Cocktails & Stalk-tales: New City, new friends

Adventures in Plumbing

2010-06-04T02:16:00.000-07:00

There are certain illusions that I choose to perpetuate, to my benefit. For example, I'm sure my man believes that my fingernails emerge already painted a shade of hot pink, I grow zero hair on my body and that my natural scent alternates somewhere between roses and cotton candy. I have also tricked him into believing that I am physically incapable of cleaning.

At work, not only do the same rules apply, but I find that I've really got to feign ignorance when it comes to cleaning/manual labor, as it gets pretty hairy around there. I've been warned that being a bartender means cleaning up the nasty messes, unless I have the luxury of a helpful errand boy called a bar-back. Seeing as bar-backs are only guaranteed to be present during busy hours, I would like to make a formal request that anyone wishing to vomit at my bar choose to do so Friday or Saturday between the hours of 10 pm and 2 am.

Last night, I head to the ladies' room to apply pink glitter lip gloss (oh yeah, and my lips are always shiny) and I hear a terrible gurgling sound. I start stepping up my speed because it is clear someone is having severe intestinal distress and I want to give them their privacy. Then, the gurgling turns to a bubbling/sputtering noise and I realize that it is actually coming from the toilet (as a result of plumbing that has probably been in operation since before the 1906 quake). At this point, I have two options: 1) head straight for the bar and tell my favorite grumpy bartender about the issue at hand or 2) walk out and act like I saw nothing. Knowing that there is presently no bar back on duty, I run the risk of having to deal with this myself if I report it, but my conscience won't let me walk away with my (sparkly pink) lips sealed.

"We have a crisis situation it the ladies' room!" I exclaim, back at the bar. My favorite grumpy bartender sighs, rolls his eyes and walks over to where I'm standing. "What is it?" he groans. So I give him the 411 and he tells me that I'm going to retrieve something called a plunger (which I lead him to believe I've never heard of) and unclog the toilet myself. I can tell that he expects me to get completely prissy on him and refuse (which I'm tempted to do), but I figure that if I deal with this incident, I'll have earned karma points in the future when we have a puker on our hands.

After describing this object called a plunger and how to use it, I ask him if I'll need gloves. "You may want gloves," he confirms. "Should I get a trash bag and wear it as a poncho?" I inquire. He tells me that probably won't be necessary.

So off I go to find rubber gloves and the plumbing device. Just for a clear picture, my hair and makeup are done. I'm wearing a sexy black top, skinny jeans and probably the same amount of gold body glitter used during the entire filming of the movie Gold Member. I'm now wearing latex and I'm on a mission with plunger in hand. I turn a corner and run smack into my two male managers, who look at me like I'm wearing a spacesuit. After explaining that I am about to save the world starting with the ladies' room toilet, I am told that this is a task for which I am unqualified and I can head back up to the bar and look cute. Thank God!

Upon my arrival back, my favorite grump looks impressed with my speed and asks how it went. I give him the deets about how our fantastic manager stopped me dead in my tracks and took over. He looks a little disappointed, but tells me I earned major points by being willing to tackle something straight out of 'World's Dirtiest Jobs.' All the props and I didn't even have to get my gloves dirty. Now that's what I call a win-win.

The Can Thief

2010-06-02T17:06:00.001-07:00

Today, my guy and I set out on a hike. I know what you're picturing: dirt, rocks, maybe a meadow... Absolutely not. We hiked Bush Street, to Polk Street, to Union Street, to Stockton Street, to Freddie's Deli. Why? I woke up feeling bloated and self-loathing, but I wanted a salami sandwich. What justifies eating a salami sandwich? Hiking! Enter Nike shoes, leggings and a sports bra. Folks, we're going hiking.

So, the weather is beautiful and Freddie's has zero seating. My guy mentions enjoying a picnic lunch in Washington Square Park. I know three things about Washington Square Park: 1) it is sunny with lots of seating, 2) he told me that he saw not one, but two bulldogs there yesterday and 3) it is less than one block from my favorite gelato shop. No arm twisting necessary.

I park myself on a relatively dry and sunny patch of grass and begin to unload the goods. First, I pull out some totally low-cal cheddar sour cream onion Kettle Chips with ridges. Next, I unwrap my lite salami sandwich on dutch crunch. Last, out comes my enormous can of coconut juice with a multi-colored parrot on the front. In one word: Heaven. As I bring the can up to my lips to take a sip, I notice a cute little old Asian lady in my periphery. She's sitting on a bench 30 yards away and she is just smiling in our direction like there's no tomorrow.

She has on a pink bonnet (similar to a baby's), a purple blouse and one blue dishwashing-grade latex glove. She is approximately 100 years old. 'What a nice little old Asian woman,' I think to myself as Freddie's spicy special sauce drips down my chin. I hold the can of coconut juice to my lips and notice that she is now approximately 20 yards away, admiring my man's Squirt soda like it is a prize diamond. My mind vacillates between, 'wow, this is weird,' to 'this cute little Asian woman must be thirsty!'

Next thing I know, she's on the move. She keeps creeping closer, pretending to be studying the grass on which we're sitting, all the while eying our beverages. Next thing I know, she's literally on top of us, shouting something in Chinese while pointing at my coconut juice. I have no idea what she's saying, but there is a lot of smiling and gesturing, particularly with grabbing motions. I go out on a limb, point to my aluminum can of coconut juice and ask slowly and loudly (because that helps people who speak zero English understand me, of course), "you want my soda can?!" Bingo. Cute Asian lady is smiling and nodding like someone asked her if she would like $1,000,000. Footnote: either of us have taken maybe three sips of our respective beverages. Cans are full, lady!

Again, I use exceptionally loud and slow English to let her know that we plan on finishing our drinks before recycling their containers. This works just well enough to cause her to back up about three feet and linger while we eat. Who knew what a hot commodity two aluminum cans were? Upon completion of our romantic post-hike lunch for three (me, my guy and the Asian lady), we relinquish the goods and head on our way. As we resume our stroll, my man jogs my memory about an incident several months ago in which a similar elderly Asian (quite possibly the same woman) chased us down Columbus for a Coke can. The moral of the story? Next time, I'm using my Sigg reusable water bottle- it's better for me, better for the environment, and far less dangerous.

