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The Adventures of Waiterman, Lord of the Restaurant Jungle

by Aironius French

224 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0205; ISBN 1-55395-842-x; US$21.50, C$24.99, EUR18.00, £12.50

The Adventures of Waiterman: Lord of the Restaurant Jungle is a satirical work of non-fiction, salted with social commentary and occasional vitriolic rantings, describing one person's odyssey within the restaurant industry

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book The Adventures of Waiterman: Lord of the Restaurant Jungle is a satirical work of non-fiction; part expose, part autobiography, which is salted with social commentary and occasional vitriolic rantings. It is an odyssey of growth, development, adventure and debauchery. Note from the Author: What's astounding to me is the utter lack of material, either written or filmed, depicting the restaurant industry in all its debauchery riddled glory. I mean this is an area absolutely rich for fodder, which could be appreciated by even the most solitary of hermits who have never worked or eaten in any type of eating establishment whatsoever. Therefore, my aim is to entertain by eliciting unbridled guffaws, but also to educate the naive masses about the bizarre world known as the restaurant jungle.

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About the Author Aironius French resides primarily in the city, as opposed to the Restaurant Jungle, but occasionally must rely on his alter ego, Waiterman, to survive in the Health Care Forest. He tries to accomplish many little things with great passion. He is currently penning The Adventures of Waiterman: Green Gaijin of Japan.

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Sample Excerpts

Introduction

"Be careful going in search of adventure -
it's ridiculously easy to find."
-William Least Heat Moon

From an insider's perspective, there are few industries that can provide the bewildering array of adventures that are so common within the restaurant industry. In essence, most restaurants are like jungles full of wild beasts, poachers, and headhunters who all conspire to mix a wide range of young people in big, black cauldrons and then season the broth with booze, money, stress, and opportunity. Could there be a more solvent environment (save the Congo for Tarzan and Jane) to mix adventure with peril? Perhaps the whole Hollywood scene could compare, but not many teenagers get to play the lead role in a major motion picture for their first job. A restaurant is a much more common place to start. That's how I began, and ended up spending twelve years (intermittently) at four different restaurants. That's quite a tour of duty. As such, I know how sharp the double-edged axe can be within the restaurant world: it can chop through all the barriers to a jolly good time, but it can also decapitate without any warning. I also know great adventures (with or without a head) spawn great stories, which is what this book is a vehicle for.

The following accounts, intermingled with social commentary and occasional vitriolic rantings, are divided into three sections. In Part I, the jungle is surveyed, so to speak, as it is an overview of the various restaurant positions and the dynamics that exist between them. Part II is an account of my early years within the restaurant jungle, beginning with the title of "salad boy" and ending with me being "exiled" as a nubile young waiter. Part III chronicles the lion's share of my waitering adventures from 1987 to '95. It was during this latter period that Waiterman came into his own out of absolute necessity and acquired special survival skills after having been exposed to the various perils within the jungle.

Simply said, Waiterman was my infallible alter ego, my Lord of the Jungle if you will. Whether he was my brash Tarzan or my cultured Earl of Greystoke, though, depended on the situation. Regardless, as him, I witnessed or partook in all the adventures mentioned in this book, unless otherwise stated. I do not condone, or mean to glamorize, any unethical acts that were committed, but when one is in Rome, one must do as the hedonistic Romans once did. And believe me, we all did things that would have made Caligula gasp and blush. But for the record, let me state unequivocally that stealing is unethical, unprotected sex is irresponsible, puking in public is uncalled for, stereotyping is unfair, drinking and driving is plain stupid, and swearing is blasphemous. There, I now feel completely purged and ready to take tea with the Pope.

Within Parts II and III, I am cavalier enough to offer serving and managerial tips, which are conveniently summarized in the appendix. I hope these lists will provide some concise, practical advice to the masses on how to be better servers and managers. Frankly, it may prove futile, but what the hell.

Throughout the book, efforts were made to conceal the identities of the young, the innocent, and the feeble. I had no direct agenda to embarrass or unduly criticize any particular individual and have it widely known, but I did not sugar coat the truth in an effort to be overly benevolent either. Consequently, I relied on nicknames or fictional names to depict the main characters and I hope this was enough to maintain some mystery of identity. If not, oh well. I also harbor no grudge, not even against the vilest of characters that I encountered, but karma has a funny way of biting some offenders on the ass. The names "Trader's Inn" and "Duke's Place" are also fictional, but represent actual restaurants that continue to exist (and create stories, no doubt). As a result, all of the stories in this book are factual, sometimes altered in terms of people and places, but not embellished one iota. There was simply no need to embellish as truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction. Without further ado then, it is with great pleasure that I welcome you into the bizarre habitat known as the restaurant jungle. This satirical "eco-tour" will either be considered tres avant-garde, or forte fromage. If the latter, have a fondue.

