Today's Waitress crush comes from guest bloger, Sassy Boots:
Asian, late 20's, thick curly hair pulled back in a ponytail, plugs in his earlobes. Something in the way he looks at me when it's my turn in line. A flash in his eyes; a spark of recognition although we've never met.
Or the way he smiles when he asks, "What can I get for you today?"
"A venti cup of Awake tea with some steamed milk."
Another smile, "How much milk?"
My fingers indicating an inch, "Like this? But how will you enter that in the computer?"
A sly look, "I'll make it for you myself."
Oh yeah, he wants me.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
I'm the Norm
Ok, I have a problem.
Well I have several problems but the one pertaining to this blog is this: I find places I like and I tend to keep going to them.
And it has to be more than just the food. I have to like the environment and the people. Hell, I go to Fred 62 for the joy of chatting with Cory, as much as eating pancakes and eggs. So I tend to become "the regular" at places I like, and that makes this next tale even more heartbreaking.
With the loss of my most favorite place in the world, I have been wandering the city trying to find a new place where I can eat and write. My friend Aaron, also a Grounds refugee, convinced me to try this place on Melrose called Blu Jam Cafe.
It's a cool little place nestled in the middle of the trendy shopping strip that you have seen in every movie that a character has utter the phrase "We need to go to Hollywood". the owner is this avatar of the successful immigrant. he makes sure he meets his new customers and always is cooking up some new special based on his mom's cooking.
Anyway, Aaron drags me in there and the first things I notice are they make a fabulous latte and the waitstaff is made up of a bunch of cute non-trendy girls and a couple of goofy guys. The ice around my broken heart melts a bit and whispers "can we stay here, father?" I have often wondered why my heart sounds like Dakota Fanning, but I can never say no to my heart.
Flash forward a few months. Aaron has gotten married and I never see him anymore but now I know all the day staff and we have inside jokes about lattes. Don't ask, it's a regular thing. So i am sitting at my usual place and writing up a future MWC when Coco comes over.
Coco is like 5 feet tall in shoes, olive skinned with that fearless kind of attitude that always will encourage you to tip more than minimum. When she smiles it makes you sad to know that eventually she will stop and you just hold on to hope that she won't be looking at you when that happens.
She is also playfully nosy.
"Whatcha writin'? A LOOOOVE letter to me?"
Now the thing about writing this blog is that until this very moment, it had never occurred to me how awkward it would be to tell someone you might write about them on the Internet. I mean I try to write from a good place and not that weird "Eventually the FBI will review this blog for clues" place. But when confronted like this, I suddenly saw how this could only look like the latter.
So I lied.
"Writing my diary. "Dear Diary, I just got the world's best latte from the cutest girl in the world...BUT SHE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW MY NAME!" I may have even batted my eyelash for effect.
"Of course I know your...name" AHA! an opening to turn the conversation to my favor!
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah! You are the regular guy! The Norm! Your name is..." now in all fairness, I thought one of the other waitrons would either say it or she was gonna let it drop, so I was surprised when she finished the sentence, "Captain Awesome or Johnny Coffee!"
We laughed and then I admitted I actually didn't know her name. Why should I complain? Hell usually I get nicknamed for the fat white guy that would rather stay in a bar than go home to his family. Johnny Coffee seems like a nice step up.
Well I have several problems but the one pertaining to this blog is this: I find places I like and I tend to keep going to them.
And it has to be more than just the food. I have to like the environment and the people. Hell, I go to Fred 62 for the joy of chatting with Cory, as much as eating pancakes and eggs. So I tend to become "the regular" at places I like, and that makes this next tale even more heartbreaking.
With the loss of my most favorite place in the world, I have been wandering the city trying to find a new place where I can eat and write. My friend Aaron, also a Grounds refugee, convinced me to try this place on Melrose called Blu Jam Cafe.
It's a cool little place nestled in the middle of the trendy shopping strip that you have seen in every movie that a character has utter the phrase "We need to go to Hollywood". the owner is this avatar of the successful immigrant. he makes sure he meets his new customers and always is cooking up some new special based on his mom's cooking.