Captain Cognac

2010-05-31T01:41:00.000-07:00

It's a beautiful Sunday; Memorial Day weekend, in fact. It's also my day off, but I'm working. The bar has been rented out for a private party. I show up to work at 5 pm, on my usual day off, and find out the details. Did I mention it's my day off? Some broseph has rented the bar for his birthday party. He has invited 500 of his closest friends and apparently some internationally known DJs. The best part? This party has a 'James Bond' theme, and a special on shaken (not stirred) martinis. Fabulous.

I show up at 5 pm (two hours before the guests are scheduled) to set up the place. The host (we'll call him Broseph) shows shortly thereafter and begins pacing like a crazy person. By 7 pm (the start time) absolutely no guest have shown. By 7:45, the entire staff is sitting on a sofa in the back room, commiserating about the complete lack of party guests. In a panic, Broseph heads outside to start recruiting party guests. Next thing I know, four thirty-somethings (2 men, 2 women) are sitting on a table in the courtyard. Instead of tuxedos and slutty dresses, these peeps are dressed in sweatpants and polo shirts. I approach the table with a menu and make a joke about James McEnroe as James Bond, and someone at the table pipes up, "Oh, we're not here for the James Bond party. The guy at the door told us we could come in and make it look like there are people in here." Fabulous.

I begin to take the order: two champagnes, one draught, and one indecisive a-hole who asks me which Cognac I recommend. After telling him I recommend whichever one he wants to order, he settles on one and I head inside to retrieve it. A-hole follows me and wants to see the bottle. Upon careful inspection of the bottle, he gets really excited and starts spouting off about how he works for some spirits distribution company. Cool, dude.

"You see," he says as he turns to me, "the grandest of the Cognacs come from the Grand Cru Champagne region of France. This particular Cognac..." Alright- hold the phone. I have given this creep absolutely no indication that I want and/or need a lesson about Cognac. Or anything else for that matter. This is downright comical. What if I am a Cognac specialist? Oh wait...

"Hmmph," I condescendingly smile and say, "Thanks for the lesson, but I'm actually a Sommelier. I'm educated in the arena of Cognac. Perhaps you have some questions for me on the subject." Put that in your pipe and smoke it, dude.

A-hole becomes very defensive and starts stuttering about how he knows enough to be a Master Sommelier, but he doesn't want to go to school. In fact, he doesn't even believe in the program! He then goes on to say that he thinks it's bullshit that proper wine service is part of the program because that practice is antiquated. Blah, blah, blah...

From that point on, I resigned to avoid this table. The last time I heard from the A-hole tonight, he had come to the bar to order another round and was overheard telling one of the bartenders about a vermouth that was "off the chain."

"The Exercise"

2010-03-18T00:30:00.002-07:00

It's midnight. I'm done with my loooong closing shift at Maury's and I'm in the women's locker room, changing back into my black leggings and tank top. I hear a faint tapping and, once I'm dressed, I open the door. Juan (the busser) is standing at the door waiting to get into his locker- in the women's locker room (first problem, but not the topic of this blog). Anyway, some background on Juan: mid-forties, grumpy, quiet, English-second-language, mean mustache, been at Maury's for twenty years, etc.

So, Juan comes in and the door shuts behind him. We are all alone, in the women's locker room and I am now in my street clothes (a far cry from my Maury's get-up). Juan looks over at me (as if seeing me for the first time), furrows his brow in thought and says (with a totally Mexican accent), "Do you do the exercise?" "Huh?!?" I ask as I look at him quizzically. This prompts him to make weight lifting motions with his arms. "Oh!" I say with a laugh, realizing what he means, "Not really. I just walk around. And I lift lots of plates!" (ha ha). He then raises his eyebrows, looks impressed and says, "you have very nice body." I'm pretty sure I turned fifteen shades of red as I thanked him, grabbed my purse and bolted out the the locker room with a huge smile on my face. Sexual harassment, smexual harassment; this little exchange made my night. This must be why they let men have lockers in the women's locker room, right? To boost my self esteem?

Hot Shot in Hot Pursuit

2009-12-12T13:04:00.000-08:00

After getting no response from me to his text, Hot Shot proceeds to call Maury's daily and ask if I'm working. Then he starts playing this fun game during which he makes a reservation (through the hostess, praise Jesus!) for every Friday night with any number of guests. He will arrive for his reservation, request my section, wait in the bar, crane his neck to locate me, visit the restroom an ungodly amount of times to try to come face-to-face with me, and finally will inform the hostess that he was stood up by his fictitious guests. Then he leaves.

It becomes the general practice of Maury's management to lock me away in the dungeon on nights that we are graced with Hot Shot's presence. On one such night, Hot Shot decides to make a reservation for a future date before his departure. For some reason, he feels entitled to actually come behind the hostess' podium (instead of the usual practice of standing in front of it) and reads a comment in his dining profile stating that Brandy is not to be his waitress. It also warns that anyone guilty of seating him in Brandy's section is threatened with death and/or disfigurement.

Hot Shot becomes very confused. After all, I'm sure that in his mind, he and I are great friends! First he thinks it's a joke. Then, over the next few days, he gets wise to the sitch. I can just picture him spending every waking moment thinking about Maury's, and me... Because that's totally normal. Anyway, instead of realizing that it's just a restaurant and letting it go, he decides to take further action. He calls/emails/faxes every manager in the joint about how absolutely sorry he is that he made me uncomfortable by tracking down my personal information and contacting me at home. He would also really like to continue to be seated in my section. I'm told to put it all behind me (which, for the record, I already have because this kid is really a non-issue in my life), though I still find it absolutely bizarre that he has such an unhealthy interest in me.

So it's behind me, the air is clear, the water is flowing freely under the bridge, and then... One day, the hostess, who we'll call Ding-Dong, rushes over to where I have been waiting 15 minutes for the bartender to craft a 'Super-Berry-Mash-Lemonade' for my table and exclaims, "Brandy! Your stalker just called!" Stopping only to catch her breath, Ding-Dong continues, "He said he wants to write a letter to corporate about how amazing you are and needs your last name." So, of course, she gave it to him! Clearly, Ding-Dong finds it to make perfect sense to give personal information to someone nicknamed "the stalker." Now that he has all my personal information excluding my blood type, I am thoroughly expecting to come home and find him waiting on my doorstep.

The Hot Shot Strikes Again

2009-12-11T23:11:00.000-08:00

Last I wrote, the Hot Shot was guilty only of being majorly annoying, amateur and wasting my precious time. Ladies and gentlemen, all this is about to change...

