Thursday, July 29, 2010

From Cosmo to Chablis in 60 seconds

"I'll have a cosmo," said the woman I waited on last night. We only have a beer and wine list, and I told her so.
"If you were in the mood for a cosmo, I'd suggest one of our rosés. We have several by the glass, and some have this great red fruitiness that--"
"NO," she waved her hands around. "I don't want sweet." Said the woman who asked for a cosmo.

I explained that rosés aren't sweet, that she's thinking of spending her teenage years parked outside a DQ with a 40-oz. styro of Boone's Farm warming up on the dashboard. Well, I didn't say so in as many words.


I brought her a taste anyway, of Chateau d'Oupia, a wonderful Languedoc rosé with a coy strawberry smile and creamy little tongue. A whisper of granite on the finish gives it elegance and beauty, keeps it from being too slutty.

"Nah," said the woman. "I think I'll just have this Chablis." A Chablis that's like licking an oyster shell dipped in lime juice.

You know, I give up listening to people tell me what the fuck they want. They don't even know.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

People Love Themselves on Yelp, the coda

I'm back to reviewing restaurants regularly while also maintaining my pink-collar loyalties a few nights a week (the subject of an essay I will work on right after my graphic novel about the customers who have sucked most—enter now for a chance to win a guest appearance!—and my memoir about trauma and tragedy, affectionately called "The Dead Mom Opus").

Couple that with my freelance work on a wine website, and you have three—hahaha, three!—jobs to help me barely get by while trying to buy things like wedding rings and little stringy white lights.

Ah Ah Ah! You're getting married in a recession, Dumbass!

That also means I'm back to perusing Yelp boards to try and understand the opposing points of view, or at least the popular conception of a restaurant I am writing up, having lost the faint scent of anyone there who even remotely knows what they're talking about (by now they've all ejected and started their own blogs - so have plenty of people who know absolutely nothing).

Thus resumes my frequent venting about Yelp (and other hyper-democratized online reviews) so that I don't grind my teeth into powder and say "I Do" with one eye twitching madly.

Here's a great kick-off:
  • Authentic! <--remember this for later
    I was delighted by how wonderful and fresh this new Latin restaurant was.

    My Bistec and Carnitas tacos were amazingly flavorful if not a bit small for liking. The Spinach Salad with Jicama, mandarin oranges, walnuts , queso fresco and a light vinaigrette were such a surprise and contradiction to the standard ICEBERG and GUACAMOLE salad at most Latin restaurants...
There's so much wrong with this clutch of words that I can't even ridicule it. Not without Photoshop. Let's see what I can do with Snagit Beta in thirty seconds...I do have three jobs, after all.

Please send Photoshop, ASAP.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Week in Wankers: Meet Julian Sanchez

Hi, I'm Julian Sanchez. My friends call me "Dirty Sanchez," "Sancho," "Tubby Bitch," and sometimes "Jeff," because they really don't know who the hell I am. It's my girlfriend who's friends with everyone; I just sort of tag along. In fact, I spend most of our happy hours, dinners, and other gatherings gazing into my iPhone screen, typing desperately boring and misspelled Yelps and Tweets with my sausage thumbs.

So, last night, we all went out for one of my girlfriend's friend's birthdays, to some nice restaurant that they all like for some reason. I don't get it. I think the best meal in town is the "Big Ass Burger" at Carl's Jr. It goes down awesome with a vodka Red Bull, which is my favorite drink because it not only makes me go to the dark place, but it gives me plenty of energy to pick fights with strangers while I'm in it. Fuck yeah, dawg!

So there were about 14 of us—at least I think so—I only got ten fingers to count on, you know. And the waitress was this sassy little bitch—kept trying to act all smart, like talking to people about what wine they'd like to drink, or what beers were the "hoppiest." Shut up and refill my glass of ice so I can pour vodka Red Bull in it from the plastic bottle I brought in. Oh yeah, and bring more glasses of ice for this end of the table, so they can all drink free booze in your stupid fancy restaurant, too. Let the elitist assholes at the other end of the table drink your "wine" and "draft beer," thankyouverymuch.

Lucky for me, the restaurant likes my girlfriend's friends enough to have let us bring in our own hootch, because this party sucked; those guys weren't even looking my way or talking to me at all, which I didn't really care about because I had my iPhone and my vodka Red Bull. But when that smartass broad came to wipe down our table and set more silverware or whatever whoopty-doo-I'm-all-important-look-at-me thing she was doing, I was bored, so I said, "Hey! Hey!" and when I had our half of the table's attention, I pointed out how she was running her ass off.

Women like to hear stuff like that, like what a good job they're doing, blah blah blah. I expected her to high five me, or maybe suggest a meeting in the bathroom, you know? But instead she said, all snarky like, that she hoped that wasn't a "verbal tip," and when everyone asked what that was, she explained it. That it's when a customer says something really nice about a waitress and then tips her, like, 13% or something. They all thought that was funny for some reason but then this blonde lady next to me—no one was talking to her, either (I checked her out for a second, but she was fugly, a real butterface, if you know what I mean)—anyway, this hag says "Well, it's better than nothing." Man, you shoulda seen the hideous sneer on this witch when she said it! I wanted to high five her right there. The waitress was all, "Hey, I've got med school to pay off," like she's some fuckin' comedian or something, and the hag's husband or whatever laughed.

If there's one thing I hate, it's chicks getting the last laugh. So when she split all our checks and laid them down, announcing that she forgot to put a gratuity on 'em but she's not worried because they're all regulars or whatever, blah blah blah and they all had their cutesy laugh and lovefest, I showed her.

On the tip line of my credit card receipt, I drew an unhappy face with tears spraying out of it and wrote "wah wah wah!" Ha ha! I nearly had to put down my iPhone to keep my hands steady I was so excited. I kind of hoped a little that she'd confront me about it so I could choke the life outta her. I told you I go to the dark place, yo.

When we all walked out to our car, I saw her standing outside with the chef and owner who had come talked to our table before. She had brought out a signed menu for their birthday and all this stuff. I bet she thinks she's so great. I just stood there in the parking lot and they were looking at me and I was looking at them, and although it was dark, I'm pretty sure she could see the truth, cause it was right there in my eyes. I'm the fuckin' king. You mess with me, I'm gonna mess with you.

Later, some joker said that they hoped she didn't find out where I worked and somehow find a way to mess with my income. Whatever. A dumb waitress wouldn't know how to do that.

Would she?