You're whining about the crockery, now?

We'll find a more appropriate plate for you next time.

Customers! If you are out for a nice dinner, and the following happens to you, and you are so subsequently distressed that you need to complain… you might want to practice that mindful breathing exercise your therapist taught you and have a good, hard think about how bad your problem really is. Is this really the worst thing that happened to you today (in which case I kind of hate you)? Did it destroy your entire dining experience (or are you just a miserable twit who actively searches for stupid things to gripe about because that is the only way to fill the empty insecure black void that is your heart)? Was it as bad as a roach pizza?

Here is a complaint that is not only useless, irrelevant, and foolish, it is also a First World Problem. And lordy knows how the Fool Critic feels about those*.

The size/shape of the actual plate your dinner is served on

As she was clearing the empty plates of a frumpy old couple, waitress A. was told, “Everything was great! Except the size of this plate was just a little too small for the steak. I couldn’t quite get the cutlery to sit on the plate when I wasn’t eating.”

Thinking this comment was a joke, as any ass with basic motor coordination could get a fork and knife to rest comfortably on a main sized plate, A. grinned and nodded conspiringly. “Yes, our generous beef portions do tend to dominate the plate!”

The customer stared back, unsmiling. “Well, you tell the chef that a customer says the plate is too small for this dish.”

On hearing this feedback, the chef responded by plating up two complimentary bite-sized petit fours for them, on a platter the size of a car tyre.

(That's his way of saying fuck off.)

*That is, Whine Lovers whinging about First World Problems are so stupid that if you multiplied their IQ by 50 the answer would be 2.

Gatsby's Mailbag: Witches, Bitches, and Professors

Gatsby in the house, mofos!

Seriously, how fucking cute am I? Answer: Very.

Well, Mum has a house inspection tomorrow morning, so she woke up today, suddenly started swearing, and shoved me and all her questionable/dangerous/illegal belongings into a giant bag and hid us all at her brother-in-law’s place. Fortunately, that includes her laptop. So while she’s frantically cleaning the apartment before heading to dinner service, I can answer my MAILBAG!

Dear Gatsby,

So there I was, waiting for my meal at the local fish and chippery. When guess what? The girl brought out a battered barramundi, when I asked for grilled! I informed her of this mistake, and demanded the dish I had ordered and paid for. I gave my companion the mistake meal (as she hadn’t ordered anything yet), but it was some time before they delivered the correct one. When my grilled barramundi arrived, I remarked, “FINALLY!” just to hint to the girl that this was not acceptable. Do you think I was too subtle?

Sincerely, Fishwife

Dear Fishwife,

I guess all that time on your broomstick really affects the old senses, huh? Well luckily for you, I happen to know exactly why this mishap occurred. Did you notice, dear lady, that there were people sitting at the table next to you? No? Then I don’t suppose you noticed that they were… missing a meal?

That’s right, you dumb old bint. Your greedy friend sat there and stuffed her fat face with SOMEONE ELSE’S MEAL. Your order arrived precisely when it should have (“FINALLY!” my blue feathered arse). But someone else had to wait an inordinate amount of time for their food because you’re too senile to say something sensible like, “No, I ordered the grilled barramundi, perhaps this is not mine.” It’s a fish and chip shop, for fuck’s sake. You don’t just assume that whatever comes over the counter is yours, then stuff it down your friend’s gob if it isn’t. Although that would explain her generous proportions. Maybe instead of pissing off the general public at fish and chipperies, you guys should build a giant gingerbread house and attract your next meal in that fashion. Make sure the oven is nice and big, now!

Sincerely, Gatsby

Dear Gatsby,

I am a high-ranking faculty member of a city-based learning institution, who frequents certain bars with my colleagues. On one such visit, I ordered a glass of wine. I noticed that the bartender poured up to a certain line on the glass, but for a woman on the other side of the bar the wine was poured at a higher level. I inquired about the discrepancy. After several exchanges, I realised that the woman had simply been given more wine than me because she was a regular, and I was outraged. I promptly composed a wordy complaint to the proprietor, full of personal attacks and paltry accusations, in an attempt to have the insolent bartender fired. I then referred the matter to an even higher-ranking faculty member, who apparently has nothing better to do, and he personally called a meeting with the owner on my behalf. The owner has since placated me with an apology and a bottle of wine. Do you think I succeeded?

