What do bad tippers drive?

February 8th, 2010 by Waiter

Please answer the following question in the comments section.

“When you think of bad tippers, what brand of car comes to mind?”

List the brand of the car fIrst, followed by your reasons for saying so. This should be interesting!

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Goodbye Spenser

January 19th, 2010 by Waiter

It’s Tuesday night and I’m hungry again. But this time my larder’s stocked with food and the pickings are bountiful.

I throw some rice, water, pignoli nuts and a bay leaf into my roommate’s rice cooker and turn it on. Then I break out some pork chops, trim away the gristle and bone until only the medallions remain, season them with salt and pepper and put them to one side. Breaking out my cast iron skillet, I put it on high heat and add a liberal helping of olive oil. When the oil’s sizzling I brown the chops and throw in a whole glove of garlic. When the garlic’s softened I open a can of pineapple chunks and drain the heavy syrup into the pan and cover it.

After ten minutes I remove the cover and test the chops. They’re done so I put them on a plate and cover them with foil. I reduce down the pineapple syrup, mash up the garlic, toss in a handful of pineapple chunks and then slowly add heavy cream. When the sauce is at the appropriate thickness I add some mandarin orange slices, plate the rice and the chops and pour the sweet garlicky sauce all over it. Then I go into my living room and wolf the whole thing down with a vodka and tonic. Burp.

After watching the news I clean the dishes, grab a cigar and my computer and head out to my front stoop for an after dinner smoke. I’m quite pleased with myself. I like cooking dinner alone. It makes me feel self-sufficient. The recipe for tonight’s meal came from a book – Early Autumn my Robert Parker. Mr. Dawson forced me to read that book for English class back in 1985 – but I’m glad he did. The book was a revelation. The book’s protagonist, a private eye named Spenser, was a tough guy who could whip fancy meals out of thin air, quote literature, shoot a man’s eye out at 50 paces, lived by an immutable code of conduct and was a dandy lover to boot. To a seventeen-year-old boy in search of a role model Spenser became my hero. So over the years I hungrily devoured every book Parker wrote. Some were bad, some were good and a couple of them achieved greatness. But they’re all on my bookshelf and I revisit them from time to time. They’ve become old friends.

Feeling very Spenserish myself I get my cigar going, turn on my computer and surf over to the New York Times webpage. But when I tab over to the obituaries I get an unwelcome shock. Robert Parker died Monday at the age of 77. I’m not much into mysticism but I found it strange that I cooked a recipe from one of Parker’s books just before I found out he died. Coincidence? Probably. But maybe not.

I owe a great debt to Parker. Reading his books over the years not only taught me how to write but in a “small but mattering way” how to live. He taught me to treat myself like family when I was alone. He taught me it was okay to be scared. But he also taught me how to persevere - “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” Parker helped make me a tough guy.

Not tough in the way Spenser was mind you. I may be a dandy lover but my left jab sucks, I’m a lousy shot and I don’t take down crime syndicates before breakfast. But tough in the only way that truly matters – to acknowledge the world’s a crazy broken place but still be able to appreciate the beauty it contains. Parker taught me only a tough person can be gentle. Only a tough person can do the right thing. And only a tough person is capable of love.

I finish my cigar and go back inside my apartment. Walking into the living room I pull my copy of Early Autumn off the bookshelf. It’s an autographed original edition my father gave me a few years ago. I run my finger across Parker’s signature and sigh.

Goodbye Robert. I will miss you.

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The Privacy of Smoke

January 14th, 2010 by Waiter

It’s a crisp winter’s night and I’m strolling though Union Square in Lower Manhattan. I’m supposed to be meeting a friend for dinner but when she texts to say she’s running late I suddenly discover I’ve got forty-five minutes to kill. So I duck into a cigar shop, select a Punch Maduro Rothschild from the humidor, snip off the end and walk back into the park. Finding a quiet corner I get the stogie going with a wooden match and settle back to enjoy my favorite pastime – people watching. Unfortunately, people are also watching me.

“That’s disgusting,” a smartly dressed young woman says as she walks past me.

“I beg your pardon?” I reply.

“You look obnoxious smoking that cigar,” she says.

I look at the woman balefully. She’s your prototypical New York babe - cute, dressed in black from head to toe, holding a cup of Starbucks coffee with an iPod plugged into her head.

