "Well, you didn't say no onions."

Customer: "I didn't. But I didn't know they came on this burger."
Waitress: "Yep. They do."

Customer: "Please take the burger back to the kitchen to be taken off."
Waitress: "Nope."

Customer: "Nope?"
Waitress: "That's what I said. You don't want them. You take them off."

Customer: "Look. Your job is to do as I ask. The cook's job is to remove what I don't want."
Waitress: "My job - if you are lucky - is to bring you your food before it gets cold. The Cook's job is to put food on the plate. The rest is up to you."

"Hey!", The Husband said to me. "Stop staring". But I rolled my eyes at him and kept watching the soon-to-be train wreck. It was like dinner theater.

Customer: "Well then I won't pay for the burger."
Waitress: "Well then I won't let you eat it."

And with that she casually took his plate and walked it back to the kitchen. The Customer sat there in disbelief, sort of half scoffing at The Waitress and half trying to hide his embarassment.

And I started to giggle. I couldn't help myself. The Husband, while wiping greasy onions and cheese off his chin, shook his head at me.

And then The Customer stood up and said, "This is fucking bullshit", while looking around for someone to agree with him. But no one did. They all just kept on eating.

And I just kept on giggling.

It's official.

I am On Strike.

Costco Strike, that is.

I have been avoiding the place since the Finger in the Navel Incident, but was forced to run in there quickly to get something my restaurant supply store was out of.

And it was the visit that, as they say, was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I came around the corner of an aisle and people were everywhere - turns out there was a Sample Station at the end of the row. I wanted to turn around and go the other way but the store was so busy and my aisle was so crowded that it was easier to just charge forward.

So I am was trying to maneuver my cart around the Sample Table when I go 'cart to cart' with a lady coming from the other direction.

"Hey. No cutting in line!", she demanded.

"Cutting in line?"

"Well you better not be cutting in line!"

She was a surley woman with a raspy man-like voice. If I had the ability to place a fuzzy dot over her face I could swear I had seen her on an episode of Cops. She was pretty much dressed for the part of "Screaming and Curse-out-the-Police Girlfriend". The kind who get bleeped a lot.

Anyway.

I stood there for a minute wondering what the heck all the fuss was over. I was so confused why anyone would be so uptight over a sample of white bread.

That's right - I saidWhite bread.

"You're kidding, right? You're going to bark at me over a small chunk of white bread?"

She glared and started pushing her cart in front of mine. But I maneuvered in front of her and out of sheer immaturity and spite I grabbed a little portion cup of the white bread on my way around the table. I held it up and said, "Cheers!", and Angry Cops Lady glared some more.

And I started laughing and shaking my head. Which pissed her off even more. Which made me laugh harder. And it turned into one of those laughs where you don't know if the person is being silly or has spiraled completely into the depths of insanity.

In my case, it was a little bit of both.

I won't be going back.

It's 1:40 a.m. and I am just winding down.

And I am totally craving french fries.

And I want old fashioned burger stand crinkle cuts with extra salt, dipped in ketchup.

So it's been a crazy week filled with lots of fodder for lots of stories - as is the case with my life.

The most prominent being, however, the case of the TMI Bride - TMI, of course, being Too Much Information.

This particular trick was one that really had been enjoyable from the beginning. The Bride was perfectly rational. The menu was completely fun and different. And the overall feeling of the night was one of relaxation and excitment.

That is, until, The Groom decided to have a beer.

It was decided early on that the only alcohol served at The Reception would be beer and wine. The Bride and Groom are on the young side and they both felt like if hard liquor were served, some of their friends would get out of hand. A decision we completely respected and understood.

And I will say, there were a few young men who get a bit on the loud and tipsy side, but there's always those few. It makes the night more interesting for all, really. They weren't obnoxious - just, silly.

But then The Silly Boys decided to do a toast to their friend The Groom and in doing so, The Groom had a glass of beer and some good chuckles. All perfectly normal, or so it seemed.

It was shortly after the toast that The Bride came slamming into the kitchen, with Her Mother on the chase.

"Cindy, you need to calm down. It's just one glass of beer."

"But mother - I do not want him doing anything to impare the night."

All of us in the kitchen tried to act like we didn't see or hear them. There's nothing more uncomfortable than being witness to someone's issues.