Sincerely, Professor Petty

Dear Professor Petty,

It is quite a feat to have reached your station in life and still be nothing but a worthless wank-stain on society. Congratulations, pin-dick! You do realise you unleashed this ludicrous theatrical shit-storm over one centimetre of wine? Is your work and life so utterly devoid of meaning that you would seek to destroy someone else’s over something so unbelievably trivial? Of course it is, you pathetic excuse for a vertebrate. I’m a more worthwhile person than you, and I’m a two-year-old budgerigar.

Here’s what I don’t get about you, and other turds like you: academics who in the same breath they trumpet on about social justice, treat servers like absolute shit. Often servers are earning lower than the lowest threshold, are something other than White and Christian and Upper-Middle-Class, are working their arses off to put themselves through the same undergraduate degree you earned back in the day, or are people who are just being people. You’re more than happy to use them as statistics in your latest self-righteous paper, but you get enraged over a standard glass of wine and shit on them by trying your darndest (wasting company time in the process) to make them lose their livelihoods and royally fuck up their lives. Smells like privilege, don’t you think?

Oh, and just so you know. The bartender didn’t lose his job for pouring you a standard glass (his wife and baby will be happy to hear that) but he did lose hope in humanity, and the entire staff body has developed a healthy suspicion of anybody associated with the institution you represented so crappily. Well done, Professor Petty, you upstanding mothball-scented citizen.

Don’t worry, next time your wineglass will be filled to the brim – with spit. On the house!

Sincerely, Gatsby

Dear Gatsby,

My boyfriend and I had just finished a hard day of wandering around Windsor’s shopping precinct, and we decided to pop into a nice-looking restaurant for a cup of tea. Unfortunately, while we were waiting for our order, we noticed the terrible music! We asked the waitress to change it. It was still unbearable! We asked her to change it again. The next song was just as bad! Finally we walked out without paying, snapping, “We just want to drink our tea in peace.” Can you believe that place?

Sincerely, Searching For Zen

Dear Searching For Zen,

Here’s an idea, you whiny little bitch. Go to a fucking supermarket, buy some fucking tea, and go the fuck home where you can control your surroundings to your heart’s fucking content. That way, you get to pick the music, and only your equally-miserable boyfriend has to see your face. Win-win! Don’t go out to restaurants and demand every aspect of the environment to meet your every idiotic whim. Who the fuck do you think you are, Jesus? No-one’s going to lose sleep over losing your patronage since the other less-obnoxious customers were actually spending more than $4.

Even if the music in a restaurant is not your cup of tea (see what I fucking did there?) this is the kind of thing you can discern BEFORE you sit down and order. That is, unless your sense of entitlement is so disproportionately huge that if it was made of seeds it would eliminate World Budgie Hunger (an issue close to my heart). A useful exercise you might like to try in future is to put on your Listening Cap before you waste everybody’s time with some irrational tantrum after you’ve sat down in a restaurant and ordered. Fucking crybaby.

Sincerely, Gatsby

Well hospo kids, it's been real. But for some reason, whenever I chew the tasty, tasty power cord on my mum's laptop, the thing craps out on me, so I better go. Catch you on the flipside!

Gatsby

Urbantools

Hospitality brothers and sisters! If ever you are bored – particularly those of you who are juggling studies of some sort and like to procrastinate on the internet and count that as “studying” – there is a website which I heartily endorse as a source of entertainment.

No, it is not this blog, silly!

It is Urbanspoon. Specifically, “user reviews”, the hospitality equivalent of YouTube comments, although some of the links to blogs and such can also provide much amusement. Simply search for a bar, restaurant or café of your choice, scroll down and let the games begin!