“I may look obnoxious, dear,” I reply. “But you sound obnoxious.”

“What did you say?” the woman says, popping her headphones out of her ears. I repeat myself.

“What the…” she stammers.

“Have a nice night, Miss.”

The woman looks at me flabbergasted. She tries coming up with a witty comeback, fails, and walks briskly away. I shake my head. It takes all kinds.

Smoking’s bad for you. Don’t ever take it up. Quit if you can. But for me tobacco is like a dysfunctional ex-girlfriend you can’t let go off. Even though you know seeing her is bad for you, when times are tough you find yourself calling her at three in the morning anyway. One day I won’t need these things, but right now my flesh is mighty weak.

I walk over to a construction site and prop myself up against a concrete wall. I get in a whole five minutes of quiet time when a man and woman pushing a baby stroller stop alongside me.

“Can you move somewhere else with that thing?” the man says.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“The smoke,” he says, smiling passive aggressively, “It’s not good for the baby.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’d appreciate if you moved.”

New Yorkers are obsessed with real estate. I once knew a man whose father died from a massive heart attack. The next day, when he went to his father’s place on the West Side to sort though the paperwork, he discovered the landlord had already rented the place and changed the locks. Unfortunately for the landlord the son was a lawyer – and a grieving, pissed off lawyer at that. So Manhattanites turning feral to claim a square meter of asphalt in a public place doesn’t surprise me.

“I was standing here first,” I reply, calmly. “You came up to me.”

“But…….”

“If you were here first,” I continue, “I wouldn’t dream of smoking next to your child.”

The man stares at me lamely. I feel like busting him about his “man bag” but decide against it. Could be for diapers. No use escalating things.

“C’mon honey,” the man says to his wife. “Let’s go.”

“You’re a jerk,” the wife hisses as she walks away. Calm down babe. All that negative energy can’t be good for junior. I look at my watch. I’ve been smoking this thing for six minutes and have been insulted twice. From the reactions I’m getting you’d think I brought an assault rifle to an Obama rally.

I stay on station and puff away. Another woman walks by and breaks into a paroxysm of exaggerated coughing. I ignore her. She coughs some more. I just look at her and smile.

“Those things will kill you,” she says.

“Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” I ask.

“What?”

“Would you like to pray with me?

The woman rushes off in terror.. My mom grew up in Spanish Harlem and the Bronx and gave me an invaluable piece of advice for dealing with people in New York - if someone’s bugging you just act crazy. I’ve modified her approach somewhat. Public displays of religiosity work just as well as feigning psychosis.

I expel a mouth full of smoke and contemplate what a weird town New York is. People will walk past a naked bum shivering in the streets or a woman sobbing on a street corner but they’ll take time out to castigate a man smoking a cigar. A helluva town. I hope I can finish my smoke before I get stoned to death.

I start shivering so I decide to walk. The sidewalks are thronged with people. Not being totally inconsiderate of my cigar’s effects I walk alongside the curb. But when I notice that people are swerving to avoid me I decide to perform a little experiment. I move into the middle of the sidewalk with my cigar firmly planted in my mouth. The dirty looks I get are legion but the flow of people part ahead of me like the Red Sea before Moses’ staff.

For the next half hour no one else bothers me. Happy and content I continue my walk around the square, cocooned in the opprobrious privacy of smoke.

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What You Don’t Have

January 10th, 2010 by Waiter

It’s Tuesday night and I’ve given up wrestling with words for the day. I’m tired and hungry. I toy with the idea of picking something up from a local restaurant but that costs money. So I decide to cook something for myself.

Before indulging in any culinary endeavourers, however I decide to take Buster for his evening constitutional around the block. As I stamp my feet and shiver in the cold evening air I tell myself for the thousandth time that this is when owning a dog, even a part time one, sucks. But as I watch Buster pee on my neighbor’s browning lawn I feel sorry for him too. Doing your business in public with the wind chill hovering around zero is no picnic either. Fresh from the groomer Buster’s normally insulative coat’s been shorn and he’s shivering mightily. Luckily for both of us it’s a short walk.

When I get back inside my house I take stock of my larder. Because I haven’t been food shopping in weeks it’s in a sorry state. I have half an onion, a garlic bulb of dubious quality, a can of chopped clams, some chicken broth and half a box of linguini. It’s enough.