I'm at home, going about my day, when I hear the familiar beep of my iPhone. It appears that I have received a text message. Expecting to see an invite to coffee from a friend, I casually pick it up and give it a glance. Imagine my shock when I read the following, "Hi Brandy, it's Hot Shot. I got your number from [insert name of complete idiot here]. Can I request you as my server?" Hold the phone- what?! Let's go over the numerous things that are completely wrong about this scenario. First of all, how in the Hell did this kid get my cell phone number? And, specifically, why does he think this is appropriate contact? Furthermore, last time I checked, the way to go about making reservations and/or requesting specific servers at restaurants is to call the restaurant and speak to the hostess. Call me old-fashioned, but I'm pretty sure this is how the world works. Obviously this kid has a screw loose, and I want nothing to do with it.

After verbally castrating the above mentioned complete idiot who handed out my digits, I call my employer and explain the situation. I'm told I will no longer have to wait on this loser. Done deal (or so I thought). On Hot Shot's next visit, he gets a little talking to by my manager about the correct way to communicate with the restaurant: via the hostess and not my iPhone.

The Puker

2009-12-05T01:41:00.001-08:00

So I'm training this new guy at work, Mitch, and things are going really well. He's smart, learns quickly, and he's motivated. So motivated, in fact, that on his third day of watching me in action, he wants to try it out for himself. So I designate one of my tables to him for the evening, and I let him take the reigns. Little did we know, he was about to drive the crazy carriage!

At about 8 pm, a couple sits down on Mitch's table and he prepares to spring into action. I look over to assess the situation. The gentleman at the table is a big guy in his fifties and he is accompanied by a middle-aged blonde with lots of cleavage who is sitting waaaaay too close to him on the booth. They are pawing each other in a way that borders on obscene- hooker, perhaps? Though extremely gross, this is fairly normal. Mitch walks over to explain the specials and I see that the blonde has suddenly lost control of her neck; she has her head halfway into the old guy's lap and she's either sleeping or about to give him his money's worth. Poor Mitch, I think, as I look on.

Mitch takes the order and comes over to where I'm standing. "So, I think she's ill," he says to me with concern. We tell a manager about the issue and he vows to keep an eye on the table. Moments later, the couple flags Mitch down to ask for napkins, plural- as in, several napkins."I think she just puked at the table!" Mitch tells me. Huh?!? When we come back from retrieving the extra cloth napkins, we notice that there is now a napkin balled up on the tablecloth, covered with some kind of gross-looking substance. Mitch removes the napkin, asks no questions and delivers their first course.

I walk by the table shortly thereafter and witness the blonde shielding her face with a napkin as she vomits into it- once again, right there at the table! Now let me tell you, this is probably my absolute worst nightmare. We've had vomiters before (but never in my section) and when it occurs, I make a point not to walk near the scene of the incident for the remainder of the night. So I alert a manager faster than you can say 'disgusting,' and he heads over to the table and asks if they need paramedic attention. The couple insists that they are fine, she's just been ill all day (though she's continuing to eat her meal and she looks like she couldn't even tell you her name or what decade it is) and they basically refuse to move. Meanwhile, the table looks like a crime scene.

Mitch and a busser remove the soiled napkins and lay fresh ones haphazardly on the table to camouflage the damage she's done to the white tablecloth. Once again, let me reiterate that they just continue to sit there and enjoy their three-course dining experience. Finally, the bill is paid and the couple leaves. This proves to be a slow process, as the man practically has to carry the Puker out of the restaurant. When Mitch picked up the charge slip, we saw that the old guy left a 40% tip (for our trouble, perhaps?), so all-in-all it was a successful table. Mitch did the dirty work, and I went through the right-of-passage of dealing with bodily fluids at the restaurant.

A letter to our neighbors

2009-11-19T15:11:00.000-08:00

Dear upstairs neighbors,

While I realize that you have every right to enjoy your unit in the ways that you wish, I wanted to propose a few ground rules so that I may also enjoy mine. Thank you.

1) I know that you take your title as Regional 'Dance Dance Revolution' Champion very seriously, but would you please practice for the next competition at an hour other than 4 am? If not, I totally understand.

2) I think it's really cool that you have lots of friends and that they like to come over to your apartment after midnight. I only wish that I had so many friends myself! I was thinking that maybe you could limit the number of late-night visitors to 10 or less. This way, maybe you wouldn't have to turn up your music so loud so it can be heard over quite as many voices. It's okay though if this is not possible, because I'm really starting to appreciate Techno music.

3) I love your cute little dog! When he's upstairs, I can't see just how cute he is, so I appreciate all the reminders, such as the barking and his adorable little claws running across your wood floor. The only thing that's bothering me (just a little) is the late-night games of fetch with the weighted ball that you throw for him. Maybe you could reserve that fun activity for daylight hours?

4) Your Dutch heritage is sacred, and I know you miss all of your relatives back in Holland. I'm sure that wearing your wooden clogs makes you feel like you're right back there with them, but I was thinking maybe you could take them off when you come home from the bars at 2 am, or at least limit your constant pacing back and forth to 30 minute intervals?

5) Communication is crucial to a healthy relationship. I deeply respect that you and your roommate like to hash out all your problems before bed. I was thinking, however, that I could loan you a book about peaceful dispute resolution. I just think that if you continue to solve your problems by yelling "F#$@ you, you whore!" and slamming doors at 2 am, someone might get their feelings hurt. I'm totally just looking out for your best interest. After all, I wouldn't want you to break up and move out.

6) How your apartment looks says a lot about you, and I love that you want it to look its best. Sometimes, you just have to demolish the countertops to replace them with pretty granite, or knock a massive hole in the wall to make built-in bookshelves. I get that you're most creative in the early morning- I mean, didn't Mozart compose his best works in the night? Could you just maybe wait to use the sledgehammer until, say, 6 am? Thank you so much.

7) Feng Shui is totally interesting and, as many would say, a true art form. In your pursuit of enlightenment, achieving the perfect living space is crucial. Believe me, I get it! If you find that the positioning of your bed is not making you feel calm and harmonious, by all means, move it! I really do think, however, that my bedroom would be more calm and harmonious if you limited the furniture moving to hours during which the sun is shining.