EXCERPTS FROM PART I
SURVEYING THE JUNGLE

"The universe is not only queerer than we suppose,
but queerer than we can suppose."
-J.B.S. Haldane

Not surprisingly, most people's standards for a good meal are rather mundane and uncritical. If their food is the appropriate temperature, timely, modestly priced, and pushing the edges of their plates they are satisfied. These types of people do not eat out very often, nor are they too adventurous in their choices of restaurants. They take satisfaction in not having to wash dishes after the meal and often mention this to their cohorts with delight. They have disdain for the server because, although their temporary servant, they might well have higher incomes. They bitch about things that are entirely obvious in order to justify the six percent gratuity they invariably leave regardless of any controllable outcome. A $5 sirloin steak (cooked medium well or beyond) lacking flavor and tenderness in a Greek restaurant specializing in pizza, but run by an elderly Chinese couple? Well no bloody wonder Einstein.

A much smaller group of people, often referred to as "diners" (historically due to their extensive use of the once exclusive Diner's Card), are different animals altogether. Eating out is about the overall experience: the ambiance, the hope of being recognized by the owner, the ratio of cabernets to merlots, the imported chef whose bio appeared in the "cuisine section" of the Sunday paper, the controversial juxtaposition of the fusion entrees, etc. These people simply know more about food and beverage, but it does not seem to satiate their desire to bitch. They will bitch to enhance their self-importance, to remind the server of his/her insignificance within the universe, or to get a discount off the bill while masquerading as being mortally offended by such a suggestion. This group will decide upon a certain percentage of gratuity, based on some arcane guidelines (though not usually sinking below fifteen percent) and pay the server to the exact penny on their Gold or Platinum credit cards.

These two genres of restaurant goers are at either end of the customer continuum (with many others in between), but do share one thing in common: they are both absolutely oblivious to all the intrigue, politics, debauchery, romance, manipulation, fraud, collusion, and outright warfare that transpire behind the scenes of their favorite restaurant. Chances are the family sitting at table forty-one has no idea that their waiter is shagging the eighteen-year-old hostess after every shift, is hung-over from consuming a dozen stolen Coronas the night before, relishes eating the leftover meat off of his customer's plates, didn't wash his hands after expelling some foul gut rot mid-shift, plans to commit fraud on various credit card slips, and will be driving his beat-up Volkswagen absolutely hammered before the night is over. Perhaps ignorance is bliss, but I feel it is my duty to educate the customer on such matters and make the universe appear a little less queer. So, grab your anti-malarial pills and jump into the Land Rover, because we have a vast jungle to explore.

EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER I
Primates and Symbionts

A guy sitting at a table will survey his waitress regardless of who he is with. He may be sitting at the table with his beautiful family, having just made love to his vivacious wife that afternoon, and he will still steal glances at the waitress's jiggly ass, simultaneously trying to see evidence of thong panties and pondering his chances of taking her from behind in a toilet stall, at least on some subconscious level. Guys multi-task well in this way. Their neural pathways are well entrenched for such thought patterns. A possible explanation is that the vast majority of guys just cannot commit one hundred percent to one woman. Perhaps ninety-nine percent, but never entirely because the thought of being officially off the "playing field" and cut from "the team" is almost unbearable. This is akin to emasculation. And regardless of how miserable the guy was being single and playing the field before becoming attached, he will always have buddies in various stages of "single-hood" (i.e., divorced, just separated, casually dating, adulterous affair) continually reminding him of their utopian existence, consisting largely of grief-free, tantra-like sex. Rationally he knows this is bullshit, but the grass (or ass) always seems greener on the other side. Therefore, most men harbor an unrealistic perception of sexual dynamics, which causes them to continually search for something that doesn't actually exist within our space-time continuum. This doesn't mean that all men are dirty, dog licking, man-whores for having a wandering third eye. On the contrary, it may simply be a matter of ancient genetics, mixed with a fear of commitment, combined with peer pressure and bravado, interlaced with the excitement of the conquest, and complicated by low self-esteem. Consequently, that guy sitting at the table, especially if he is sans family, is gagging to impress the waitress. Does he do this by juggling his cutlery or listing his great qualities on a napkin? No, he does it with a very gratuitous tip. Gold bullion if he could. He wants to come across as important, as successful, as totally fucking loaded. After all these decades, most men still think money is their best lure and will shamelessly use it as bait to attract as many of the fish in the sea as possible. In the sea of restaurants, the hot waitress gladly accepts the bait. A twenty-five to thirty-five percent tip is not uncommon in this situation.

