I have two serving jobs. One is in a restaurant and the other is in a music venue where I mostly serve cocktails. At the club, we do have a “light bites” menu for people to nibble on, but we do not have a kitchen. We have a microwave, plates and a guy who puts things on a plates. It would not be surprising if our “chef” some days is also in charge of the coat check. The food is fine and dandy if you want something to nibble on during a show but I always feel bad when people are trying to make hummus and a bowl of nuts serve as their dinner.
I approach a table to ask what I can get for them to drink. Before I can spit out my obligatory “Hello, how are you,” the man has a question.
“I am a dessert connoisseur. Is the Red Velvet cake good or does it come from a grocery store?” he asks.
After getting over the fact that someone actually refers to himself as a dessert connoisseur, I then question why something can’t be good AND come from a grocery store. What a fucking elitist prick. How dare he put down grocery stores desserts.
“Well,” I say. “I like it. It’s one of my favorite desserts we offer.”
I also like Twinkies, Taco Bell and wine from a box, so this doesn’t mean shit.
“We don’t bake the cake here because we don’t have a full kitchen.” (“Or any kitchen,” I think.”) “I believe it comes from a bakery but I’m not sure which one. I could find out if you like.”
Hopefully he won’t want me to find out because that would involve me walking downstairs and reading the box that the cake is in and who has time for that? He decides that he will think about it and let me know if he wants it. Presumably, he needs to confer with his highfalutin taste buds to see if they are willing to risk tasting a Red Velvet cake that may not live up to to his usual standards of farm-fresh eggs and flour that is made from angel farts.
About ten minutes later, he calls me over and tells me he is willing to try the Red Velvet, like he’s doing me a fucking favor for ordering a dessert. When he orders it, he tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes and nods while turning the corners of his mouth down. It is the exact same gesture that Michael Kors does on Project Runway when Heidi confirms that they have decided who they are kicking off the show that week. Five minutes later, the Red Velvet cake is placed before him. He inspects it looking for a stamp of approval from Giada fucking De Laurentiis. He eyeballs it before he slowly takes a bite. I watch from afar as he lets the moist deliciousness roll over his tongue and cascade down his throat. Judging by the way his eyeballs roll into the back of his head, he seem to be enjoying it. It’s practically orgasmic for him and he probably has a Red Velvet boner happening underneath the table.
“How is the cake?” I ask.
He has some frosting resting on his chin. Or, at least, I assume it’s frosting. It’s white and creamy, so who knows?
“Very, very good, thank you. My compliments to the chef or the bakery that it comes from. Really good!”
I will have to make sure to tell Joe what a great job he did of slicing the cake and I will tell him as soon as he finishes washing the rack of glasses that just got sent down.
The dessert connoisseur finishes the cake and when I clear the table, the plate looks like it has been licked cleaner than a dog’s balls. I suppose the cake was good enough for this man of high taste. He tips me well and thanks me for my service and I bid a fond farewell to the man who knows about the finest desserts in all the world. He has impeccable tastebuds and allows nothing but the finest of ingredients into his mouth. I am happy that he is satisfied with our Red Velvet cake. The same Red Velvet cake that I too enjoy. The very Red Velvet cake that comes from the fucking grocery store on Sixth Avenue about two blocks from the club.
Dessert connoisseur, my ass.