8) The holidays are a magical time of year for young and old alike. I wish every day was Christmas! Your holiday spirit is unbelievably strong, as evidenced by your year-round holiday decorations. I'm sure that somewhere in the world in July, reindeer are celebrated; why should Americans only honor them in December? Your twinkle lights, tinsel, light-up reindeer and inflatable Santa are only made more festive by the holiday music playing from your outward-facing speaker. Thank you for wanting to share your joy with me 365 days a year. Unfortunately, I have found that I can only handle the holidays during certain months. Let's compromise: maybe you can display your Christmas decorations when the department stores do- August through January. Sound good?

Thank you so much for hearing me out.

Love, Brandy

C.E.O.-No!

2009-11-19T13:59:00.001-08:00

After a late night at Maury's, I head out with my three favorite ladies for a much-needed cocktail. We find ourselves in a cheap, divey bar with a big cozy table all our own; in other words: heaven. Two drinks deep, someone utters the dreaded H-word ('hungry'), which causes someone else to utter the F-word ('food') and next thing you know, L drops the biggest bomb of them all. "Ooh! Let's go to Taco Tavern!"

Now, let me give you some much needed background about this Taco Tavern. Taco Tavern is one of many restaurant ventures by a totally famous chef (whom I could really care less about). It's located in a mall and sells the most expensive tacos ever. Granted, the tacos are probably some of the best in the world, but how much do you really want to pay for some meat and cheese? You could pay $200 for a lipstick, and you'd probably agree that it was incredible, but for $200, it better put itself on my face and make my bed.

So now that the idea has been put out there, the three of us eye each other with intrigued facial expressions. You can almost see each of our brains working behind mascaraed eyes, thinking, 'should we?' or 'it's just money...' or 'just how many calories are in a taco?' In an alcohol enhanced state, we decide to go for it. We leave the comfort of our quiet dive bar and head off into the fog to the late night eatery.

Now seated inside the Mercedes Benz of taco restaurants, we each order a beverage of choice. I had barely closed my mouth from ordering a beer, when one of my trouble-making friends decides to order a bottle of Prosecco. Fabulous. Now we've got four drinks plus 750 ml. of headache-in-a-bottle. We proceed to order (and then devour) our $20 tacos and all is well. So now we're sitting there with empty plates in front of us and a drink in each hand and we get approached by some balding, middle aged man in a (very bad) shiny, patterned collared shirt.

[Disclaimer: this entire blog is essentially about being approached by unsavory individuals, so I'm sort of accustomed to it. Also, there's really no one I'm interested in talking to when I'm out with my friends, other than my friends. Combine these factors with a little (or a lot) of liquor, and we've got another blog entry.]

"Hi ladies," this sicko purrs, "how are you doing tonight?" Alright, so this is the point where I turn off my hearing and concentrate on the bubbles in my glass. While one of my girls humors this guy, all I now hear is, "blah blah blah." Sensing my disinterest, Shiny Shirt directs his attention to me. I have no idea what he is saying and I'm pretty sure that I'm just sitting there glaring at him, hoping that he'll get the hint and go away. Then he says something about the restaurant and our waiter and our food... "Do you work here?!" I ask him, dumbfounded. Now he's looking at me like I'm the crazy one. "What?" He asks. I try this again, in English, "Are you an employee?" He gives a little chuckle, pulls something out of his pocket and places it in front of me. It's a business card, with a picture of a taco on it, and my eyes focus on the letters C, E and O. This creepy guy in the polyester shirt is the C.E.O. of the Taco Tavern? After a few more words, he excuses himself and walks away.

I'm torn between thinking this is hilarious and being mortified. My friends are just looking at me with smirks on their faces. Apparently, they all caught on to who this guy was from the get-go and couldn't believe what I was saying. They do totally agree that I did us all a favor; after all, my creep-o radar rarely fails me. But I did learn a lesson: if it walks like a creep, and talks like a creep, it is a creep- but it could be an important creep.

Blue Cheese Douche

2009-11-08T02:52:00.001-08:00

It's a typical Saturday night and the bridge and tunnel crowd heads to "The City" for a weekend escape. Men don their best collared shirt with foil and glitter and women primp for hours in an effort to look "trendy" or "edgy." In a phrase, "it's on." I know two things for certain about such Saturday nights: 1) expect anything and everything, and 2) anyone who eats dinner in this town on a Saturday before 7 pm is an amateur.

On this particular evening, my first table is seated at 5:30 pm. I head over to greet my patrons and I see a chesty blonde with cotton-candy hair and a low-cut dress seated next to a greased up guy in a 7 Diamonds shirt who looks like he just stepped off the set of The Sopranos. Awesome.

"Welcome to Maury's!" I say with a smile. "My name is Brandy. May I offer you a glass of wine?"

"Yeah, um, listen Brandy," Vinnie says with an accent like the narrator from Goodfellas, "Bring me a Grey Goose martini. And a big water. I'm gonna need a lot a water 'cuz I just worked out."

Fantastic. This guy is doing the two things I always like to do when I dine: 1) Give my server way too much info about my life, and 2) follow up a hard workout with some over-hyped vodka. I oblige and fetch his libations. Throughout the meal, this guy is cracking jokes about everything I say and treating me like an absolute idiot. He thinks he's so funny (clearly, someone should inform him otherwise). Example: They decide they want oysters.

Vinnie: "What kinda oysters you got?"

Me: "_____ oysters."

Vinnie: "_____ oysters! What the Hell are those?! [chuckle] Where are they from?"

Me: "The East coast, Sir."

Vinnie: "Brandy, I'm from the East Coast! [chuckle] Where are the oysters from?"

Me: "New England."

Chesty Blonde: "Are they deep-sea oysters?"

Me: "Um, I've never really heard them referred to as such."

Chesty Blonde: "Are the shells nubby?"

Me: "Perhaps I should bring one to the table to show you?!?"

The rest of the dining experience is right on par with this level of ridiculousness and I can see the possibility of this heading south fast. At one point, I even put management on high alert that the douche bag at table 13 could go postal at any second. Luckily for me, they remain happy through their meal and they even leave happy. They're so happy, in fact, that they stop to tell my other tables (who are trying to enjoy their meals) just how happy they are. Oh yeah, and at some point they ordered a side of blue cheese crumbles to go with their steak.

