"Waiter, um, there's a hair in my lemon drop."

Worst thing I've ever had to say in a restaurant.

It can happen anywhere - no restaurant is immune to problems. Overcooked, underdone, not what they had in mind... you are at the mercy of your customers. Things like that don't rattle the kitchen too much. You fix it, (perhaps even gripe about it) you make people happy and you get on with your life. But when word gets back to the kitchen that someone found something foreign in their food - it makes you want to crawl in a hole and pray the apocolypse happens in hopes it will distract people enough they won't remember.

We went out for dinner, I was craving a martini dinner with a side of steak. The food, as always, was fabulous a this establishment. But when I went to take a sip out of my second martini I noticed something floating next to the ice crystals - a hair. Not mine, not anyone at the table, not The Waiter.

Just a single mysterious hair floating innocently - or not - in my lemon drop.

I did not want to have to tell the waiter. I knew he would be mortified, and I did not want to raise a fuss. On the other hand, I wanted that drink. I mean, it was a lemon drop. So I motioned for him to come over and had him come real close. I said, "I hate to do this, but there is a hair in my martini. Before you say anything - I am totally not mad. I would just like replacement if possible."

He was mortified.

But he returned shortly with a fresh drink and a message from the bartender. "Free lemon drops the rest of the night."

It was like winning the lottery.

I've spent the last week desperately trying to catch up - catch up on paperwork, catch up on dust bunnies and catch up on e-mail.

I receive this nice little number the other day:

The writing "style" on your website is so vulgar that I couldn't get past the first page. It's a shame because you have some information that I might be interested in reading. However, the writing is so vulgar in its attempt to be humorous it comes off like a 7th-grader's bathroom humor. Really, "vomitosis" and "food whore" used in writings about food and restaurants? Makes me want to stay far away from any restaurant or food you have anything to do with. Funny, I always had the silly notion that the food industry had a touch of class. It sure isn't true anymore. Very disappointed in your ugly vulgarity.

I am disappointed in my ugly vulgarity, too. God knows I've tried to take my vulgarity back to Nordstrom to find something more attractive, but even they won't take it back. And they took back a pair of shoes I bought three years ago.

I've tried creams, I've tried an avocado mask, I've tried everything I can to make my vulgarity somewhat more attractive. Alas, I just cannot.

My vulgarity is just that bad. Worse than my pie crust, even.

I am always flattered when people come in The Restaurant to tell me of their recent travels, but that they could not wait to get home to eat at our place.

One such couple was sharing with me their recent Cruise Ship Travels, and in the middle of the conversation The Husband started to cough, and ended up projectile vomiting all over the table.

They hadn't been served their dinner at that point, so I admit I was a little relieved that the Fountain o' Vomitosis was not because of something he ate at my place.

But I felt terrible for him. For her. He felt terrible. She felt terrible. We all felt terrible.

And I really felt terrible hosing - vomitosis - out of the holes in my Crocs.

So, anything fun happen on your Friday night?

Browser problems + Food Whore Technical Ignorance = No Blog Access.

I really need to bone up on the whole troubleshooting thing, but I have my gut full keeping track of my knives.

Had a little issue, its fixed, I'm back.

I think it was just my week to be followed by trouble. We had a little snow here - made a nice slippery mess. The Husband took me to see Dreamgirls, and upon stepping out of my car I fell right on my tukas.

I would like to say I was embarrassed and mortified at such a blatant display of klutziness, but when it is an every day occurrence a person tends to just get up, take a bow and get on with things.

*sigh*

So, I am not a kid anymore. That was made very clear to me some years ago when I was the chaperon for a young girls' birthday dance.

I drove a group of 13-year old girls home that night, and when dropping the first of off she turned to me and said, "You know, for an old person you are way cool."

I was 23 at the time.

But even now at my age of "Not 23", I realize to so many that I am, in fact, old. But I am as young as I feel, right? Which, some days I feel 16, others about 94.

But I also consider myself hip. And my God the fact that I even used that statement in an of itself makes me old - but I am current with what is going on in the world - the teenage world.

I know a lot of teenagers. Some are really fabulous people. Others are snot-nosed shits who think they rule the universe with their Devil may care attitude and total lack of respect for others. Which is not so much different than the days when my generation was in the throws of Teen aged-dom. (Yes I made the word up, no need to write) But I tend to judge the behaviors of the latter based on what life was like when I was their age. I was imperfect, for sure. But the consequences of my misbehaviors came at the swift hand of The Parents. That isn't always the case today.

I had a 17 year old boy come to The Restaurant a couple of months ago to apply for a job. He needed a job, and was willing to do anything even if it meant dumping the garbage all night. He was a persistent little sucker, too. He came back five days in a row - insistent he could do whatever I asked of him.

