"Country Hardball"

It would stand to reason that anybody perusing this particular post would immediately assume that I am embarking on a piece about our national pastime.

There are at least two very good reasons for this including my unwavering devotion to a team that smells like cabbage cooking or perhaps that today happens to be the day of the "Mid-Summer Classic" or MLB All Star Game.

Not to disappoint the legions of fans and followers that I have (28 to date), but unfortunatly this post will take an unexpected turn.

This is an homage to phonetic word combinations.

While being directly related to the boys of summer, the term "country hardball", in my most humble of opinions, is an example of a well balanced, emotion provoking structure that serves as an example of my very lure to the art of the written word. So balanced in fact that one could deduce that the term itself might transcend the boundaries of the sport in which it refers to and lend it's influence as a great name for a rock band or a truck stop diner off of route 441 through the Smokey Mountains.

Point being that when a person is talented enough or just plain lucky enough to produce the perfect word combo, the power duo is free to explore possibilities outside of its initial intended use, and in my case, embed itself deep inside the pshycy and rolls around like a marble in an empty fishbowl only to be quieted when released by a concoction of written words to describe such a phenomenon.

There are few terms that provoke emotion and deserve such attention, and "county hardball" is one of them, now joining the ranks of "lung butter" or "draconian devil".

Why I Love Golf!

I love golf, and not for your typical reasons.






I didn't hit a hole-in-one my first time out, I didn't grow up on any praticular golfcourse, and my friends and I are not members of an elite country club where the bartender knows what I like to drink and has it waiting for me as I come off the 18th green.


True, there is more than a traceable amount of respect for the game that hovers around the fact that you really only compete with yourself, it is a game of integrity, and there is a moral fiber that intertwines itself throughout every aspect of the 18 hole challenge, but I love the game for one reason. For me golf allows me to vividly re-live memories that have nothing to do with the game.


When I see golf on television or drive up to the first tee, I am reminded of the sight of the outdoor lantern lights hung from tree to tree over a swimming pool at a summer party that my parents brought us too at the neighbors house when I was 8 or the relfection of the christmas tree lights in the shiny wheel base of a brand new bike with the front tire cocked at an angle that makes it appear as if it were waiting for me to see it for the first time.


I smell charcoal, burnt hot dogs and suntan lotion on a scorching hot summer day knowing that there will be no school for 2 more months and the scent of assorted chocolates and tart candies that smack me in the nose as I open my trick-or-treat bag for the first time in the safety of our living room.


I hear the unmistakable pop of the fireworks and the choked squeal from a paper horn that is being blown too hard from a few houses over on a chilly new years eve when I am supposed to lying down and going to sleep or the sounds of other kids playing Marco Polo in the nearby pool while I lay on my back drying as the sun penetrates my closed eyes making the world pink.


I feel the surprisingly strong flap of a fistful of slimy fish as I try as a 10 year old to get it off the hook without my dad helping, then the coolness of the lake as I lean over the boat and put him back in the waters or the last firm plastic buckle snapping shut on my ski boots as I look up the hill to the chairlift knowing that today is the day I try the double black diamond for the first time.


And I taste the thick frosting of the rollerskate cake with the licorice rope shoelaces that my mom made for my birthday party, or the root beer floats that my dad made for my brothers and I well after our usual bedtime on an evening that my mother was away with her friends.


And I feel it all in a momentary rush that happens in seconds.

You see, I love golf for reasons that have nothing to do with golf. The sight of a stretched open fairway, a flag dotting the horizon in the long shadows of the clubhouse on 18 as the moon and the sun struggle for ownership of the sky, brings me to a series of places and a times that is reserved for moments of unadulterated pleasure, comfort, and security.

A time that was never scripted to last this long and can only be found again under very specific conditions. Stored in a vault, deep within my memory, that for some reason has golf as its only key.

I don't understand it myself, but then again, I don't need to!

Free At Last, Free At Last...Thank God Almighty...

