Category Archives: irish coffee

Old Irish Eyes Are Smiling…and Bloodshot

I went out for drinks last night in a Queens neighborhood which has a very high population of Irish. Every other bar on the Queens Boulevard of Death is an Irish pub, so we eventually settled into one that had a lush backyard garden, cheap beer and a sign that said “Live Trad Tonight.” Not knowing what ‘trad’ was, we went inside and quickly realized it’s a type of Irish music that sounds like a leprechaun should be dancing to it. We found ourselves on the patio and at the table next to us was a group of rowdy youngins who were downing pint after pint of Guinness in between forkfuls of corned beef and cabbage. One of them seemed pretty drunk and this was confirmed when he stood up and started yelling at the window of the apartment above the bar on the second floor. He really wanted the attention of someone so he proceeded to throw things at the window, the first thing being a tea bag, presumably Twinings Irish Breakfast Tea. Anyone who isn’t drunk would know that a tea bag would not fly very far, much less to a second floor window. Even if it did hit the window, the sound it would make would be indistinguishable. He threw it anyway and the tea bag fell to the patio where he did not bother to pick it up. Nice. He went back to his bowl of potato soup sprinkled with Lucky Charms and then decided he really needed to get to the second floor. Now, I’m not Irish (I’m half regular) but I would have gone out of the bar and then into the building and used the stairs or elevator. But this guy had a better idea. He Riverdanced his way over to the fire escape ladder which was just a bit taller than his leprechaun size and therefore over his head. We all watched him and wondered if this Irish O’douche bag was really going to pull down the ladder to climb up to the second floor. He was. But since he couldn’t quite reach the ladder he decided to stand on a planter because everyone knows it’s a good idea to stand on the edge of a planter when you are drunk and trying to climb a ladder up to the second floor. I sat back and prepared for the show. His friends egged him on as they drank Shamrock Shakes and discussed Sinéad O’Connor’s new haircut. As soon as he put his weight on the planter it toppled over sending him to the ground along with the plant and all the dirt. “Why didn’t I have my cell phone ready?” I cried out. His friends laughed and he stood up with a stupid shit-eating grin on his face and ran back to his table to take another bite of Irish soda bread. He cared not that he had created a huge pile of dirt that was directly in front of the door to the patio that the server would now have to step through. A minute later, the server, who was also Irish, came out and we warned him to avoid the pile of dirt and he looked down just in time to hop over it and not trip. “What happened?” he wanted to know. We pointed to the culprit who was searching for a four-leaf clover. “He knocked it over, but his friends might be able to explain why.” Not one of the people at his table acknowledged it. They completely ignored that their drunk ass friend had made a huge mess of the patio and carried on with their recipe swap of Shepard’s Pie.

The server got down on his knees with a bucket and began sweeping up the dirt. As he did this, the drunk guy stumbled past him and left the patio and another person came up from the table to ask for change. If that ain’t rude, I dunno what is. My Brit friend said to the waiter, “I thought you Irish could hold your liquor.” “Some of us can,” he replied. The rest of the hooligans left the patio after the server was finished cleaning up the mess their friend had made.

I was thankful that wasn’t where I worked. Had that happened in my station, the whole group would have been asked to leave as soon as they had told me where to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I just had to sit there and feel uncomfortable for the waiter who had to clean up dirt because a drunk guy couldn’t control himself. The luck of the Irish must have been with the waiter though because I bet ten minutes later the guy would have tossed his Irish Oatmeal cookies and dirt is a lot better to sweep than puke. It’s ain’t magically delicious.

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What’s White and Sticky and In a Napkin?

As servers, we are used to getting our hands dirty. Whether it is reaching into that nasty ass bus tub to get a fork because table 18 needs one right away and you’d rather get a dirty one right here and wash it than walk all the way to the dish room or cleaning the fucking ketchup bottles, our hands are constantly filthy. Thankfully, we all wash them continuously so that our hands are clean and sanitized when we handle the bread for our customers. (That’s funny.) Anyhoo, I was re-setting my station the other day and going through the room picking up all the trash off the tables so they could be wiped down. The usual was there; bev naps, straw wrappers, cocktail sippy straw thingies, etc. I was just making a sweep grabbing it all with my hands when I picked up a napkin that was sopping wet. The napkin was balled up and inside it was some wet sticky substance that oozed through my finger and got all up in my joory. My mind raced:

Oh shit, what the fuck is in this napkin? Did somebody just blow their nose and leave the Kleenex here and now their snot is all in my hand? This better not be fucking snot. I will be so pissed off if I look down and see a fucking booger hanging off my ring. Or spooge. Do not tell me someone just spooged all up in a bev nap and now I am holding it. I do not get paid enough to hold spooge in my hand. I get $4.65 an hour and spooge-holding definitely requires at least $7.00 an hour. And it’s sticky too. Oh shit, it’s spooge. I know it’s spooge. I have the spooge of a stranger in my hand. Okay, I’m gonna look down and see what it is. Here I go. Oh God! It’s white! And creamy! And sticky. It is so totally spooge. Goddammit, who the fuck leaves spooge in a bev nap? That’s it, I quit. If I am gonna be a spooge catcher I may as well place an ad on craigslist and get paid the big bucks. I can see the ad now: “let me catch your spooge in my hand and you pay me seven dollars.” Yuck. Gross. I am gonna throw up. I am so totally going to throw up. This is nastier than a soggy biscuit. It’s spooge. Spoooooooge!

As I started to pass out from anger, frustration and disgust, I noticed a coffee cup on the table and remembered what the lady at the table had ordered. She had an Irish Coffee. With whipped cream. Apparently, she didn’t want the whipped cream so she scooped it off and placed it on the napkin that was now in my hand. “Oh, it’s whipped cream. Never mind.”

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