I've decided for now at least to pretend that I haven't ever posted any posts. I'm doing this so when the story I'm about to tell touches on stuff I've touched on dozens of times, I don't feel the need to say stuff like "I know I've mentioned it before," or "As I've said many times before," or "It's like Deja Vu all over again." Just kidding, I never said that last one. But I have an eerie sense that I have.
So anyway, quite possibly my first blog post:
After a couple of years of that, I got a job at a real restaurant. Butsy LeDoux's. I was a cook. There was a manager and an assistant manager. The assistant manager had actual culinary school education or something. The manager. I don't know what experience he had. But he was funny. We became pretty good friends. Darrell made me laugh. I made him laugh. But I'm pretty sure he was laughing "at" me. That was OK. It was a pretty good laugh (still is).
Jim was the assistant. I don't remember if Jim laughed too much. Jim was Irish. This is only pertinent because Darrell (coincidentally) had the same last name as Jim.
Jim was nice and tall. About 5 foot 6 inches or so and possibly 145 pounds. Jim had light, wispy blond hair. He also had a light, wispy blond mustache. So sad about Jim's mustache. He wouldn't shave it either.
Darrell was about 6'4" weighing in at around 3 bills. Darrell was big. Real big. Darrell was not Irish. Darrell was an Indian. I don't know if people were saying "Native American" at all back then. Mostly because it is such a cumbersome term. It's like you're telling a story instead of specifying an ethnicity. So we just called Darrell: Darrell.
So one day, I said something like, "Hey Darrell, you're an Indian, right?" I think I was going to ask him about college and would his parents adopt me.
"No. I'm an Irish mick bastard just like Jimmy over there," I think "Irish mick bastard" is still the P.C. term.
"You're Irish. Of course," I said, nonplussed. Nonplussed in the traditional way. Not the newfangled way that is actually just wrong.
"No really. I'm Irish. That's why Jimmy and I have the same last name."
"You don't look Irish."
"Well, have you ever heard of 'Black Irish'?" Another term I'm sure is completely fine with everyone.
"As a matter of fact, I have. Some people have used that term to describe my dad. Irish, but dark features," I confessed, thinking that sonofabitch Darrell was actually going to pull this "Irish" thing off.
I didn't know it at the time, but I went to high school with one of Darrell's brothers. Well, I knew I went to high school with that guy, I didn't know he was Darrell's brother. Because I didn't know Darrell then. Or any of that guy's brothers, so.
If you're ever riding down the keystone and you see a tall, relatively thin guy riding along with a long, dark ponytail, you might think, "Hey - there's a native american guy riding a bike down the keystone."
But chances are, it's Darrell's brother Barry. And Barry's Irish. Because Darrell's Irish. And they're brothers. So yeah.
We all had such a good chuckle over this "Darrell's an Irish guy" thing that we ran with it for the entire time I worked at the restaurant. At some point, Jim left and I took over as "Assistant manager." There was no longer any reason to claim Darrell was Irish because Jim (same last name) was gone.
But we had so much fun with it, we not only kept it going, we expanded it to all kitchen staff. You work in the kitchen, you're Irish. End of story.
Whenever we'd get a new waiter who'd say something like "Who's that big Indian back there," I'd shout "Oh that's Darrell!"
"Shhhh!" the waiter would cower and attempt to wave me off, but I wasn't having any of it.
"Hey Darrell, the new guy thinks you're an Indian!"
Mortified, the new guy would exit the kitchen and Darrell and I would start singing "Oh Danny Boy" or "Tura lura lura".
So yeah, everybody in the kitchen was Irish.
1) Me (literally)
2) Then there was Darrell of course.
3) José the dishwasher. This was our toughest sell especially since he would often bring his mother's tacos in. Which by the way were the best tacos in the world. When people come here from California (particularly southern California) they're big huge snobs who refuse to eat tacos anywhere in Nebraska because they have "the real thing" all over in California.
Well I've been to Southern California a few times and I've eaten some incredible Mexican food there, so I understand why these douchebags (oops - there I go again) I mean "Native Southern Californians" think there's no taco anywhere in the world (even in Mexico) that can match what's in California. In fact they're almost right. I've never had tacos in Nebraska anywhere near as good as what you'll find every 10 feet in L.A.
Until I had José's mother's tacos. So don't talk to me about gristly pork (calling it carnitas doesn't make it suck less) tacos at some subpar taco truck ... But yeah. José washed dishes meaning he was in the kitchen. So he was Irish.
4) The one girl who was a stripper, but cooked part time until she could go full time stripper. We always tried to encourage her that if she'd practice more, she'd get there sooner. That kind of backfired on us when she called our bluff. I think her name was Tammy. One day Tammy was talking about the 3 or 4 hundred dollars she had made stripping the night before. Darrell didn't believe her. Called her out. Darrell was a genius. "What could you possibly do that would be worth that much." So she started to show us. She danced for a while as we leered. The orders backed up. Fortunately for the restaurant, most of the waiters were, uhhh, immune to her wiles (they had their own dance). The waiters stepped in and stopped the stripper so the cooks could get back to the business of cooking. The waiters were definitely not Irish. Tammy was Irish.
5) The stoned guy in the back of the kitchen slicing okra. He was half Irish; half baked.
One thing the owners hated more than anything was wasting food. It makes sense. The whole idea is to sell food. Well, they would talk about selling an experience, but it was centered around food.
