Wazzup mofos? Gatsby here.
Well, the Fool Critic AKA my mum can't be bothered updating today - she came home on break and curled up in a hungover little ball on the floor over there. Luckily, she printed off some mail from Whine Loving customers and lined my cage and common hang-outs with it this morning. After ripping off little pieces and chewing them up a little, I decided to answer these letters for her!
Last night some girlfriends and I were enjoying a quick lolly-water at a local pub before our date at a nearby theatre restaurant. I noticed a cocktail on special and ordered, draping my pristine white coat over the bar while waiting for the bartender to work his magic. The idiot then proceeded to squirt orange juice on my coat! I of course protested, marching around to the dining room to clean it off, all the while muttering and huffing. The bartender offered me soda water but the damage was done. What do you think of this appalling behaviour?
Sincerely, Deborah K
Dear Deborah K,
What the fuck is wrong with you, dimwit? You place a white fucking coat on the workstation side of a busy bar – signified by chopping boards, discarded lemon wedges, spilled Angostura Bitters and melted ice cubes – then crack a hissy fit when a busy bartender gets shit on it? Would you also leave your cat on the road in Chapel Street and get pissed off when some green p-plater runs it over? I have more sense than you, and I can’t differentiate between a closed window and open air! Order whatever candy-arse crap you’re drinking and get your shit out of the way. In the event you can’t stop being a complete idiot, here are some things to consider:
1. The coat is not Chanel.
2. Orange juice is not red wine.
3. Pre-drinks at a pub is not high tea.
4. Storming around disturbing the civilised customers in the dining room with your histrionics will not endear you to staff.
5. The bartender is already attending to forty-odd pub patrons, and it was kind of him to take the time to offer help during service.
6. Napisan Oxi Action Plus exists.
7. So does sterilisation.
Some months ago, a party of 11 family friends and I had successfully landed a table at a fancy-looking restaurant in Prahran one Saturday night, despite not having a reservation. However, once we were seated and given menus, we were informed by the waitress that a $10 corkage charge applied to the BYO wines we had popped on the table! I had never heard such an outrage and let her know this in no uncertain terms, shrieking, “I have to pay to drink my OWN wine? Screw her!” And with that, I opened the bottle with a defiant twist while my gentleman companions cheered me on. In the end they waived the ridiculous charge so we would stop making a scene. “Corkage” – have you ever heard anything so ludicrous?
Sincerely, Passion Pop
Dear Passion Pop,
Well, aren’t you the classless little harpy from hell? First time in a city or something? I have better manners than you, and I think everywhere is a toilet.
Paying corkage is a pretty well-known concept, at least amongst people who get out occasionally. Even at my mum’s crappy first job when she was fifteen at a local pizzeria in a tiny town there were corkage charges in place. It’s a simple idea – restaurants are businesses. Customers bringing their own alcohol means businesses lose money. Charging a fee for BYO is a way for them to discourage this or recover lost revenue, effectively justifying the space your cheap fat arse is taking up. But I wouldn’t suppose a group of thirty-somethings who carry on like they just got out of a barnyard, cruise Chapel St with 11 other nitwit friends/inbred relatives without having the courtesy or forethought to ring up a restaurant and book a table, and scream abuse the young girls waiting on them, to be capable of intelligent thought. Should I translate?
DERRP, EATING PLACE NEED MAKE MONEY. DERRP.
Drink your goon at home, shit-for-brains.
A friend and I ordered lunch and drinks at a busy pub earlier this week, paid at the bar, and found a table where we patiently waited for our meals. As the harried waitress brought them over, I quickly asked her for another beer; in response she politely directed me to the bar. She expected me to get it myself, as I had done with my first drink! I snapped, “Nice to see the service is good here.” That’ll show her.
Look here, you lazy fucker. Just because you see someone in an apron doesn’t mean it is table service here on in, especially in a damn pub. Were you not paying attention when you ordered and paid at the bar? Did you happen to notice everybody else in the pub was ordering and paying at the bar? Have you noticed that, in general, the average pub does not have bloody cocktail waitresses, and the common procedure when you want drinks is to go to where they are dispensed, like, I don’t know, AT THE BAR? Even I know all this, and I’m a fucking budgie.
Well, hope that clears things up, and that those chips clog your arteries.
I was having a lovely dinner with two lovely ladies in Melbourne this evening, and as the waitress brought our main courses I felt compelled to speak up for them. The two glasses of sauvignon blanc they had ordered had not arrived yet! When I reminded the girl to check on the wine, she mutely pointed to the already-filled wineglasses on the table which we had somehow failed to notice. One of my companions pointed out to her that the white wine looked like water in this dim lighting. The waitress mutely pointed at the water glasses, also filled! Is this underhanded glass-filling a common problem?
Sincerely, Short Sighted
Dear Short Sighted,
You really are just a freaking idiot, aren’t you?
Ok, people, it's been fun but I better get back to chirping and nibbling Mum's headphones before she notices my adeptness with her computer keyboard. Catch you on the flipside!