Fast forward about three hours when my manager pulls me aside to interrogate me. "Brandy, do you remember the couple who were sitting on table 13 earlier? Well, they just called." I'm just nodding my head wondering where this is going. "The guy calls and says 'something's really wrong in your restaurant.' He claims that someone just texted him 'how were your blue cheese crumbles?' He didn't recognize the number that texted him and says he didn't tell anyone about the blue cheese. Do you know anything about this?"

I imagine that I am looking at my manager like he just asked me if I went to the moon on my break. "Huh?" is all I can say.

"I asked him to give me the number that texted him so that we can see if it's an employee's number," he continued, "but he said it's a cell phone from France."

Like I said, I know two things for certain about Saturday nights: 1) expect anything and everything, and 2) anyone who eats dinner in this town on a Saturday before 7 pm is an amateur. If you think this is going to change anytime soon, I've got one more Mob movie reference for you: "Forget about it."

A Guide for First-time Diners

2009-10-12T20:00:00.000-07:00

Is it your first time dining at an actual restaurant? Want to look like a pro? Here's a guide to help you appear like a regular while impressing your server and fellow diners alike.

1) Mastering the dress code. Flip flops, ball caps and wife-beater tanks aren't just for fast-food joints! The nicer the joint, the more leeway you have to wear what you like. Who's paying who? Other diners will admire your daring fashion choices when you walk in to the fancy steakhouse in your sports jersey, pajamas or beachwear. Feel like they're staring at you? They are! They're just envious that they're uncomfortable in their sports coats and cocktail dresses while you get to let it all hang out.

2) Making yourself comfortable. You're paying the big bucks to be able to treat this place like your personal dining room. If you want to kick off your shoes, do it! Finished with your Big Red or Bubblicious? Stick it to the small plate to the left of your fork. Brought the kids with you? Let 'em run around! The service staff is highly trained to dodge children rolling around on the floor while they carry plates and trays of beverages. You are the king, this is your castle and your waiter is your humble servant.

3) Taking advantage of the freebies. Why spend dough on fancy bottled water and pricey appetizers? Tap water tastes fine if you ask your waiter for lemons, limes, oranges, cherries, etc. By adding fruit to your water, you can a) mask the chlorine taste and b) enjoy a free fruit medly! Also, fancy places usually have free bread and butter. If you ask nicely (or not), you can score as many free loaves as you like. If you fill up on enough bread, you may be able to split one entree between all four adults in your party!

4) Ordering like a pro. First, you'll need to get your waiter's attention when it's time to order. To do so, waive both arms in the air while making a loud noise, like shouting "waiter!" Or whistling works too. Don't worry, while he's away, he's just killing time until you're ready. Once he arrives at your table, it's a good idea to make the ordering process as lengthy and complicated as possible. Your waiter really enjoys answering questions, so ask away! Remember, he will try to sell you all sorts of expensive things you don't need, so order smart. Always ask "is that free?" after each of his suggestions. Example: He asks, "May I bring you a soft drink?" You reply, "is that free?" He asks, "Sir, would you care for a side of Seven Peppercorn sauce?" You reply, "is that free?" He asks, "Would you like us to butterfly your well-done filet?" You reply, "is that free?"

5) Enjoying your meal. Why savor your expensive, expertly prepared steak and lobster? To make the experience fun, always pretend you're participating in a contest to see who can finish their meal the fastest. Also, A1 sauce and catsup taste even better on an expensive steak! Note: when requesting condiments, it's always a good idea to ask your waiter for one item at a time so he does not get overwhelmed; wait until he delivers the A1 sauce to ask for the catsup, etc. By the time you've finished, make sure you've made as big of a mess as possible. Also, always ask to take everything (and I mean everything) home. You see, your waiter needs to feel important and you can achieve this by giving him more tasks to accomplish, like clearing your messy table and boxing your food.

6) Tipping your waiter. You get your own food at home, and let's face it, it's not that hard. Anyone can bring you a plate with some grub on it! Why pay for something you can do yourself? If they'd let you, you would have gone into the kitchen and grabbed your own food. Your waiter will totally understand when your take this into consideration when calculating his tip. After all, most waiters are independently wealthy and choose to work in restaurants because they get bored sailing on their yacht or driving their Porsche. Don't feel like forking out cash for a tip? Just tell the waiter how great the service was. Positive feedback is more rewarding than cash any day of the week!

A Tale of Two Swingers: the Ewoks

2009-10-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

One side-effect of being amazingly fabulous is that people tend to flock to you (hence, the entire premise behind this blog). Sometimes these people are normal, maybe even likable. Most often, they're not. Since moving to the City, I've started attracting a new genre of unwanted friend: couples who swing. Previously, I thought persons referred to as "swingers" were adults who liked to be pushed on playground equipment. I have since been enlightened, much in part to a very graphic scene in the movie Bruno. What I don't understand, however, is why these swingers tend to be 1) completely socially awkward, and 2) hideously unattractive.

When I moved into my apartment in June, I began the process of making new friends. Dining by myself with a book was fun for a minute, but I soon craved companionship. Our neighbors, Jane and Larry, are the quintessential odd couple. I don’t mean odd for each other (they were surprisingly well-matched); I mean odd in general. When describing them, for some reason, I always use the words 'awkward' and 'fuzzy.' They just look like Ewoks. I usually choose to surround myself with people who are pretty and normal. However, I was so excited about hanging out with real people that I was even willing to overlook their bad genes and lack of social skills.

Fast forward a couple of weeks... My husband had finally moved to the City and I was no longer dining alone. One night after work, I arrived home to find that my husband had company. He had bumped into the Ewoks in the hall and invited them over for beers. By the time I walked in, everyone was carrying on like old friends.

The entire time that they were over at our apartment, they kept making weird comments about our furniture, such as, “Wow, you have furniture!” They also kept inviting us to migrate to their apartment to enjoy our beers. At first, we obliged, but we were met with a starling discovery. The reason these Crazies kept talking about our furniture was because they do not have any of their own. The only thing in their apartment was a mattress! Since there was nowhere to sit down in their place, we politely complimented their floor plan and suggested that we move back to our place. Five minutes later, we’re all back in our (furnished) apartment, and they again suggest that we walk over to their place. At this point, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why they want us in their apartment so badly. This is like a bad dream. Then, they start talking about really strange shit. Like, how they meet foreign tourists in bars, befriend them, and invite them back to their apartment when the bars close, for example. Then Jane says, "When they get to our apartment and see that we only have a bed, they probably think we're swingers!" She laughs loudly as she says this and looks in our direction with a suggestive eyebrow raise. Oh. Hell. No. Okay, Ewoks, back to the Forest Moon of Endor you go.*

*Footnote: I had to Google where Ewoks live; I do not store this type of information in my brain, thankyouverymuch.