Scenario number two starts with the same guy at the table, but now he's contemplating the alpha-male waiter who swaggers up, squats down, and flashes at least one hundred and forty pearly whites. This would be an obvious case of competition. And much like the rules of engagement between two male chimpanzees, if the waiter averts his eyes, whimpers, and displays his wet anus, then the two will get along famously. If, however, the waiter appears at all cocky, threatening, condescending, better looking, more muscled, or quicker witted, then the guy at the table thinks, "Screw you, shit eater." This controlled hostility begets a psychological jousting contest and much posturing between the two, but doesn't necessarily end with the waiter getting stiffed. The guy at the table may decide to assert his dominance by pulling out his Corporate Gold Card and tipping large, which kind of rubs the waiter's nose in it, but most waiters would gladly take a clump of shit on the end of their nose for that kind of money. Conversely, the guy might leave a below average tip and some patronizing advice on how the service could have been better, which will burn itself into the waiter's brain and fully justify the chunky mass of spit that will appear in the guy's coffee the next time he shows his grotty face in the restaurant. And although a little poorer, the waiter will rejoice for days as nothing satisfies a vengeful mind more than watching some asshole unknowingly consume some of your body fluids. Not surprisingly, this situation is the most precarious and thus exhibits the biggest tipping range, from ten to twenty-five percent.

The third scenario is the most interesting because of the catch-22 that exists with waiters serving women. On the one hand, most waiters love interacting with their female customers (on all levels, or at least on all fours), but on the other hand, they are absolutely maddening to serve and comparatively cheap tippers. If there was any justice in the world, women would be forced to tip the most because they are much more demanding and require more attention, but obviously, in the restaurant jungle, justice is an extinct species.

Let's imagine a woman sitting at a table. Even if she were there with other single women, the mob mentality still would not convince her to want to mount and grind the waiter's midsection. The vast majority of women are not consumed with the thought of picking up and bedding their waiter while dining at a restaurant. Women appear to be more pragmatic (in that they primarily want to consume food and beverage while at a restaurant), more loyal (in that they are committed and reasonably satisfied with the slug they left at home), more sensible (in that they realize waiters are not Fortune 500 members), and have a bit more decorum (in that they realize picking up a waiter at his place of work is a little tacky). Still, having said that, many female customers like to have fun and flirt with their waiters, but it is much more subtle and sophisticated compared to their male counterparts. For example, a woman might make an appreciative comment about her waiter's tie, or she might pretend that she recognizes him from some mythical place, which will lead to some innocent probing and name exchanging. It's all quite clever and rather pleasant banter, but the veteran waiter knows he is not getting laid or much loot so he presses for a drink order and tries to move on. Unfortunately, much indecision usually ensues, as some women apparently have no idea that beverages can be obtained in eating establishments. They appear totally dumfounded by such a proposition. Therefore, they must consult each individual taste bud, calculate the pH balance of their stomach, take inventory of their waistline, and then weigh this information against the overall mood of the group before they can narrow it down to a pot of herbal tea or a frothy cocktail. Meanwhile, the waiter can feel the droplets of perspiration form on his brow ridge as he stands at his tormentor's table. He can feel his shirt sticking to his hairy back and his pulse become erratic. He can see his other tables perishing from malnutrition and dehydration, his section starting to resemble the Ethiopia of the '70s. In the waiter's mind, though, the real tragedy is not the loss of life around him (as he would take a twenty percent tip from a week-old corpse), but rather the collective ebbing away of his tips due to the growing dissatisfaction from all his other tables. So not only will he make below average money from his table of indecisive women, but because they insist on monopolizing his time and forcing him to scurry about the restaurant like a rodent searching for low-fat alternatives, he will lose some of the guaranteed money from his tables headed by men. This absolute nightmare is commonly referred to as a kick in the camel toe.

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Catalogue Information

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