I put a pot of water to boil, salt it and mix myself a vodka and tonic. As I wait for the water to bubble I take my drink into the living room and watch CNN. After I learn everything I want to know about terrorists with explosive underwear I check on the water. It’s at a rolling boil.

My drink’s finished so I fix myself another one. Then I chop up the onion and clove of garlic and put a wok on high heat. I drop a few finger drops of water into the wok and when they hiss and skitter across the hot metal I know it’s ready for a generous shot of olive oil. I toss in the onions and as they soften I throw in some dried red pepper, the garlic and push everything around with a wooden spoon. Then I dump in a half a can of chicken broth. White wine would be better for my purposes but I don’t have any. Improvise and adapt.

When the chicken broth’s reduced to about half I drop the linguine into the boiling water. Then I work open the can of chopped clams and squeeze the liquid into the wok. As the clam juice bubbles I stir it slowly. Sauces are basically a reduction of whatever liquid you decide to heat. You can cook down champagne, beer - even Gatorade if you want to. After the clam broth boils for a bit I toss in the chopped clams. Littlenecks would have been nice. Manila clam would have been even better. But I have what I have to work with.

Enticed by the aromas coming from the pan Buster walks into the kitchen. As he looks at me panting, I smile. I once read cooking is something you do for your family. But when you’re alone you sometimes have to treat yourself like family. And now that my apartment’s redolent with the smell of food it feels more like a home than a box where I hang my hat.

When the linguini is close to al dente I drain it, toss it into the wok and let it finish cooking in the clam sauce. After a minute I toss in some dried parsley, black pepper, give it one more stir and empty the contents of the wok into bowl. Then I sprinkle it with the last of my Parmesan cheese. I know that’s a no-no with seafood but I like it that way. Then I freshen my drink and take my poor man’s linguine white clam into the living room. A sommelier would be aghast at my beverage pairing. But after two drinks vodka goes with just about everything.

I flip the T.V. back on in time to catch the start of NCIS LA. Buster whinnies so I give him a few stands of pasta. He’ll be okay with the spice. By the time the third set of commercials rolls around I’ve finished my dinner and my drink. Feeling no pain I lie back on the couch and watch as fearless and extremely good looking federal agents foil yet another nefarious plot to rend American asunder. I should be watching Charlie Rose or something more highbrow. But after sitting in front of a computer screen all day simple eye candy is all I can process.

Buster crawls next to me and falls asleep. By ten o’clock my fictional agents have solved the nation’s security woes in less than fifty minutes – far from the reality of underwear bombers and air marshals banging on bathroom doors while people are trying to take a crap at 30,000 feet. I’d love to see an episode about that.

Outside the cold wind moans and the windows rattle. I’m grateful I’m in a warm house with a warm dog and have hot food in my belly. “You don’t know how lucky you have it Buster,” I say. He doesn’t respond. He’s beyond caring. I pull a blanket over the both of us and put a pillow under my head. I turn CNN back on to try and keep updated about the world but soon I’m fast asleep too.

When I wake up it’s two in the morning. My apartment’s cold. I pick up my dog, go into my bedroom and burrow under the covers. For a brief moment I feel a stab of anxiety that my only sleeping companion’s a dog. But then it passes. What did the song say? What you don’t have you don’t need it now? I didn’t need Manila clams and white wine to make myself a nice dinner. Buster emits a soft sigh. As I watch the tree branches dance outside my bedroom window I stroke his fur until he goes back to sleep.

The dishes can wait until tomorrow.

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The Ghost of Cain

January 3rd, 2010 by Waiter

It’s a cold Thursday afternoon and I’m at the gun range. But this time my usual shooting buddy isn’t with me. There’ll be no good-natured banter. No burgers and beers afterwards. I’m here to learn how to kill.

“Ready?” the instructor, an old ex-marine, asks.

A small .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol is holstered on my belt with a round in the chamber. When I thumbed the bullets into the magazine earlier I couldn’t help but notice how they felt like big, heavy pendants in the palm of my hand. By themselves they are nothing, little brass and lead curiosities that cost eighty-five cents a piece. But when they explode out of a gun and are headed your way they become everything.