The Giant(s) Douche

2009-09-16T21:06:00.001-07:00

It's my night off. I head to the gym to get my fitness on. Afterward, I'm sweaty and dehydrated. So what do I do? I head to the bar to drink bourbon. Awesome plan, right? Fast forward: I'm a the bar in my workout gear, drinking my bourbon. It's just me, my laptop and the bartender. Perfection. Until...

A cab pulls up to the bar's front entrance and I hear the shrill squeals of- drunk men?!? In they come, wearing Giants gear (Luckily for me, they were too drunk for the ballgame, so they came to this bar.) Suddenly, one of these idiots decides that I look friendly. Clearly, this man is an idiot. He proceeds to compliment me on my gym sneakers. "Those are sick shoes!" he says, way too loud. I give him a curt thank you and go back to my typing. "Yeah, those are Air Force Ones!" He slurs. I can't help but raise an eyebrow. I am definitely not wearing Air Force Ones. "Those are competitive running shoes!" he shouts. I tell this guy I'm a competitive runner and go back to my business. "I have them in black," he adds. At, this point, I just cant help it. "You have women's competitive running shoes?" I ask. Defeated, he becomes distracted by something shiny and walks away.

Meet Jennifer X

2009-09-16T20:34:00.000-07:00

Jennifer X. was my childhood friend and constant companion. Growing up, we'd play dress-up in her mother's business suits, play pretend games like 'house,' and imagine our futures in suburbia, with rich husbands, minivans and 2.5 kids. Jenn would join us for dinners at our track home, weekends on the river on our boat, and mall trips in my mom's stay-wag. Of the two of us, I always had an underlying rebellious streak. To my parents, Jenn was a good influence and they were delighted by our friendship. As long as I followed the path of Jenn X, I was golden.

Jenn and I stayed friends through college. I studied Business; she studied Communications. We both dated Finance majors. We both graduated and took corporate sales jobs. On the weekends, we'd double date with our working professional beaus. We'd do really fun things like go to dinner at expensive chain restaurants, meet for coffee at Starbuck's or go shopping at department stores! Sometimes I'd tell Jenn about other things I thought might be fun- like moving to a big city or going out on weeknights, but she always laughed off my ideas. She joked that I was 'silly' or 'impractical.' I knew I was a dreamer; intelligent, middle-class people were destined to live a fulfilling life full of hard work, material possessions and an enjoyable retirement.

We married our financiers the same year in elegant, white weddings. Jenn and her husband bought a track home in an isolated location, next to a landfill, that was to someday become a flourishing suburb. Suddenly our conversations over expensive chain restaurant dinners centered around things like granite countertops and something called 'crown molding.' Next thing I knew, she bought a hybrid SUV and became very interested in the nutritional benefits of soy and the hidden hazards of gluten. Then came the cats- the gateway drugs to children. I began dreading our weekly meals at the Olive Garden and I found myself avoiding Jenn's calls.

I decided that it was time for my own personal come- to- Jesus (pronounced Hay-zeus) talk with myself. What did I want? Was I supposed to want the same things as Jenn did, as I always had? Because I didn't. What was wrong with me?

To be continued...

Fashion Rules

2009-09-16T19:54:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I know, aside from how to attract a crazy person, it's fashion. Combine my keen eye with my brutal honesty and strong opinions, and you've got... Brandy's Fashion Rules, as created while observing the crowd at a popular bar.

If your bra straps are so clear, how come I can still see them?

Leggings are only pants if you're really, really pretty and really, really skinny.

Shorts are vulgar. Period.

Our country's obesity problem would surely be solved if clothes only came in sizes S, M and L. Can't make any of those work? Get fit or go naked.

Nine times out of ten, horizontal stripes are a horrible idea.

Vests are not shirts. Shrunken vests were not made to hold up your boobs; those devices are called bras. For the record, bras should be worn UNDER clothes by ALL women. Non-negotiable.

If it's hot enough for flip-flops, it may be too hot for a fur-lined ski parka.

Hoodies are for the gym, not the club. Unless, you're in fact in "the hood."

If it retails for over $200, has sparkles and/or foil, a man should not be wearing it. Unless, of course, he's in the Castro. In that case, he's fabulous.

A mullet is a mullet, even if it features a 'faux-hawk.' Which, by the way, is totally 2004.

The Hot Shot Returns

2009-09-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

In the following two weeks, Hot Shot brings in his college buddies (on two separate occasions). I'm now completely attuned to the Hot Shot routine: 1) Hot Shot orders something totally masculine and impressive (like a Bacardi Mojito), 2) Hot Shot introduces me to his friends and recounts tales that he mistakenly believes make him look cool, 3) Hot Shot takes about 2.5 hours to eat his meal, and 4) (my favorite) Hot Shot tips me 10%, hugs me and asks if he can request me next time. I can't wait until next time!

The Hot Shot and the $20 Handshake

2009-08-23T01:59:00.000-07:00

A week after serving the Hot Shot and his guests, I arrive to Maury's to discover that one of the reservations for the evening has requested for me to be their server. I come to find out that the requestors are the members of the Shot Family.This is a big deal, especially since 1) I've only worked at Maury's for a matter of weeks and 2) I'm searching for any opportunity to impress management. 'Yesss!' I think to myself, 'this looks great! My serving abilities are so fantastic that guests are already lining up to experience my fantastic-ness!'

The Shots arrive and it's all hugs and kisses in my section. It probably arrears to nearby diners that a family reunion is occurring in my section. I am clearly the long-lost cousin/sister/daughter of this totally ethnic family! Now, I'm not a hugger, but this public display of affection is really making me look good, so I'm willing to go with it.

After approximately 45 minutes, everyone parks it in my booth and the totally pretentious drink orders start flowing in. Then things start getting annoying. The evening goes a little something like this: I drop off drinks, they want to talk to me for ten minutes. I bring fresh knives, they want to talk to me for ten minutes. I walk past their table carrying 5 plates for another one of my 6 tables, they want to talk to me for ten minutes. This is not going to work. The only factor that keeps me motivated to appeal to their desire to talk to me is the tab they're racking up that is steadily approaching $300.