"Cindy. I get it. But you need to calm down. It's one glass of beer. He put it down and he's on to other things. This is your wedding night. It's time to straighten up and act like a grown woman."

"MOTHER! We are 22-year old virgins and I do not want anything causing him to be less than perfect on my special night!!!"

We all fell silent. I admit I was seconds away from letting out a loud guffaw but The Partner caught my eye and we kept one another's focus as not to create any more embarassment for the already red-faced Mother.

Everyone in the kitchen looked down or looked away and remained silent for what seemed like an eternity.

The Mother, completely exhasperated at this point, calmly grabbed her daughter's hand and said, "Cindy - honey. We've talked about this. And sweetie, I think it would do you some good to have a beer, yourself."

I am going to write a book.

And I am going to title it Realistic Expectations.

I have to do it to give Brides or anyone else seeking professional food service a realistic idea of what to expect when it comes to hiring people such as myself.

And I have to do it to give food prefessionals such as me an opportunity to stop popping Tums like they're candy.

We met with a Potential Client, an excited (and very young) Bride to Be (B2B). Said B2B came in with her pretty pink planner book and laid out all of her pictures of dresses and flowers and pretty buffets she's seen in different magazines.

"This is so exciting. Isn't this exciting??!!", she squealed.

I chuckled a bit. I do love the excitement for these girls. So many dream of their perfect wedding their entire lives. Yes it's only one day, but it should be a fabulous day for all concerned. And I am not so hard-nosed that I don't enjoy the excitement. I say go for it - live the dream.

However.

And this is where the Realistic Expectations come in - dreams aren't cheap. Fancy dresses and flowers and doves in cages aren't cheap. Moreover - food is not cheap.

Let me repeat - Food is not cheap.

So when B2B showed me her food pictures, and reminded me of a Trick we did about 6 months ago (that she had attended), she laid out her dream menu and then asked that oh-so-reality-slapping, "How Much?"

And we're talking chilled salmon, standing rib roast, salads, roasted vegies, assorted breads and cheeses, and a list of foods fit for a banquet at Henry VIII's house. She knew what she wanted and I was impressed.

So then I gave her a pretty rough guestimate.

And then her face fell.

And then tears started to form.

And then the bawling ensued.

"Are you serious? THAT much? Really? But I don't have that much in my budget! I wasn't planning to spend that much. This is my dream and I have got to have my dream!"

I took a deep breath and rubbed my temples in an effort to subdue my knee-jerk response of something hateful. I looked over at the partner, who by this time had her eyes closed and was shaking her head.

"What exactly did you have for a budget to fulfill this dream?", I asked.

"Well I was hoping for $12 per person."

The Partner looked at me and mouthed, "For the love of God", before looking back at the B2B and saying, "Sweetheart. I am sorry. But that's just not even realistic."

"But this is my dream. And I have a budget. And I... what am I going to do?"

"Well", the partner said, "You're going to have to rethink the dream and have some realistic expectations."

You could see the cloud of confusion and disbelief wash over B2B's face. It was almost like someone told her that Ken was a homosexual and that he and Barbie were never going be man and wive and live out their days in the fancy pink Barbie camper and swimming in the pretty pink Barbie pool.

"Well isn't there anything you can do? I mean, can't you make some consessions and rethink the price? Can't you make some exceptions here?"

"We can work with you but the reality is, you are going to have to rethink what it is you expect. What you want isn't doable for your budget. Not even in the ballpark. $12 for a food budget is, well, it's just..."

She gathered up her pictures and tucked them in the pink notebook. "Well I need some time. I mean. I can't believe that do this. I just never dreamed... well. Nevermind. I guess I will just have to try somewhere else. I have heard you guys are so fabulous to work with. I guess I am just shocked that this didn't go so well."

The Partner and I smiled.

"Well, we are sorry. We're not here to squash your dream. But what you're asking for is impossible. But good luck to you. We hope you find what you're looking for.", I said.

After she left, we sat silent for a minute. And then The Partner leaned over in a belly laugh fitting of a night at The Comedy Store. And she couldn't stop laughing. Which then made me giggle. And then we both laughed so hard we cried.

What are you gonna do? Some people are just dumb like that. But we're totally insane. So I guess that makes us all even.

