Thursday, December 21, 2006

Rank this

Many of you might not believe me when I say that there are times when I can't think of much to write in this here blog.

I do not let this lack of inspiration stop me. Heaven only knows what portion of the universe might implode if I don't post (at least that's how I like to think of it), for I am not brave like Wordnerd and simply STOP POSTING for a week because it's just one more thing on the "to-do" list that there's no time for. No, I wedge in the posting BEFORE the important things (like work) that demand my attention.

(If word of this gets out at my place of employ, there may be problems. Whatever.)

Sometimes, though, providence steps in and places a nugget of pure bloggability into my grasping hands. Today is such a day. Hoorah! Today's spark of inspiration comes from a brief exchange with Biff Spiffy this morning, in which, somehow, the subject of body odor came up.

Don't ask, if you know what's good for you.

Anyhow, it brought to mind a story from my distant past. Which I will tell you know, once the loud cheering noise that no doubt has arisen at the prospect of another Tiff-ism being shared subsides a bit.

Read it again, that was TOO a real sentence.

Forthwith - the story:


When I was in graduate school, lo those many years ago, I worked for a time at a very nice restaurant. We on the wait staff had really cool uniforms, with these long crisp white aprons to wear over our black trousers, and these sharp-looking vests and matching bow ties to wear over our whilte shirts.

Yeah, it was the 80's; what of it?

Anyhow, we of the sartorially elegant wait staff, were obliged to do things like memorize the specials of the day (one fish, one veal, one pasta, one "other") to recite to our guests without the aid of notes, had to be able to suggest wine pairings for the order (and whoever had the most wine sales in a week got extra cash in their paycheck), had to be able to remember a 4-top's worth of orders without writing anything down (including appetizer), and had to be well groomed and respectful of the rhythm of the meal, never interrupting a conversation to use the crumb brush or check on the patron's satisfaction level.

Most of us on the waitstaff were in our early 20's (and single, but those are stories for another time, and what stories they are, my friends) and attractive. Some of us were very attractive, and I'm not braggin' on myself. The owners of the restaurant KNEW what would bring the diners to the yard, yo. For example, there was one guy I called "Thor," for reasons that, if you saw him, would have been instantly apparent; he had long blond hair, shoulders as wide as a doorway, a strong nose and chin, cheekbones that could cut glass, etc etc.....he was a god, no doubt about it. He was also just a busboy, because he wasn't old enough to serve alcohol.

(Ladies, I'll give you a moment to think about that. The room may seem to get a bit warm, which is fine. It will pass once you read a little further into the story.....)

Anyhow, one of the other members of the waitstaff was a guy I'll call "Viggo." Viggo was tall, with waist-length thick black hair that always smelled of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Yummy. He was also tall and slender, with an aquiline nose and piercing dark eyes. In addition, Viggo was an actor and musician, and lived with a bunch of hippies who kept triple peach schnapps in the freezer and a bag of blow under the couch.

(Ask me how I know, for again, there are stories.)

Because he lived with hippies, Viggo had adopted some of the more "natural" practices of the group, like not necessarily always (or ever, for that matter) utilizing an odor-neutralizing product on his underarm area. While "natural" is perfectly fine if you're strutting your hour on stage or laying down a jam in front of a horde of screaming groupies in a dark club, it is not really all THAT fine when you're laying down a "duck en papiillote" in front of a paying customer, for the paying customer does not necessarily want his truffled fowl served with a side of B.O.

Not surprisingly, the customers complained. An intervention was needed. Viggo was called into the office and handed a speedy stick of Mennen and told to use it or find another job.

Viggo did, and all was well.

However, the stick of speedy stink relief STAYED at the restaurant; for Viggo was a natural man at all times, save for when he was kitted out in his waitstaff finery shilling Poulle Fusse or Death by Chocolate.

Ask me how I know, and someday I might tell you. Oh, the stories.

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