Now, as a free online bar and restaurant review platform, Urbanspoon provides a valuable service. In general the information provided about establishments is up-to-date and informative. Sign up for free and any restaurant’s opening hours, cuisine type, location, contact details, disability access, and options for specific dietary requirements are all just a click away.

Unfortunately any idiot can write shit on the internet (as this blog proves), and Urbanspoon is a haven for Whine Lovers, who fit into a special subcategory I like to call Urbantools. That is, narcissistic arseholes who indignantly stab at their iPhones whenever they’re not given the grandiose treatment they feel entitled to, or amateur foodies who will nitpick about restaurant lighting and décor but can’t apply that same exactitude to their own spelling and grammar. People really find their stones anonymously trashing businesses on Urbanspoon because they didn’t get their way, and the site provides the perfect format with which to exact their revenge.  

But beware, Urbantools. It’s worth mentioning that even though you might courageously sign up under a false name, you are not as anonymous as you think. If a staff member sees you flaming their establishment on Urbanspoon and recognises your strangely specific complaints and descriptions, all it takes is a little flip back through the reservation book to score your name, contact information, and possibly, your payment details and image via security cameras. So think twice before being a little troll: don’t smugly hit “post” thinking you’ve had the last word, or you might find your contact email being inundated with Scientology subscriptions and start receiving endless offers from Jamster.

You want examples of these Urbantools, you say? Well, fair warning: ellipses in square brackets […] indicate extraneous text removed from a direct quote. Everything else is unedited. Because I’m not proofreading this crap.

Maha holds a treasure trove of Urbantool novellas:

“We were informed the only bookings available were for 6:30 or 8:45. Clearly two sittings so they could maximise profit. Fine. It had better be good hen I thought.”

 

Stupid businesses trying to make a profit! But I hope the hen was indeed good. This review started off promisingly but one poorly written dissertation later and all I got was blah blah blah, ordinary gin, blah blah, no apologies, blah, no sincerity, “verr” disappointing … Plus a little sniper attack at sister restaurant St Katherine’s (which they haven’t been to). Now that’s efficiency! The highly trained and polished Maha staff could learn a thing or two from Herbie.

This “review” for Berlin Bar had me in stiches:

“As someone who grew up, shivering to the fear of communist rule, I never thought I would ever experience such disrespect for human rights again. But, alas, a trip to the Berlin Bar in melbourne has restored my distaste for former eastern European political ideals. So often, we recall the good things associated with the iron curtain…”

 

Good God, I thought, gripping the desk in horror. Are innocent people and their loved ones being picked off by the Berlin Bar’s Grepos? Are customers forced to have their assets redistributed evenly amongst the staff and clientele? Hang on, what exactly were the “good things about the iron curtain”? Turns out that the crime against humanity was the bar staff moving their party from one area to another to accommodate their increasing numbers. “Very communist. I would know.”

Don’t hold your breath waiting for Amnesty International to call, Dan Ke Shane.

Cumulus Inc has pissed off some vegetarians:

“Would prefer they didn’t ‘hack’ into raw chicken in front of me as i eat my breakfast! Especially as I’m a vego…”

 

When I’m sitting right in front of the open kitchen at Cumulus Inc, I expect all kitchen activities to cease immediately, so that I might enjoy my ‘vego’ breakfast in ‘peace’. You may do vegetarian-friendly tasks, such as ‘peeling’ potatoes and ‘rolling’ dough only. Don’t even ‘open’ a can of sardines in my presence, you fascists. You ‘make’ me sick. Get me more fair-trade coffee to ‘wash’ away the sour taste of your evil.

Not even the “bestest sandwich” can save Gin Palace:

“Never brought napkins when having sandwiches. WHAT? No napkins no waters no nothing. Just serving food. […] SERVICE! BRING NAPKINS!”

 

Why should Kris simply ask for a napkin? Kris can just as easily sign up to Urbanspoon and scream about not getting napkins on the internet hours later in ALL CAPS! The distress of not being able to dab away breadcrumbs may linger, but Kris’ review will live on forever. FOREVER!

A troubled lady at La Luna wonders why “I wasn’t asked why I hadn’t finished the dish.”