Any time I spend a little too much time upon The High Horse I seem to get myself into a predicament (or four) that knocks me back down to the bowels that is my life.

Time and time and time again I've been critical of people who eat in their car. And while I convince myself I have good reason to do so, let's be honest, I'm just a self-righteous pain in the ass.

But it's just all part of The Charm Package, people.

My day started like so many other - dealing with a potential client trying to nickle and dime me to death. So I was behind the 8-ball in the attitude department before I even got out the door.

It's been a day filled with appointments and obligations. I was dressed up in my new outfit, complete with a shoe I had no business being in. Whatever possesses me to think I can wear a heel shaped like a meat skewer is beyond me. I need to get real with the fact that unless I can Cater in it -it's just not going to work for me. If you look under the words, "Wobbly Falling Down Dumbshit" in the dictionary, you will see the words "www.foodwhore.com" as the description.

Anyway.

I am rushing to get to my second meeting when the pangs of hunger became so loud it was like I had an alien life form living in my belly just waiting to force it's way out and grab the nearest sandwich. So I pulled into my nearest Starbucks for an iced coffee and a bagel sandwich, light on the mayo schmeer, please. I ran - OK, wobbled - like a newborn pony back to my car, and was on the road.

The first and most curse-word producing incident was when the lid to my ice coffee popped lose, mid sip - one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand trying desperately to catch the cup before it careened to the floor. I managed to get enough control of the mess to put it back in my cup holder and slam the lid back on. But it wasn't enough control to stop the trickle of cream-laden coffee from splashing down the front of my shirt. I cursed the name of the barista who made my coffee and chastised the cup manufacturer from not making a more efficient system to contain a travelling beverage. (Really, no one is safe when I am on a ridiculous tirade over a spill.)

The thing is, I wasn't smart enough to just avoid the Eating in Transit game because I went ahead - against my own better judgement - and decided to eat as much as the bagel sandwich as I could to stop the grumbling that now sounded like a 747 coming in for a landing.

And you all know what it's like to bite into a bagel. It's that tough/chewy outer shell that compresses instead of tears, and in the process of the compression shoots the contents of said bagel all over the lap of the person stupid enough to attempt a one-handed bagel meal.

And the schmeer wasn't so much a schmeer as it was a huge dollop of mayo laden with shredded lettuce and sliced red onion. And let's not forget that slab of Black Forrest ham spiraling down after.

By this time I am so defeated I threw the remaining bagel to the floor of my car and pulled into the parking lot of my next stop. I looked down to see the coffee stain - complete with mayo globs on the side - and figured the best way to deal with all of it was just to button my jacket and hold my head up high. Only I couldn't do that because the fear of thrusting one of the prongs that was my heel into a tiny divot on the pavement was so overwhelming that I kept my head down, praying for a safe stride into the door.

So I had an epiphany about my attitude, today. It's not so much that I mock people for eating in their car because I think it's wrong.

I mock because I just can't do it my damn self.

It's been a long time since The Husband lived in his hometown back on the East Coast. He's traveled the world, lived in four different states and now this is the place he calls home.

But there are days when gets homesick for the place he calls "home" in his heart.

We were talking the other night about family, and he began to wax poetic about his dearly departed grandmother. He spoke fondly of her little farmhouse and the apron she always wore. And the food - he actually closed his eyes when he spoke of her biscuits and ham on Sundays.

And then we started talking about comfort foods we ate as kids. In my house nothing could beat The Mother's meatballs in mushroom gravy. In his house it was fried Spam sandwiches.

"Come, agin?"

"So do you love me enough to make chitterlings?"

I swallowed hard. "My love has no limits."

"Little bit, yeah."

I don't know what my deal is with bananas.

But this morning I added another one to my freezer. And then realized that my banana hoarding was starting to get out of control when I actually considered turning my ice maker off because the ice was taking up too much room for the bananas.

So I decided it was time to suck it up and do something with those bad boys, and I pulled out The Mother's recipe for banana bread.

I had all the ingredients I needed. I located my loaf pans. I plotted out how I would include the baking in my day. And then I realized that the best way for me to make banana bread was to take the bananas to The Mother's house for her to make it.

I am nothing if I am not resourceful.

But the kicker of my Monday morning is not the fact that at 7:30 a.m. The Mother found me on her doorstep, it was that when I dug into the bottom my purse for a pen, I found the banana I had tossed in there Friday morning on my way out the door.