"All right", I said. "I have a few dish washing shifts you can take. But know it is no glamor job. It is dirty and messy and you will probably go home with the nightly special all over your shoes. And there is garbage to dump - plenty of it - so I hope you weren't kidding."

He was elated. He was ready to start training on the spot. And I let him. I am all about giving kids a chance.

He did great the first week. He pitched in wherever he could, he was on time, he kept a clean station and never balked when asked to do any of the dirty work. At the end of the week we sat down and I asked him how he felt about the work. He was happy to have a job. The hours were great, and he hoped I was ok keeping him on. And I was.

And then week two came. He got a bit slower, but we overlooked it. His attitude was great, so you sort of pick your battles.

And then week three came. He stopped seeing the necessity in wearing his uniform. The floor manager got on his case, and he claimed he was not aware he was supposed to wear it all the time. And then the next night when he showed up yet again in another filthy dingy t-shirt, I gave him a uniform to change in to and he was upset. "What is the big damn deal?", he asked. "I just get dirty anyway." I was patient, reminded him about the job, what was required, why we do the things we do, blah blah blah. He apologized. Sort of. And I could tell this would probably not be a lasting relationship.

And the next night during the dinner rush he was switching loads with his fancy Blue Tooth earphone/microphone cell phone thingy (I am so not technical) in his ear, and having a conversation with someone about some girl. I made him give me the phone. I felt like my 5th grade teacher asking me for my gum. And I was tempted to speak to him in the same tone she spoke to me. "Timmy, we don't speak on our phones while we are on the job, mmmkay? Now. Put this on your nose..."

The next night sealed the deal. We were out on a Trick, but when we came back to The Restaurant there he stood leaning against the back freezer having a long animated conversation on his cell phone, in his dingy ass t-shirt - smoking a cigarette.

He put it out on the floor when he saw my face, hung up the phone and started in about how his washing machine was broken and he only had the t-shirt he was wearing, blah blah blah blah.

I put my stuff away, and let him finish his shift without saying a word. And then at the end of the shift I sat him down and told him it wasn't going to work out. I broke up with him. But I did the, "Its not me its you" speech. He didn't say a word, just got up and went home.

And then 20 minutes later the phone rang and it was his mother. "How out of touch with today's youth are you?", was the first question out of her mouth. "What is the big deal if he doesn't' wear his uniform. He just gets dirty, anyway..."

"Right. But a uniform is part of the job. The same rules apply to everyone..."

"Well they are dumb rules."

I was rolling over so many great things to say to her, and keep my professional demeanor in tact, but all I could think of was "You are a stupid, stupid woman..." So I just listened to her.

"And the cell phone? So what. So he talks to his friends. Socialization is important."

"Did he tell you about the cigarette?", I asked.

There was silence on the other end.

"Well just be grateful he wasn't smoking in the kitchen. And try not to be so old and out of touch with teenagers..."

Click.

I actually was grateful he wasn't smoking in the kitchen. Because then I would have been forced to shove the disrespectful dingy t-shirted, sorry ass-ed mamma's boy head first into the dishwasher.

Damn. Why didn't I tell her that...

A Saturday off. And I could not be more thrilled.

I took a call Tuesday morning from The Frantic Client. Due to unforeseen travel issues she would have to cancel her Trick for Saturday, but would pay us more to reschedule on our next available day this month. I put her on hold for a minute to retrieve my schedule book, and did a little happy dance on my way. I rescheduled her Trick, assured her no more money was necessary and bid her a cheerful adieu.

I called The Partner. "We have Saturday off." And her response was a huge sigh of relief. "High Five", she said. "High Five right back", I said. (We're a little old school...)

So as I sit here this fine day relishing in the freedom to do what I want, when I want, I decided I wanted to make a big panini full of whatever I could find in the refrigerator. Ham! Fontina! Roasted Peppers! Arugula! The Husband let out a chuckle as I danced around the kitchen with glee over my ability to shriek over such things as roasted peppers of questionable age.

But the pep in my step wasn't so much about food as it was about my latest TV discovery.

I don't get a lot of time to watch TV so when I do I like to make it count. Last night while unable to sleep I channel surfed all those big number channels I never use, and happened to stumble upon Create TV.
I literally sat on the edge of my seat as I watched the love of my life -Jacques Pepin-
creating "Le Buffaay" (Le Buffet).

Before The Food Network became the powerhouse that it is (a station I have been sitting on the cusp of loathing...), and before my Saturdays became full of exciting things like stuffing mushroom caps and banging my head on cutting boards, I languished my afternoons in front of my local PBS station to watch fabulous people make fabulous food. And I guess due to lack of interest, or the insurgence of the aforementioned Big Network station, the shows I so loved seemed to disappear from view. But here, right in front of me, was my beloved Jacques making fast food, his way.