Waiters. How many times do we have to tell you to hone your psychic powers? At the very least, if you think you sense a shift in a customer’s aura, take the time during service to sit down, hold their hand, and softly say, “I see something is troubling you, though you have not mentioned it. You are in a safe space, my special Indigo Child. I warmly and wholeheartedly invite you to divulge your innermost troubles and fears.” Is that so freaking HARD?

User reviews for Mamasita is chock full of whiners, but I rather like this one that derails into a confusing (but much appreciated!) rant about Generation Y and Facebook, and not being true to thine own self or some crap:

“Gen Y seems to be lapping it up, as though that’s what Mexican food is supposed to taste like. Maybe if they actually visited the country, and not facebook, they would soon realise they are being ripped off[…] ‘What if the question is not why I am so infrequently the person I really want to be, but why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am?’”

 

Yeah, less getting on Facebook and more getting on a plane to Central America, Gen Y! Be yourself! What was I talking about again?

Attica reviews have some real John Lethleans in the making:

“that potato from the earth it was grown... Tasted like a potato”.

Stunning!

But the one that really clinches it for me:

“What a joke Urbanspoon is. A format that allows any disgruntled nuisance and or competitor to make up defaming comments and scenarios about decent businesses with decent staff trying to make ends meet.”

 

This has been posted as a review for like, ten different restaurants by some sort of Urbanspoon vigilante. Hell to the yeah, Laura!*

*Information updated.

Ladies Bathroom Ninjas

Nowhere near this awesome.

It’s 8:15pm on a Friday night.

The restaurant is full. You’re carrying an empty bread basket, a wine list under one arm, two used side plates and a tray of dirty glasses. The service bell rings. 20 entrée plates are sitting at the pass, waiting to be sent to a three-course function. Five people are standing at the entrance looking around questioningly. The gentleman on Table 11 is trying to get your attention and you realise that all their wine glasses are empty. Nobody’s answering the phone. Table 13 waves you down for hot English mustard. A round of beers is sitting at the bar, the luscious foamy heads slowly dissipating. The service bells rings again, angrily. Table 7 are getting up to leave and motion for the bill. Table 2 are starting to stack their own plates. Something in section 3 breaks. The service bell in the bar rings as a coffee order comes out. You head to the kitchen when the new guy intercepts and asks you to talk to Table 23 about a special order. You manage to put your armload aside, get the new guy to begin running entrées, pick up Table 7’s pre-printed bill, beg the kitchen-hand to grab you some hot English, signal to the incoming group of five that you have seen them and will be there soon, pick up two plates to drop off on Table 16, plus a new tray for a drinks pick-up on your way back… when suddenly a woman sashays into view.

“Excuse me,” she says in a commanding undertone as you stop screaming and smile, still juggling the two entrées and drinks tray as Table 7 line up behind her and New Guy returns looking confused and Table 11 starts waving like he’s in a parade.

“Yes?”

“There is no more soap in the ladies.” And with that, she fixes you with a meaningful stare and waits for your response, as the background chaos expands exponentially.

For a moment you are struck dumb. You briefly curse the cleaning staff. Your life flashes before your eyes. You cannot believe that somebody has interrupted the beautiful pandemonium of this moment with something so incredibly fucking stupid. And yet here we are.

Ladies Bathroom Ninjas lurk in the shadows of every busy service time in bars and restaurants all over the world. They bide their time, watching your every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. There is not a peep from them during quiet moments; they melt into the periphery. Then, when the establishment is bursting at the seams during the hospitality equivalent of peak hour and the state of the bathroom is the last thing on your mind, they attack service staff without warning, and without mercy.

There is no more soap! There is no more toilet paper! The light bulb in the left cubicle has blown! The right cubicle is blocked! Someone has vomited sangria into the basin!

Being a fellow lady, I do sympathise. I know what it’s like to reach for the roll and panic as your fingers brush cardboard. I too have done the musical toilets waltz of entering a cubicle, leaving, entering the next cubicle, leaving, in an attempt to find something remotely sanitary. I also understand that you feel compelled to “let someone know” about these things, even if that someone is a random waitress on the other side of the building who likely does not have the caretaking of toilets as part of her job description.