And forgot to eat.

For 3 days.

3 really really hot days.

We added to our Waitstaff last week with a new hire. She's beautiful and bright and she is finishing up her Bachelor's degree in psychology.

After a particularly insane dinner rush she came in the kitchen and said, "I don't need a degree in psychology to figure out that 90% of the population are of The Devil and they all stop by here for dinner on their way to Hell."

I smiled at her and said, "Next week I will take you out on a catering and show you just exactly what they act like when they get there."

We have more latex gloves in our catering stash than the average Hospital. It's just part of the deal - you work with food, you wear latex. Well, you're supposed to, anyway.

I can't begin to tell you how many times I change my gloves during a Trick. Theoretically speaking - one pair would last the entire night. But when I am on the floor speaking with people, I don't like to have them on. So off they go. And then a new pair gets put on for more working. And then off. And then on. And the kicker is, I don't always throw them away. On any given night I come home with 3 or 4 pair of used gloves in my pocket. And I don't know why I don't think to throw them out. It's just a habit - and one I don't plan on changing any time soon.

And here's why.

The other night I was washing up prep dishes before a trick. Someone had come in and thrown a dirty wine glass in the sink - without my knowing it - and in the process of it getting thrown, it broke. So when I plunged my hands into the sink, my wrist was met with a large shard of glass. And it plunged deep enough into my wrist that when I pulled it out of the sink, the piece of glass was still embedded.

It hurt like a sonofabitch, too. But I was lucky - no major veins were hit, but the bleeding was bad. Well, bad enough for a band-aid. I get a bit dramatic when it comes to seeing my own blood. It wasn't like blood was spurting all over the place. Though that is the story I tell people, just for added effect. And it always gains more sympathy.

Anyway.

I grabbed a towel and applied pressure. The Partner got our emergency kit and dug out a couple of band-aids and other items to get it all doctored up. It was situated just below the palm of my hand so a latex glove covered the band-aid nicely, which helped to keep it dry and helped to keep it out of the way of further prep.

So the night went on and I changed my gloves one more time before service. Only this time the bleeding had stopped so I skipped the band-aid and went with gloves, only.

Only I forgot the part about skipping the band-aid, so after we had salads plated I looked down to notice the band-aid was gone. And I thought it was now on someones plate. And I panicked. The Partner panicked. The Staff Panicked. We were all in secret hysteria over a band-aid that I was certain had been embedded in the field greens.

We had to hold back salad service until we had enough time to check each plate because I just new someone was going to get a bloody band-aid. And that thought nearly put me into the throes of a full-blown panic attack.

I had to sit in a chair to regain my composure while the rest of the people in the room searched the back-up salad and anything I had recently touched. Including the butter sauce for the salmon, the trays of roasted asparagus and the pilaf. "It's over", I said. "Our reputation is over. Shot. And I ruined it. Someone is going to get that band-aid and like that - POOF - we're through!"

The Partner sighed and told me to stop being so dramatic. "Oh calm down. We will find it. Just sit here and rethink your steps before I have to slap you." They say she's the nice one - people don't have a clue.

As I was sitting there, head in my hands, I had the wherewith all to check my pockets. And sure enough. There in my right apron pocket were two gloves - one with that damned bloody band-aid. "Oh.", I said sheepishly. "Um. Here it is. Ok! Let's serve those salads!"

Relief, regret, foolishness - all emotions I was feeling. All while getting that "look" from everyone in the kitchen.

But better that than getting called someones table. The thought of someone biting down on that band-aid made me gag.

It makes me gag just thinking about it, now.

Just a little note to say I am sorry about the time it takes me to return an e-mail. There just aren't enough hours in the day to get it all done, so if it takes me a while to get back to you please don't be offended. I will get to it just as soon as I can.

So am I the only one who thinks it's completely gross and unforgiving when a Costco employee stops in the middle of the bakery secion to help a customer, and then proceeds to pick up her shirt and dig in her belly button?

AM I?

People are just acting crazier and crazier all the time.

I don't know if it's the heat or if there's finally been a collective stopping of the medications, but something is just not right.

We had a Trick on Saturday and I am happy to report it was issue free. It was a fabulous affair at a seaside locale with everyone on their best behavior.