When the show was over I ran to the computer to check out the website and scan the schedule. And there was Lidia Bastianich, Mary Ann Esposito, Martin Yang, Ming Tsai...and the list goes on. All the old favorites.

Jacques is back in my life, and all seems right with the world.

Enjoy your Saturday.

So I am in The Grocery Store and I am exhausted.

The last three days of '06 kicked my heine so hard that New Year's Day was spent lying in my couch in a somewhat catatonic state while The Husband wiped spittle from my chin.

The last big trick was a wedding reception for 250 people. Only it was not to be a traditional wedding reception, no - it was to be a very casual open house. So The Client promised.

I am not sure if that information was not actually shared to the guests, but some sort of communication breakdown happened, which nearly caused The Partner and I to have a breakdown of our own.

We had set up beautiful buffet stations - at The Client's request - and they were filled with a beautiful array of hot and cold hors d' oeuvres. The often-stressed "Open House" mantra gave us a feeling of total relaxation in the kitchen. People would meander, they would show up throughout the night. Obviously we realized there would be a time more popular than another time, but the idea that all 250 people would not be descending upon us at once was a really nice thought.

While it lasted, at least.

That was our first mistake - assuming. The second mistake was made by getting cocky and relying too heavily on the use of The Venue's well-stocked kitchen. Given the scope of food we were serving we didn't want to have to hold over all of the items in warming ovens. So we opted to cook a few things on site. Which would have worked out just fine had the ovens not died 1-hour before service time.

Fortunately we were a short drive from our kitchen. So we made a mad dash of throwing pans in the van and off I sped. The Partner kept in touch by cell phone, and she had the food cart waiting outside the door so I could make a fast entrance back into the kitchen. I slammed around our kitchen, got all the items cooked and back into the van in record time, and made record time back to The Venue. But when I got there I was overwhelmed to see the entire place packed - full of people clamoring to get at the food tables. We were still within the time frame of having our food ready to go, but you would have sworn these people had been waiting for 3 hours, and that their last meal was seven days before the event. They were - rabid.

By the time we got lids off chafers and gave the MC the go ahead, people were actually pushing - pushing - to jockey for a place in line. One of our servers actually got caught up in the mosh pit and lost an earring in the mayhem. By the time she got back to the kitchen she was disheveled and swearing under her breath.

"My God!", she said. "It was like I threw bird seed in the middle of Central Park and was attacked by a wayward group fricking pigeons!"

It was just - insane.

I stood at the kitchen door and watched long enough to lose what little faith in humanity I had left. By then our servers were hollering for refills, and all I wanted to do was grab the microphone and start shouting. "Step back from the crab cakes, people. Or we're going to start sniping from the kitchen."

I swear to you one lady tried to place an entire wheel of brie on her plate, while another man took four crab cakes, and one was in his mouth while he went through the line. The Bartenders came running in the kitchen and said, "I need another case of Red Hook from the cooler STAT - or it's going to get ugly".

The Client came into the kitchen wide-eyed and completely overwhelmed. "Did I not say Open House? What in the Holy Hell is going on out there?"

We all huddled in the kitchen until we felt it was safe to go out. Well, actually, that's not true. We all actually huddled until Crab Cake guy came in and said the stuffed mushrooms were gone, and wondered if we were hiding any in the kitchen.

I've Tricked a lot of gigs in my day, and in all the years with all of the people we've fed, this was by far the rudest most outrageous bunch of mongrels we've ever served. Even The Client wondered who these people were - and most of them were friends and family.

It was quite a way to round out the year.

And so to finish, I was in The Grocery Store. And in my stupor I just sort of stared at the deli case while trying to decide if I wanted Honey or Black Forrest Ham. And before I could get the words out some little kid shot out of nowhere and zoomed right in front of me. And I thought to myself that he sort of floated by - glided if you will. And I had to do a double take because I could swear his tennis shoes had wheels. But I shook my head a little realizing that fatigue does some crazy shit to the brain, but then he did it again. So I leaned over a bit to get a closer look and I will be damned he did have wheels on the bottom of his tennis shoes. And I don't mean obvious wheels like the Tennis Shoe Skates I got for Christmas back in the 6th grade. I mean inconspicuous little wheels. He could see me staring and said, "Yeah - wheels."

"Pretty cool", I said. "Do they have a phone, too?"

The look on his face reminded me that this kid would have no clue about Maxwell Smart - Agent 86. Even I only knew it in re-runs. But then the little twerp said, "That would be stupid. You're weird." And off he skated.

Had I not been so tired I might have had the energy to chase after him to scare him a little, and you know, make a fool of myself. But instead I shrugged and said to the now staring Deli Guy, "He's totally right."