After the Shot Family has set up camp for the entire evening, I deliver the check. Dollar signs are dancing in my head as I calculate a 20% tip on $300. Hot Shot pays the tab, and as he gets up to leave, he reaches out for my hand. I shake his clammy paw and feel some kind of wad between our palms. As he turns to leave, I open my fist to find a crumpled up $20 bill. This kid can't even give an appropriate $20 handshake and I hardly consider $20 stellar on a tab over $300! Yeah, Hot Shot, super VIP status.

Introducing...The Hot Shot

2009-08-12T23:03:00.000-07:00

At Maury's, I get paid the big bucks to give guests incredible service. Sometimes, these guests confuse this incredible service for a deep personal connection being formed between our souls, which will span this and future lifetimes. The Hot Shot is one of such poor, confused patrons. I call him Hot Shot because 1) he acts as if he is my only guest in the joint, 2) he likes to talk about super stimulating things like golf, money and which winery he's been to and 3) he feels he's deserving of VIP status even though he's a total amateur.

Hot Shot first came into Maury's a few months ago on the night of his college graduation, making Hot Shot all of 22. Of course, he and his family received exceptional service (fueled by the fact that one of his family's invited guests was the Super-bowl-ring-wearing father of a certain NFL quarterback who told me his son [the quarterback] would have been in trouble if he'd met me before meeting a certain Supermodel). Everything went smoothly (until the check arrived) and all-in-all the night was a success. So much so that Hot Shot brought his parents in for their anniversary the next week and requested me as their server.

Rico Suave

2009-08-12T22:04:00.000-07:00

Today I made a special trip on the MUNI to visit the Mecca that is The Beauty Warehouse. After purchasing six feet by two feet of black-market human hair from the Philippines, I'm back on MUNI and ready to whip up my own head of hair extensions. Once installed, I'm ready to take on the world with my lovely lady locks. I decide to take them for a spin around Union Square.

As I'm walking up Nob Hill after my hair-extension dress-rehearsal, some gang banger whom I've dubbed 'Rico Suave' begins calling out in my direction. "Hey Cutie!" I keep walking. "Excuse me!" I'm still walking. Next thing I know, this moron is chasing me up the street. He pulls up next to me and I give him my friendliest glare."Do you know where I could go for a good time?" he asks. Apparently, he's not from here (sure, buddy).

"If you're into male exotic dancers, the 'World Famous' Nob Hill Theater is just up the street." I suggest as I speed up my gait. Rico increases his own speed. "Oh, I'm not into that," he says with a chuckle, "I'm thinking a pub, where, you know, maybe we could go together..." I cut him short, "Yeah, I'm not from here. Sorry." No sooner has he turned, rejected, to head down the hill, then this family of tourists asks me how to get to the gates of China Town. "Two blocks up and one block over," I direct them loud enough for Mr. Suave to hear.

The Stalker Returns

2009-08-12T21:50:00.001-07:00

On Monday, I'm feeling better. The sun is shining and I'm a new woman. I tell myself that it would be just plain crazy for this creep to come in to Maury's again any time in the immediate future. I arrive at work and make a special announcement to my team about how my (and L's) unnaturally good looks have lured a sexual predator into the restaurant. The outpouring of attention we receive is ridiculous! Everyone wants to hear the scoop, and of course they want a description of our not-so-gentle giant, which I cannot give because he's so plain, I couldn't spot this guy in a line-up. Bartenders throughout the evening delight in scaring the bejeezus out of me by telling me that I have visitors at the bar to whom they have given my address, SSN and blood type.

At 9:45 pm, a bartender (whom we'll name "Bulgaria") approaches me and tells me to check out the single diner in the corner of the bar. "Very funny," I reply as I tend to more important matters, like leaning against the counter in the server well as I take a sip of ginger-ale. "No, really," he urges in an accent that sounds like Russian (but he assures me is something called Bulgarian), "is that your guy?" After a series of "shut up"s and "no, really"s, I roll my eyes and take a peek around the corner. Munching on mini-burgers sits a man so plain, I still couldn't tell you what he looks like. But there's no doubt- this is him. MWOAF is back. Again. Couldn't get enough of the $50 salad, buddy?

The Stalker

2009-08-12T21:49:00.003-07:00

Sunday rolls around and I head to work for my morning shift, at 5 pm. After hours of slinging steaks for cash on Maury's lower level (with L, coincidentally), I prepare to head home with my loot. Down comes one of my colleagues, a bartender from upstairs whom we'll call Buzz Cut, with some life altering news. "Brandy, a guy came in looking for you tonight." Hold the phone! "Huh?" "Yeah," continues Buzz Cut, "he described you perfectly, so I assumed he was talking about you." I say, "Oh, he asked about the beautiful, leggy brunette with amazing fashion sense?" "In a nutshell," says Buzz Cut with a totally unnecessary eye roll. Then he really drops the bomb, "He said he met you last night in North Beach at 2:30 am." Come again?! Not only did this hombre now have confirmation that I did, in fact, work at Maury's, but MWOAF had asked for our schedule! For the record, Buzz Cut knew what was good for him and did not part with this info.

Turns out, our homie from the corner was in such a rush to check out our million-dollar-a-plate restaurant that he had to come in the very next night. After a rousing game of "20 Questions about Brandy and L" he proceeds to peruse the menu (on which nothing is under the low, low price of $25) for an unnaturally lengthy amount of time before ordering a house salad. As I stand there listening to the details of this story, thoroughly disturbed, the only reassuring tidbit Buzz Cut still has yet to add about MWOAF is this, "He's a REALLY big guy." Thank you, thank you; I clearly have absolutely nothing to worry about.

I come home from this exchange to greet my husband, the bartender. After I go through this tale again with him, he is pissed- and I mean PISSED. You see, I'm kind of the delicate little flower/Princess in our family and he is not having this. At. All. I fantasize about him busting out some crazy defensive martial arts moves on Mr. Big MWOAF. I feel protected, and I forget about the whole thing, especially when he pops in a Seinfeld DVD and happens to randomly select the episode in which Elaine has a stalker who makes a photo collage of her and cries while lifting weights and listening to Opera. Yep, MWOAF is the farthest thing from my mind.

Man Without a Face

2009-08-12T21:42:00.001-07:00

It's 2:30 am on a Saturday night- or Sunday morning (depending on your preference). Naturally, I'm standing on a street corner in North Beach eating pizza. I've got on a fierce outfit, which involves ankle boots, spandex leggings and now, pizza grease. You know those nights that you think you look super hot, and then a full length mirror or cell phone photo bursts your bubble? Looking back, I'm sure this was one of those nights.