Well, except for The Mother of The Groom, or as we like to call them - MOG. I've run into this wierd dynamic of MOGs, lately, and it seems to be a trend for everyone in the business. MOGs have a hard time of letting their "baby" run off and get married and they do things that I find just odd and creepy. Loving your child is one things, being IN love with your child is an episode fit for Jerry Springer.

This particular MOG insisted two days alone with her son so they could have one "last trip as mother and son..." Which, technically I guess there's no harm in that. But let's cut the cord, already. Suck it up, embrace the idea that you're going to gain a daughter, and move on. This trend of MOGs weeping openly during the ceremony and practically dragging the ankles of The Groom has got to stop.

So anyway, as I said, our job was nice and smooth. We got to deal with The Bride's Family and they were fabulous.

But The Florist had another issue, all together.

The centerpieces were being assembled on each guest table when the MOG came through and scoffed at what was being done. They "weren't grand enough - they needed to make more of a statement." Now, I was there. These centerpieces were stunning. The Bride's family had a budget of $15,000 for flowers and the MOG found that to be insulting.

Insulting? I happen to think spending that much on flowers for ONE DAY is the insulting part. But what do I know. I'm just a kitchen sloth.

Anyway, so The MOG pulled aside the florist and wrote out a check for $5,000 on the spot and demanded they get more flowers and make the centerpieces "fit for a king!". And I can only assume that the "King" in this case was her son.

Blech.

The Florist was a bit stunned and was in a really wierd spot. On the one hand, you don't just scoff at a $5000 check. But on the other hand, do you go behind your client's back to supplement what they did? The bigger issue here, however, was having the ability to get that amount of flowers delivered and placed on site.

The MOG demanded some sort of reply and seeing the potential for a scene, The Florist looked in my direction. I gave the universal "Surrender to the Idiots" signal by raising my hands, shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head.

There were a few frantic phone calls made to the floral supplier and it just so happened there was a truck in the area. So with some lucky timing and an extra floral designer called on site, the centerpieces went from gorgeous to really - way over the top.

But the MOG was thrilled.

And I was more convinced that my hope for all of man kind is tanking for a reason.

My young cousin was recently visiting for the weekend and we got to talking about boys and friends and all the teenage angst that comes with being a beautiful girl of 16.

She shared some of the stories about how some of the girls in her class are just so "bitchy and self-righteous. And rude. And snotty. And selfish..." We've all gone to school with those girls. Some of us were those girls, even. Well, unless you were a guy.

Anyway.

So she asked me if people get better as they get older. And I thought about lying and telling her that when people celebrate their 18th birthday they go in this Magic Closet and come out all fabulous and nice.

Instead I was painfully honest. "You know how I like to say the words, 'I hate people', right?"

"Yes. Well. That and they do stupid things in my restaurant."

A couple of nights ago I had a lady and her husband come in for dinner with their two daughters. It was one NY Strip dinner for the big guy and 3 grilled shrimp salads for the ladies of the family. When the order came in, one of the salads said, 'Tomatoes and avocados on the side'. Which, yeah, we hate. But we will do it.

We were slamming busy. People were waiting outside just to get inside. So the kitchen missed it. And we hate when we miss things. And had she ordered the salad without tomatoes and avocados due to some serious allergy, I would have felt really bad. But the thing is, she wanted the tomatoes and avocados, but she wanted them on a separate plate.

So I got called to her table and she was furious. Which, is just so thrilling. "I ordered this salad with the tomatoes and avocados on the side. And here they are next to the shrimp."

"I am sorry. Clearly there was a mixed signal in the kitchen."

I am thinking to myself, "Just take the damn things off, yourself." But I did refrain from saying that out loud.

"Take this back to the kitchen and have your staff remove them and put them on a separate plate."

Not a please or a thank you in the sentence, anywhere.

"I want you to be happy, but I have to be honest. You see how busy we are, the kitchen is just slammed. Would it be OK if I just brought you a small dish so you could remove them, yourself?"

"Why would I pay for a salad I have to make myself? Do I look like I work in a kitchen?"

HOW AND WHY do these people find us? Is there some sort of flashing sign on the freeway that says, "Bitchy? Stupid? Demanding as Hell? Then We Are The Place For You!!" Or is there a tour guide somewhere saying, "There's a place just down the road with a self-loathing staff. They actually want you to treat them like indentured servants!! Oh, and have the clam chowder. It's out of this world!"