Anyway, Aaron drags me in there and the first things I notice are they make a fabulous latte and the waitstaff is made up of a bunch of cute non-trendy girls and a couple of goofy guys. The ice around my broken heart melts a bit and whispers "can we stay here, father?" I have often wondered why my heart sounds like Dakota Fanning, but I can never say no to my heart.
Flash forward a few months. Aaron has gotten married and I never see him anymore but now I know all the day staff and we have inside jokes about lattes. Don't ask, it's a regular thing. So i am sitting at my usual place and writing up a future MWC when Coco comes over.
Coco is like 5 feet tall in shoes, olive skinned with that fearless kind of attitude that always will encourage you to tip more than minimum. When she smiles it makes you sad to know that eventually she will stop and you just hold on to hope that she won't be looking at you when that happens.
She is also playfully nosy.
"Whatcha writin'? A LOOOOVE letter to me?"
Now the thing about writing this blog is that until this very moment, it had never occurred to me how awkward it would be to tell someone you might write about them on the Internet. I mean I try to write from a good place and not that weird "Eventually the FBI will review this blog for clues" place. But when confronted like this, I suddenly saw how this could only look like the latter.
So I lied.
"Writing my diary. "Dear Diary, I just got the world's best latte from the cutest girl in the world...BUT SHE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW MY NAME!" I may have even batted my eyelash for effect.
"Of course I know your...name" AHA! an opening to turn the conversation to my favor!
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah! You are the regular guy! The Norm! Your name is..." now in all fairness, I thought one of the other waitrons would either say it or she was gonna let it drop, so I was surprised when she finished the sentence, "Captain Awesome or Johnny Coffee!"
We laughed and then I admitted I actually didn't know her name. Why should I complain? Hell usually I get nicknamed for the fat white guy that would rather stay in a bar than go home to his family. Johnny Coffee seems like a nice step up.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
I Love Paris(ian Waiters)!
I hadn't planned to do another post til tomorrow but I was looking for something on my computer and ran across this piece I wrote about one of my favorite Male Waitresscrushes. This was a few years ago when my wife's family and I went to France for vacation.
We had spent the day wandering Paris, looking for the Eiffel Tower (yes you can see it but actually getting there turned out to be harder than anticipated) and shopping. At some point, we decided it was time for lunch, after spending a good hour in the local cafe, drinking coffee and watching the girls walk by, a decision was reached that we would look for something off the beaten path.
An hour after that, we found a very off the track restaurant. We were greeted by a wonderful little French man straight out of the casting department. He turned out to be the owner. The owner decided to take our orders and could tell right off the bat that we were from America and kinda gave us the business.
"Everything on this menu, YOU can eat, EXCEPT the tripe. Tripe is no good for you. Also, when I go to America they don’t speak in French, so you should speak in French and I should not have to speak in English."
The family seems to take him at face value. Me? I see this guy to be playing the gruff restaurateur angle but I figure I am in France I should be so lucky to get off this easy. I am just gonna go along and see how this ends. I assume that it will end with me taking pictures with the owner after having a great meal, but I don't share that with anyone. Good thing...
My father in law makes an opening gambit that immediately sets the mood for the rest of the meal, "I would like to get some wine--"
"FIRST! We order the food then we will settle your drinks! This is the French way," never changing his expression while staring directly at me. I swear I can almost see his eyes smile and I think I might love this man.
A smile crosses my lips and the table is silent. I leap in and start to order, then remember that women always order first in any civilized country. I feel like I am on a first date with Le Owner, watching everything I say and do, "Ladies what will you be having?" We get exactly one order in before the trouble starts.
"I would like to have the appetizer special of the day,” says my dearest sister in law.
"Are you sure? That is not enough food." He actually looks concerned.
"Well then I will have---the Salad."
"Well if I can make a recommendation," my beautiful Frenchman says without waiting for an answer, "You have traveled all this way to France, from AMERICA, where you can have VEGETABLES any time. Why not have something that you can only get in France." He actually went on quite a bit longer than that but I was not taking careful notes at the time, I was anticipating what was to come.