“Ready,” I reply.

Picking a plastic training pistol off the counter the instructor says, “Okay. We’re gonna do some of that shooting from the hip stuff I showed you. Come here.”

I walk over to the instructor. He abruptly grabs me by the shirt and shoves the plastic gun into my gut.

“Gunfights aren’t what you see in the movies, kid,” the instructor says, his breath so hot against my cheek I can tell what he had for lunch. “They’re dirty, nasty and personal. Get it?’

Taken aback, I can’t speak. But as I look into the instructor’s eyes I know I’m peering into the soul of a man who’s taken lives. He’s heard bullets whip crack past his head and watched villages burn. People have tried to kill him and he has killed. This man bears the Mark of Cain.

“When somebody attacks you they’ll probably be this close,” the instructor rasps. “You’ll have to fire point blank into him.” Feeling the fake gun pressing into my navel I reflexively suck my stomach in, trying to make myself a smaller target. But if this were the real thing I’d have no chance.

“But when a gun goes off this close,” the instructor says, “The bullet won’t be the only thing that screws the bad guy up. The flames’ll go into him too. The gasses will blow his flesh open. His blood will be everywhere – on you, the gun, everywhere. It’ll be a mess. He’ll scream. It’ll be awful.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “What about shooting him in the shoulder or something?”

“When it goes down you’ll probably be off guard,” the ex-marine says. “You’ll be so scared your vision will tunnel. Your hands will shake. You’ll have the motor skills of a three year old and you’ll probably piss yourself and take a dump the same time. There’s no time for sharpshooting. Stick it in his belly and pull the trigger.”

Prior to this private lesson I’ve only shot guns for fun and relaxation. But now I’m not relaxed. I’m jumpy and nervous. Imagining burnt bits of someone’s intestines on my hands is not my idea of a good time. I want to go home. But I instinctively realize why the instructor’s giving me all those gory details. He’s doing his job. He’s training me. He’s acclimatizing me.

“Okay,” the instructor says, pulling the plastic gun out of my stomach. “Let’s go.”

I walk into the gun port. Hanging two feet in front of my face is a paper target with the vital areas of the human body mapped out.

“Now you’re firing an auto,” the instructor says. “So if you really stick it into a guy’s stomach you could knock the slide out of battery. So when you clear the gun from your holster tuck it in close to your side and let off three rounds. Just like I showed you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Watch your muzzle. I don’t want you shooting yourself.”

I gulp and shake my head in the affirmative

“Wait for my command,” the instructor says.

I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m doing this. What possessed me?

“GO!”

My hand flies to my pistol. Once it clears the holster I rotate the barrel towards the target and fire three rounds from the hip. I don’t hear the noise or feel the recoil. The only outside sensation that makes it into my brain is the smell of gunpowder. But in my mind I’m not seeing a paper target. I’m seeing a flesh and blood man trying to kill me. And as my bullets rip his flesh open a shadow deep inside my soul suddenly roars.

“Not bad,” the instructor says. “You got him in the spine and the left lung.”

I don’t say anything and holster the pistol. I’m shaking. Frightened.

The instructor knows what’s up. Putting a hand on my shoulder he gently whispers. “You’re a good person, Steve. I know you. You deserve to live. Him?” he says glancing at the blasted target. “He does not. ”

I feel my eyes well up. I trust this old man. There’s no bravado about him. No swaggering cowboy machismo. Underneath his clipped speech and gruff manner sadness flows within him like dark, impenetrable river. He has seen things I’ve never seen. He’s done things I’ve never done. And he’s paid a very high price for being who he is.

We finish our session and I go home. I’m fine in the car but the moment I get into my apartment I start tearing up again. When I visualized that someone was trying to kill me it was so anathema to my being that when I started shooting I exploded with incandescent rage. I don’t want to go out that way. I want to be here. Training to kill ironically reminded me how very much I want to live. I have books to write, places to go, experiences to savor. And somewhere, hidden amongst a sea of faces, the love of my life is waiting. It’s then I realize what the shadow was. It was the Ghost of Cain. And he roared a terrifying truth – sometimes the terrible thing is the right thing.

“You’re a good person and you deserve to live,” I say aloud, my words echoing through my empty apartment. I silently pray that will always be the case.

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