Her husband was embarrassed. I was actually speechless. "The salad is fine." He said in a stern voice. "A small plate would be fabulous. The food looks wonderful. Thank you, so much."

The Friend in Baltimore has a saying, "That Girl needs to be Pimp Slapped."

And while I generally don't condone physical violence, I do secretly hope that somewhere in that man's closet he has one of these:

One of the things I love most about living where I live is the plethora of locally grown products.

We've got wonderful Chinook and King Salmon. We've got Penn Cove Mussels. We've got Dungeoness Crab. We've got clams. Oh the clams. The Gooey-Duck in particular will have your children asking all sorts of questions about Man Parts. Because that's what I thought I grabbed one day when I found one of those bad boys. Nearly had a heart attack.

We've got strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, cranberries and all sorts of other berries I am pretty sure I would need to read up about before I eat them as not to poison myself.

And we've got wine grapes and hops and asparagus and corn. And peaches and apricots and nectarines and pears and cherries. Ohhh the cherries.

I have a picture of myself at the age of 5 on a trip my family took to a festival. Even then, I couldn't wear white because my little t-shirt was stained from neck to hem with cherry juice.

I picked up a bag of Ranier Cherries to set on my desk while I did some book work this afternoon. I mindlessly ate and spat the pits for a good part of an hour and by the time I got up to put the bowl on the counter, I realized it was empty.

"Well then, I guess that's a healthy lunch", I said to myself.

So I went on with my day and while on a quick trip to the grocery store my stomach started to gurgle. I stood there in the cereal aisle looking side to side in hopes that no one else heard. The gurgling stopped so I carried on with my shopping and it happened again over by the cheese. It was then I realized my quick trip to the grocery store needed to be even quicker and I made a beeline for the check-out.

The gurgling just never stopped.

I slammed my car into drive and sped the entire drive home, leaving the groceries in the car. I bolted up the steps and didn't even shut the front door behind me on my way into the bathroom.

The Husband hollered behind me, "Is everything ok?" I hate making conversation during 'Bathroom Duties' so I remained silent hoping he would just busy himself. "Babe? Where's that bowl full of cherries?"

And while I hate to fill this blog with things like bathroom humor, I have to admit that my response to him was, "In here."

Sigh.

The key to beign a success in business is to have a good balance of personality traits: Arrogance and Fear.

Someone once said to me that that I was not arrogant, but that I was confident, instead. But I see the definition of arrogance as confidence coupled with insanity.

And everyone in the food industry - whether they care to admit it, or not - is completely out of their damn minds. You have to be to survive this business. Actually, you have to be totally and completely bonkaroni to even get into this business in the first place.

Or your a complete drug addict.

Or an alcoholic.

Or just stupid.

The fear part just keeps it all in balance. You constantly question food supplies and service times and everything else that could possibly go wrong. And you constantly are reminded that you're not the only fish in the sea, so if you want to stay competitve, you have to know what your competitor is doing.

Anyway.

So I was at a trick over the weekend. Yes, that's right, AT a trick. We atteneded a party given by The Husband's company. Normally I hate these things. It's a bunch of people who don't like each other on the job getting together and pretending they are best friends. I just don't play well like that. But it was a meet/greet kind of function in one of the partner's back yard so we had to go and I promised to be a grown-up about it.

And it was hotter than Hell. There were tents but honestly, when it's 95 degrees, no amount of shade brings comfort.

The thing that struck me on the way in to the party was that The Catering Van was parked right in the owner's driveway. The doors were flung open and inside the van was the biggest mess I had ever seen. Cartons were tipped over, linens were strung across the front seats, buckets of whatever kind of food were teetering on the bumper. I couldn't read the name on the van because of the doors being open so (much to The Husband's chagrin) I snuck over and got a closer look - and oh my Gosh - it was The Famous Caterers.

The Famous Caterers have been in the business for a really long time and have this reputation that's hard to figure out. They are in demand and yet everyone seems to agree that their food sucks, they are assholes to deal with, and they leave a mess wherever they go. And yet they spend what seems to be thousands of dollars a month on advertising and they underwrite so many of the functions around town that you would think they really are the best of the best. So often I have thought that perhaps people were just telling me they sucked to give me a boost of confidence. So I was excited, finally, to get a taste of it all for myself.