But right now, in the middle of service that is spiralling out of control, with customers left and right demanding crap like so many screeching open-beaked baby birds, bells ringing, my arms slowly but surely breaking under the tonnes of crap I am carrying and the ever anxiety-inducing sound of glassware breaking, I can safely say this to Ladies Bathroom Ninjas everywhere:

You cannot even comprehend the level of fuck I do not give.

When I give you an equally concerned hushed response, while nodding reassuringly, it’s not to put your little restroom request at the top of the waiting list. It’s to get you the fuck away from me, because I quite literally don’t time have time for your shit. I know it’s wrong. And I don’t care about that either.

Because who am I going to turn to during this time of crisis? The kitchen-hand, who swears at me in Portuguese and is about to be killed in an avalanche of dishes, pots and pans? The bartenders, who are up to their ears in a college pub crawl? My supervisor, who is combating a screaming woman who wants to know why her party of eight haven’t been seated for fifteen minutes? Another waitress, who is equally busy and equally clueless as to where toilet paraphernalia is kept? The chefs, who have fricken’ knives? And do you really want to see the people handling your food and drinks attending to the toilets and returning to the floor?

So, I’m sorry, Ladies Bathroom Ninjas. As I slowly sink into the abyss of dinner service, you’re on your own. But in the event you live up to part of your name and actually carry ninja stars, do me a favour and kill me.

Customer Review: The Coat Avenger

Eep.

Appetiser

Why you should always stick to your prescribed medication unless otherwise directed by a doctor.

Entrée

Starring: Gentleman customer, innocent waitress A., head barman, and mysterious guest

Scene: Gentleman customer left a coat behind the night before, and has returned today to collect it. A. searches the cloakroom to no avail.

A: I’m sorry, it doesn’t seem to be here. It may have been misplaced. But if I take down your name and number, I could double-check with the staff member who hung your coat and get back to you.

Gentleman: Certainly.

CUT TO: Bar, 10 minutes later. Gentleman has exited, but mysterious guest has entered!

Mrs Coat Avenger: SO YOU JUST TAKE PEOPLE’S COATS AND THEY MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEAR, DO THEY?!

Main

A. pauses mid-order. Customer heads turn. At the bar stands the gentleman’s fuming wife: Mrs Coat Avenger. The shit hath hiteth the fan.

Not wanting to forget that good old-fashioned racism, Mrs Coat Avenger pauses long enough to give the Asian barman a contemptuous up-down, before demanding, “WHERE IS YOUR COAT CUPBOARD? WHERE IS IT?!”

Barman directs her. By now patrons are craning their necks to watch as she storms past them and into the alcove signposted Staff Only, ranting, “MY HUSBAND’S COAT IS VERY EXPENSIVE AND I FIND IT VERRRRY INTERESTING THAT IT HAS CONVENIENTLY DISAPPEARED!”

Yes, because according to this month’s Cosmo, your 150kg husband’s sweaty old coat is this season’s must-have. It’ll go perfectly with my pink Mollini stilettos! So you see, when your waiter hung the coat that fateful night it was all part of an elaborate plot to STEAL IT FOR MY SIZE SIX SELF. How verrrry devious I am!

Mrs Coat Avenger ransacks the cupboard in a rage. A. starts to back away. The barman edges towards a muddler in case he needs to physically defend himself. Customers quietly pull their valuables closer.

 “IT’S NOT HERE!” Mrs Coat Avenger – also known as Captain Obvious – finally shrieks, slamming the doors shut with a massive bang. “THIS IS COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE!”

I rather imagine Table 14 was thinking the same thing about their dinner being ruined by a screaming maniac.

Mrs Coat Avenger turns on her heel and leaves, without so much as a “THIS ISN’T OVER!” and a fist-shake. Villains just have no manners these days.

Later that evening, the coat is found. On account of it (1) being lost property, and (2) being pain-in-the-arse gigantic and in everyone’s way, it had been folded and moved. Barman sighs and dials the number left behind. Of course, Mrs Coat Avenger answers.