My sister in law is appalled, "I have been all over the world including--"
"I know that you Americans think that you know what is good for you, but let me just say this. Everything on this menu, except the tripe, EVERYTHING can be eaten by you and you will enjoy it. The tripe, that is not for you. No! In fact, if you were to come here five days in a row, at the end you would know and understand FRENCH COOKING."
At that point I knew I had witnessed two things I had never seen before: the legendary Rude French Waiter in his natural environment... and my fairly awesome sister in law reduced to tears in public.
While I wanted to take her side, when it was my turn to order I told this beautiful man that I would eat whatever he put before me, knowing that he would not do me wrong. I was completely in the right as the meal was definitely one of the best I ever had.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Just Like (Someone else's) Mom...
I have an ex who once told me, "The only reason you like going to restaurants is that you get all the mothering that you never got from your mom!"
It was those kind of sudden psych evaluations which ruined our sex life. That said, I think she has a point. The unconditional joy and warmth you get from a stranger who asks no more than decent financial compensation, is a bit addictive.
This brings to mind a waitresscrush I used to have named Sarah. To be served by Sarah was to love Sarah. She was the St Pauli girl blended with the archetypal Southern belle. She would always greet you with a BIG smile and a warm "How y'all doin?", forcing you to put down whatever grief or anger you came in with, at least for a moment, so that you could remember what it was like to participate in civilized behavior.
Now I can't speak for everyone, but it seemed to me that Sarah had decided that all customers are coming into her home so she had to take care of them like family or at least a gentleman caller. She knew who you were, she knew what you liked eating and why. She knew the names of your children, your spouse and/or lover, and would make sure that you looked good in front of them.
But she was not really, what you call, motherly. While it is possible I just missed these days, I am not sure I ever saw her wear something that could be called frumpy. I never heard her complain about not getting tipped and I can't help but think the St Pauli girl tops helped. But the thing is she wasn't really being...sexy. She was kinda like Ellie Mae Clampett in that regard.
Having a meal with Sarah was like going on a date with the nice librarian your mom set you up with. I kinda think that is the ultimate way to have a meal at a restaurant. Welcomed, a little pampered and you leave thinking "I wouldn't mind seeing her again maybe with my mom".
Then the next day you are eating at that crazy place with the drinking and dancing, that you would never go to with your mom.
It was those kind of sudden psych evaluations which ruined our sex life. That said, I think she has a point. The unconditional joy and warmth you get from a stranger who asks no more than decent financial compensation, is a bit addictive.
This brings to mind a waitresscrush I used to have named Sarah. To be served by Sarah was to love Sarah. She was the St Pauli girl blended with the archetypal Southern belle. She would always greet you with a BIG smile and a warm "How y'all doin?", forcing you to put down whatever grief or anger you came in with, at least for a moment, so that you could remember what it was like to participate in civilized behavior.
Now I can't speak for everyone, but it seemed to me that Sarah had decided that all customers are coming into her home so she had to take care of them like family or at least a gentleman caller. She knew who you were, she knew what you liked eating and why. She knew the names of your children, your spouse and/or lover, and would make sure that you looked good in front of them.
But she was not really, what you call, motherly. While it is possible I just missed these days, I am not sure I ever saw her wear something that could be called frumpy. I never heard her complain about not getting tipped and I can't help but think the St Pauli girl tops helped. But the thing is she wasn't really being...sexy. She was kinda like Ellie Mae Clampett in that regard.
Having a meal with Sarah was like going on a date with the nice librarian your mom set you up with. I kinda think that is the ultimate way to have a meal at a restaurant. Welcomed, a little pampered and you leave thinking "I wouldn't mind seeing her again maybe with my mom".
Then the next day you are eating at that crazy place with the drinking and dancing, that you would never go to with your mom.
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Reason I started this...
I was having a crap day.
Job I wanted suddenly disappeared, got a ticket for speeding and got out of my car and stepped into a liquid that had pooled in the street. Considering the sheen and unnatural odor, I assumed I would be dying or shrinking to microscopic size soon. At least I would have a last meal.