The Husband's co-workers know I have "something to do with food" but I try to keep my Whoredom on the down-low as not to have people watch every move I make when I am in someone else's buffet line. I also don't drop business cards unless asked, nor do I offer up my profession in casual conversation. If I am asked, I share. If I am not asked, no one is the wiser. I just don't ever want it to be said that I am out pushing myself on people.

I do that enough to my friends. I don't need to bring all those innocent strangers to the mix.

Anyway so we got into the back yard and I began my re-con mission of finding out what was on the menu, how it was going to be served, how it was to be displayed and if I was really crafty I could find out how much they charged. I was ready to take mental notes of this company who's reputation preceeded them.

And boy was I in for a treat.

My first realization was that the night was going to be served in a "casual self-serve picnic - buffet style", which is perfect. The kicker her is, however, the buffet was not under a tent of any kind. I don't know if this was a mistake on the caterer's part or the client's part but the food deserved it's own tent. It's bad enough we were in a back yard prone to mosquitos, but remember it's 95 degrees. It's just not optimal to put any kind of food in that direct sun.

But The Famous Caterers did - and oh my God. The first thing that caught my eye was the large bowl of potato salad and nary an ice bath in sight. We weren't even due for the main course for another hour, but they were setting all the food out in preparation. So out comes the potato salad. And then out comes some deviled eggs. Then there were beans - no chafing dish. I guess they figured the hot sun would keep them warm? The thing about beans is - they can be more dangerous than a bubbling bowl of potato salad. Keep those bad boys piping hot - or chill them down. Luke warm isn't going to cut it. Unless, of course, your goal for the night is to have your guests fighting over your toilet.

(And before you people send me any hate mail (you know who you are) no, I am NOT the Health Department Nark. We've all fudged a time or two in the name of food service. Just try to remember my goal on this night was to pick things apart - not make excuses.)

It was after those items were put out that they decided to go ahead and put a bouquet of flowers in the middle of it all but decided to stack it up high on boxes covered in linens. Which - that's all good. I've used many a linen-hidden box in my day. But I must stress that I've used small and sturdy boxes. These boxes were worse for wear and there was no way that big flower vase was going to be safe sitting up there. Which - they did have the wits to figure out after the middle box collapsed before they took their hands off the vase.

All of this was happening, mind you, while the guests were milling about. Which - may not mean anything to the average Joe. But in my world - it's just so damned unprofessional.

And so completely fun for me to watch.

There was a large BBQ going with burgers and brats and then out came a large picnic ham for the carving board at the end of the table. And then out came Mr. Carver with an apron so stained he looked like Mel from Mel's Diner. All we needed were Vera and Flo to holler in an order of eggs with a little pork belly on the side.

And the sweat - oh man the sweat rolling off his head as he stood there pre-carving a few pieces. Which, I had empathy for. It was hot. And standing in that sun over that hot ham and in front of all those people is a job that truly sucks. But for the love of God, man, get a bar towel to wipe the Sweat Sprinkler.

All though, I gotta be honest - I don't know who/what was sweating more, Mr. Carver or that potato salad.

The Husband made his way over to me so he could introduce me to Mr. Big, his boss. I shook his hand, pleasantries were exchanged and Mr. Big asked me, "Is it just me or is that potato salad going to be a problem before the night is over?" The Husband shot me a look that screamed, "Please - PLEASE - be nice."

"Well", I said. "It's not ideal for it not to be on ice in this heat. Shade wouldn't be a bad thing, either." I could see The Husband relax. As I was getting ready to share another piece of wisdom Mr. Big's wife came over and said, "Honey - I'm thinking they put the food out way too soon. We've got plenty of appetizers and I was really clear about when dinner would be. That potato salad is going to be a problem and what's with the stained apron? I thought these people were pros."

I chuckled. I couldn't help myself.

It was another hour before we ate dinner and by that time a layer of liquid had formed on top of the potato salad. And not one person took it, and only a few took the eggs. And Mr. Carver never did put on a clean apron - or get a bar towel.

The night was pleasant, enjoyable, even.

Ok, Hell. I had a blast and couldn't wait to get home and call The Partner.