“WELL, WELL, WELL, ISN’T THAT CONVENIENT. I GO IN THERE AND MAKE A BIG FUSS, AND SUDDENLY THE COAT TURNS UP.”

“There’s nothing convenient about having to deal with a deranged hag,” is what he should have said. Instead, in an attempt for at least one person in this exchange to have some class, he reoffered his apologies and extended an invitation to pick up the coat any time.

And so the sheepish husband was soon reunited with the Very Expensive Coat.  It’s no wonder he has a compulsive overeating problem. How does Mrs Coat Avenger go about her everyday life with such farcical reactions to everything? Is this the kind of person you want:

At the supermarket?

Self Checkout Machine: Unexpected item in bagging area.

Mrs Coat Avenger:  WHAT??!! * smashes computer screen with can of Whiskas*

At the movies?

Teenage Boy: Excuse me, I think you are in my seat.

Mrs Coat Avenger: HOW CONVENIENT! *king-hits kid, popcorn flies everywhere*

Waiting next to you at the tram stop?

Mrs Coat Avenger: SIX MINUTES? SIX MINUTES?! WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG??!! *throws Molotov cocktail at information screen*

Around the community in general?

Young Mother: Shh, Ella, don’t cry.

Mrs Coat Avenger: SHUT THAT BABY UP OR I WILL! *pulls out handgun*

And you people were all worried about asylum seekers.

Customer Score

Presentation: 2/5. Two points for that oh-so-fancy taste in Burberry. Minus three points for the foaming at the mouth. 

Intelligence: 1/5. A little known fact is that Mrs Coat Avenger’s application to join the police force as a youth was rejected due to her being a flaming dumbshit. She spiralled into a life of insanity.

Behaviour: 0/5. What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Value: 1/5. One point strictly for entertainment value only.

Experience: 1/5. I was much happier before I knew people like her existed.

Total Score: 5 cloakroom tickets out of 25. You need immediate professional help, lady, and possibly some sort of vaccine.

0-5 complete waste of human organs 6-10 a distinct displeasure 11-12 what a turdburger 13-14 customer could accomplish something with more manners 15-16 a few mildly tolerable hiccups 17-18 staff could handle as a regular 19-20 a pleasure 21-25 the ideal customer

More Stuff Customers Like

Mistaking you for an octopus

“One beef curry, one chicken salad and one falafel burger,” I announce merrily, nursing three plates as is often the case.

“We also had chips and calamari rings?” the customer will add hopefully, always ending this unusual version of “thank you” with a question mark.

How many arms do you think people have, fool? I am of course assuming you can count to two. Let us put the often hot and/or heavy plates we have down before you start rattling off what hasn’t arrived yet.

Creating obstacle courses

Tired of food and beverages being served to you without incident? Put out by the fact that most waiters, bartenders or runners go through entire shifts without suffering grievous bodily harm? Then create an obstacle course for them! Obstacle courses can be as simple as a coat thrown over the floor, a ginormous handbag kicked beside the table, arrays of shopping bags arranged carefully in the aisle of the restaurant, or even your own children rolling around on the carpet. A clever and considerate way to jazz up your dining experience!

Gesturing wildly whenever service staff happen to be nearby with a tray

Don’t like wearing a round of Coronas? Then have some self-awareness and watch the spaces you wave your limbs around.

Holding random service staff personally responsible for the entire establishment’s spelling and grammatical errors

Generally speaking, waiters and bartenders do not personally design, edit and print each and every single menu/chalkboard/advertisement for the places they work casual shifts for. So if you feel absolutely compelled to say something like, “Oh, is this the DINNING menu? Is that actually a CALM sauce? Haw, haw, haw!” in the middle of service… you’re being neither cute nor useful. And if you’re not going to be one of those things you might as well just leave.

Using a hand to shield their wine glass

A simple, “No, thank you” or a headshake also works. Or, you could look up and realise that I’m actually holding a jug of water, you paranoid freak.

Thank you, screaming baby