Anyway, as my girlfriend L and I go to town on our pizza, we are approached by the "Man Without a Face." I call him this now because a) I haven't the faintest idea what his name is and 2) I can't remember a thing about his face. This guy is just plain vanilla. At this point he seems non-threatening (or this story would end in someone getting mace in the face). So we chat with him. Great idea. The best idea yet comes when I manage to tell him where we work. Don't get the wrong idea; I didn't come out and say "Hi strange man, L and I work at Maury's Restaurant." There is much more to it than that. Again, this is me we're dealing with.

As we stand there, eating pizza next to our new pal Capt. Vanilla, we re-tell the story of our night (complete with the words 'husband' and 'mace') and he even suggests I write a blog (I-r-o-n-y!). Then the following happens. Me: "We just got off work." Man Without a Face: "Where?" Me: "Maury's." Enter my husband/bartender from stage right. We tell my husband we ate pizza and he wants it- bad. We turn and leave Man Without a Face standing alone on the corner and head for Round 2 of pizza. Okay, so we find it a little bit weird when MWOAF shows up to pizza, but the power of suggestion can be overwhelming! After pizza we park L in a cab and everyone goes home.

The Bachelor

2009-08-12T21:41:00.000-07:00

L and I park it at the bar and order two Maker's Mark Manhattans. We are feelin' good now. Just two girlfriends and some whiskey, commiserating about our wild night. [Cue drunken bachelor party member.] "Girls, can I ask you a question?" slurs some douche bag in a collared shirt. I turn to my right and consider my options: 1) mace in the face 2) pretend to not understand or speak English 3) give him a fake name and try to get rid of him.

So I'm Svetlana. L is just L. We try all the subtle ways to get a guy to lose interest. "I'm married." Nope, no-go. "Please go away." Apparently, he's perceiving this as playing hard to get. "Wow, how sucky is it that I'm on my period, AND I have a yeast infection, AND I'm out of super tampons, AND I have genital warts, etc?" Seriously Dude, what is it gonna take? This guy will not leave us alone. Now the clencher: "Do you girls want to do something to my friend? It's his Bachelor party!" Wow, why didn't he say so from the get-go?! I was just waiting for a reason to take off my clothes/give someone a lap dance! Now, I pull out the big guns.

"Hey L!" I shout, "I have something really cool in my purse to show you!" Wait for it... I pull out my military-grade, shoots 25 feet, UV dye Pepper Gel. "Look what I have! I keep waiting for some ass clown to threaten me so I can try it out!" She oohs and aahs over it before pulling out her own. This show-and tell should do the trick. But... No! Suddenly we're surrounded! The groom-to-be is on my right, the ODB (original douche bag) is on my left. Then, out pops this crazy with frizzy hair and knuckle tattoos! "Hi Ladies," he says in his best 70's porn star voice. This. Is. It. I have had it!

"Hi," I say with a smile that screams 'I hate you'. "So, I'm not trying to be bitchy, but... I'm married. We're not going home with you. We're not doing anything remotely close to sleeping with you. I'm with my friend. We're trying to talk. Why don't you and your little pals go back to where you came from before you wind up with a beer bottle to the forehead (by this time, we'd switched to beer)? K? (Again, big smile)" Knuckle tattoos, feeling shut down, starts shouting to all his friends, "Ooh, her husband's gonna kick my ass! Ooh!" Okay buddy, I didn't say as much, but *footnote* little did he know my husband was the bartender at said bar.

Just as this is taking a turn for the worst, here comes our faithful friend Mr. Security. "Do we have a problem here, Ladies?" In yet another whirlwind: Svetlana and L placed in witness protection program, Bachelor party kicked out of bar, and then last call!

Mr. Security

2009-08-12T21:39:00.000-07:00

It's 1:30 am and last call is a hop, skip and a jump away. The bouncer sees us coming and braces himself for a showdown. "Ladies," he begins, shaking his head, "it's almost last call." This guy is serious. He's got his legs spread in an authoritative stance and he's decked out in a nylon members-only jacket emblazoned with the logo of the bar and the word "SECURITY" in all caps. He doesn't look a day over 70 and his hairpiece is still holding strong after a long night. I take this opportunity to turn on the charm. "Hi there," I purr in my sexiest voice, "we promise we won't be any trouble (this could not prove to be farther from the truth) and we'll be out before last call (lash bat follows)."

Mr. Security raises one very full eyebrow- he is not backing down here. This is where I really charm him. "That security jacket is very intimidating. Do you have a badge?" I ask with complete interest and my own raised eyebrow. "No," he replies, "just handcuffs." We're softening him up now. "Handcuffs?" I ask, " I'll bet that makes you popular with the ladies (big smile)." This does it. I have fully embarrassed Mr. Security and he lets us in to avoid any further conversation on the matter. Score! We're so in.

The Cabbie

2009-08-12T21:37:00.000-07:00

L and I wrap up a wild night at Maury's and lament that at this hour, we'll never make it to North Beach for last call. In a whirlwind moment fueled by delirium and the potential waste of one fierce outfit, we make the snap judgement to hightail it to NB. Outside of our restaurant, we flail our limbs like mad until a minivan cab switches 4 lanes in our direction and comes to a screeching halt. We jump in and explain our plight. "We must make it before last call!" Taking us literally, our new cabbie friend proceeds to drive like an absolute maniac. We're talking swerving, speeding, not stopping at lights, running bicyclists off the road, etc.

When we pull up at Grant and Green approximately 4 seconds later, I pull out the $5.35 fare plus $1.65 tip and thank him for the ride (and while I'm at it, I thank Jesus for my life). "Wow, this classy cab has door service," I think as a valet dressed as a Policeman opens my sliding minivan door. It only takes a moment to realize that this is not a valet (as I've never had a valet ask for my license and registration). Shit! Our cabbie is getting a speeding ticket (which he totally deserves) and L and I can't help feeling partially responsible for shouting "Andele, andele! Arriba, arriba!" from the backseat during the ride. I consider throwing him an extra buck but feel this may me misconstrued as an admission of guilt on my part. We hop out of the cab and use the crosswalk (we are in the presence of law enforcement) and hightail it to the bar.