At Wendy's, when the big plastic gallon container of mayonnaise was nearly empty, we would cut it in half and scrape out every bit of mayo that remained.
I did that once at Butsy LeDoux's. Actually, I had done it about 4 times, but the first time an owner saw me do it, he flipped out at it's brilliance. Henceforth, we were to always cut the containers in half to get every last drop of mayo. This was not real popular with the Irish, but It led to a hefty raise and promotion for me.
The promotion didn't give me hiring power or anything. But nobody likes to fire people. Especially if the person to be fired is a big stoned ex-con.
So here's what happened ... Oh shit! That clock can't be right, can it? Well, this part will have to wait.
I promise, I might tell it next time ...
So one day, I said something like, "Hey Darrell, you're an Indian, right?" I think I was going to ask him about college and would his parents adopt me.
"No. I'm an Irish mick bastard just like Jimmy over there," I think "Irish mick bastard" is still the P.C. term.
"You're Irish. Of course," I said, nonplussed. Nonplussed in the traditional way. Not the newfangled way that is actually just wrong.
"No really. I'm Irish. That's why Jimmy and I have the same last name."
"You don't look Irish."
"Well, have you ever heard of 'Black Irish'?" Another term I'm sure is completely fine with everyone.
"As a matter of fact, I have. Some people have used that term to describe my dad. Irish, but dark features," I confessed, thinking that sonofabitch Darrell was actually going to pull this "Irish" thing off.
I didn't know it at the time, but I went to high school with one of Darrell's brothers. Well, I knew I went to high school with that guy, I didn't know he was Darrell's brother. Because I didn't know Darrell then. Or any of that guy's brothers, so.
If you're ever riding down the keystone and you see a tall, relatively thin guy riding along with a long, dark ponytail, you might think, "Hey - there's a native american guy riding a bike down the keystone."
But chances are, it's Darrell's brother Barry. And Barry's Irish. Because Darrell's Irish. And they're brothers. So yeah.
We all had such a good chuckle over this "Darrell's an Irish guy" thing that we ran with it for the entire time I worked at the restaurant. At some point, Jim left and I took over as "Assistant manager." There was no longer any reason to claim Darrell was Irish because Jim (same last name) was gone.
But we had so much fun with it, we not only kept it going, we expanded it to all kitchen staff. You work in the kitchen, you're Irish. End of story.
Whenever we'd get a new waiter who'd say something like "Who's that big Indian back there," I'd shout "Oh that's Darrell!"
"Shhhh!" the waiter would cower and attempt to wave me off, but I wasn't having any of it.
"Hey Darrell, the new guy thinks you're an Indian!"
Mortified, the new guy would exit the kitchen and Darrell and I would start singing "Oh Danny Boy" or "Tura lura lura".
So yeah, everybody in the kitchen was Irish.
1) Me (literally)
2) Then there was Darrell of course.
3) José the dishwasher. This was our toughest sell especially since he would often bring his mother's tacos in. Which by the way were the best tacos in the world. When people come here from California (particularly southern California) they're big huge snobs who refuse to eat tacos anywhere in Nebraska because they have "the real thing" all over in California.
Well I've been to Southern California a few times and I've eaten some incredible Mexican food there, so I understand why these douchebags (oops - there I go again) I mean "Native Southern Californians" think there's no taco anywhere in the world (even in Mexico) that can match what's in California. In fact they're almost right. I've never had tacos in Nebraska anywhere near as good as what you'll find every 10 feet in L.A.
Until I had José's mother's tacos. So don't talk to me about gristly pork (calling it carnitas doesn't make it suck less) tacos at some subpar taco truck ... But yeah. José washed dishes meaning he was in the kitchen. So he was Irish.
4) The one girl who was a stripper, but cooked part time until she could go full time stripper. We always tried to encourage her that if she'd practice more, she'd get there sooner. That kind of backfired on us when she called our bluff. I think her name was Tammy. One day Tammy was talking about the 3 or 4 hundred dollars she had made stripping the night before. Darrell didn't believe her. Called her out. Darrell was a genius. "What could you possibly do that would be worth that much." So she started to show us. She danced for a while as we leered. The orders backed up. Fortunately for the restaurant, most of the waiters were, uhhh, immune to her wiles (they had their own dance). The waiters stepped in and stopped the stripper so the cooks could get back to the business of cooking. The waiters were definitely not Irish. Tammy was Irish.
5) The stoned guy in the back of the kitchen slicing okra. He was half Irish; half baked.
One thing the owners hated more than anything was wasting food. It makes sense. The whole idea is to sell food. Well, they would talk about selling an experience, but it was centered around food.
At Wendy's, when the big plastic gallon container of mayonnaise was nearly empty, we would cut it in half and scrape out every bit of mayo that remained.
I did that once at Butsy LeDoux's. Actually, I had done it about 4 times, but the first time an owner saw me do it, he flipped out at it's brilliance. Henceforth, we were to always cut the containers in half to get every last drop of mayo. This was not real popular with the Irish, but It led to a hefty raise and promotion for me.
The promotion didn't give me hiring power or anything. But nobody likes to fire people. Especially if the person to be fired is a big stoned ex-con.
So here's what happened ... Oh shit! That clock can't be right, can it? Well, this part will have to wait.
I promise, I might tell it next time ...
1 comment:
Damn dude I can't believe I ate there.
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