I walked into Fred 62 on Vermont, on the border of ratty Hollywood and hipster Los Feliz.
It was packed with a lot of people that would benefit from me punching them in the face. I was about to turn and look for another choice when she walked deep into my personal space and smiled. "Hey grumpy, if you are alone I can seat you at the counter right now. But you better not stiff me on the bill or I will have to sell my body for rent."
She didn't even wait for an answer but started heading towards the open space at the bar I didn't even notice. All the waitresses at F62 have a uniform of a t-shirt with some ironic statement on the back, short black skirts and dark stockings. I assume that this is because one tends to watch the backs of waitresses a lot or they just want a lot of guys to eat there. She spun on me, catching my eyes pointing much lower than I feel comfortable admitting.
"You want the chicken soup."
She started to write on her pad while she poured me a lovely cup of coffee. "Er, it's breakfast time," I replied sounding exactly like the slave to traditions I am.
"Sweetie, you look seven kinds of pissed. The soup comes in a small bowl. It won't ruin whatever comfort food you will order...probably pancakes and...bacon? Yeah you are a bacon guy. My kinda guy! Why don't you just trust me, read your book and eat this soup, so we can both have a good day. OK?"
Then she flashes me this smile. New Year's Eve bright and full of just as much promise. With that she spins and disappears only to return to fill my cup and then give me a bowl of soup that really did make my day better. Still, I am stubborn so I ordered the 2x4 even though I wanted pancakes. I left a 25% tip and the book I finished reading while I ate. She looked at her tip and said this one last thing
"I never understand why there are always reviews about how bad or good a restaurant is but no one ever talks about how good or bad their waitress is. That one person can ruin your whole day, so why not tell people about the ones that don't? Anyway my mom thanks you for keeping me from being a hooker."
I have never seen her again and I never found out her name, So I figure i would do this as thanks. Hope you enjoy.
Job I wanted suddenly disappeared, got a ticket for speeding and got out of my car and stepped into a liquid that had pooled in the street. Considering the sheen and unnatural odor, I assumed I would be dying or shrinking to microscopic size soon. At least I would have a last meal.
I walked into Fred 62 on Vermont, on the border of ratty Hollywood and hipster Los Feliz.
It was packed with a lot of people that would benefit from me punching them in the face. I was about to turn and look for another choice when she walked deep into my personal space and smiled. "Hey grumpy, if you are alone I can seat you at the counter right now. But you better not stiff me on the bill or I will have to sell my body for rent."
She didn't even wait for an answer but started heading towards the open space at the bar I didn't even notice. All the waitresses at F62 have a uniform of a t-shirt with some ironic statement on the back, short black skirts and dark stockings. I assume that this is because one tends to watch the backs of waitresses a lot or they just want a lot of guys to eat there. She spun on me, catching my eyes pointing much lower than I feel comfortable admitting.
"You want the chicken soup."
She started to write on her pad while she poured me a lovely cup of coffee. "Er, it's breakfast time," I replied sounding exactly like the slave to traditions I am.
"Sweetie, you look seven kinds of pissed. The soup comes in a small bowl. It won't ruin whatever comfort food you will order...probably pancakes and...bacon? Yeah you are a bacon guy. My kinda guy! Why don't you just trust me, read your book and eat this soup, so we can both have a good day. OK?"
Then she flashes me this smile. New Year's Eve bright and full of just as much promise. With that she spins and disappears only to return to fill my cup and then give me a bowl of soup that really did make my day better. Still, I am stubborn so I ordered the 2x4 even though I wanted pancakes. I left a 25% tip and the book I finished reading while I ate. She looked at her tip and said this one last thing
"I never understand why there are always reviews about how bad or good a restaurant is but no one ever talks about how good or bad their waitress is. That one person can ruin your whole day, so why not tell people about the ones that don't? Anyway my mom thanks you for keeping me from being a hooker."
I have never seen her again and I never found out her name, So I figure i would do this as thanks. Hope you enjoy.
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