The transformation from Food and Beverage whipping post to creative earner is complete. I have kicked and pried myself out of the GI Joe kung fu grip that had become the restaurant biz. Mind you that I am very careful to point out that it was indeed (or haphazardly became so) the whole industry and not merely a single restaurant.
Do I have an "icky-er" taste in my mouth that is slightly fishy, from the last tank to captivate me? Yes, I do, but more than anything I am really very sorry for them, that their hand was forced to play, entertain, and work with my mental fatigue in the days, nay months, leading up to my parole.

I have grown accustomed to referring to my metamorphosis in cliche and god bless the woman to my left that refrains from the involuntary eye that results in having to hear these one-liners every time we cross somebody who mistakenly mutters out of politeness the phrase "what are you up to these days"...just cause they ask, doesn't mean you have to tell...but I do and I will.

Being plugged into more than one of the social medias that allow you to know exactly when I am washing my shirt, or debating between BBQ or PHO for dinner have served a very enlightening purpose that I had not foreseen.
It arms the casual conversation with a starting block and in this "no-time-for-love-Dr.-Jones" world we live in, chance encounters on the street can have more substance as well as getting right to the point. Any person lucky enough to be a "friend" or "follower" can now approach and right off the bat proclaim, "I heard you got out of the business", to which I can reply "Yeah-it was time that I started getting tested for intelligence rather than threshold for pain", which is exactly how I feel, but rejoice in making it appear that I just thought that comment right on the spot.
Or one of my favorites that take the casual visitor a little more time to digest is the response to "well what are you doing now?".
I love coming right back with "almost the same thing as restaurants. I am a technical writer at a Bio-engineering firm".
I am usually met with the initial expression that would accompany a person who just thought they heard a guy next to them use the word "pussy" in church. Doesn't make much sense. Kind of a "huh" thing where the persons head is thrown off it's access like a Golden Retriever waiting for the ball.

Like any other person lucky enough to escape from prison, I'm not so dellusional to say "I'm never going back". I know the business, and I know the sticky tentacles that I goes looking for you with as soon as it realizes you have escaped. "I keep trying to get out and it keeps suckin me back in". But if ever those cold fingers of death that dangle the lure of a fast buck in front of me come back and start to dance again, I would be tempted to pull a Cagney and never let them take me alive.

However; until that plank has been pushed out over the side and I have been politely asked to walk it, I will revel at the fact that this very minute I am at a desk with a picture of me and my girl on one side and a nice bonsai I found on Amazon on the other, and pressed by the fact that if I don't wrap this up I may be late for our weekly staff meeting cause I have to stop by the break room and brew a fresh cup of coffee and get some of those peanut butter filled pretzels that I have grown so fond of. Best of all I will leave this new place of employ right at the time that a restaurant manager will be gearing up for their shift and I will be silently wondering if I should go out to dinner somewhere tonight. Let me call up 15 of my friends and NOT make a reservation......I'm just kidding...could you imagine?

Jagged Little Blogger

I have recently embarked on a journey to the outer depths of the writosphere where my hopes and desires lie with the elite ranks of my professional mentors who get to write everyday for a living, and on this quest I have been privy to some of my "less-than-marketable" attributes.

"We here at Toby Airlines would like to welcome you aboard. We are currently flying over the beautiful state of Arizona and out the right hand side of the plane you can see the Grand Canyon. For those of you to be so unfortunate to be on the left hand side of the plane towards the back you can see what appears to be a jaded, sliver tongued word smith who applies far too much sarcasm to his daily angst in written form. We will now begin our decent into truthville so we remind you go ahead and leave those seat trays in the down position in the hopes that when we crash (and we will be crashing) they will provide a quicker end to this humbling madness. Smoke em' if you gottem!"

I have so very recently put the stipulation on myself that I must apply to at least two free lance writing jobs posted on public websites a day Wed-Fri (my writing days). This is not to achieve a dream job at some Gazette somewhere, but merely for exposure in the hopes that some publisher somewhere will read what I have concocted and have their "A HA" moment. The tricky thing about piloting this quest is the fact that I am doing so completely blind and without a net. I don't know if this is how one breaks into a writers guild, or gets discovered but my vessel is fueled by the two largest components of flight....hope and patience.

All I truly know at this point of infancy is that all (not some or most) sites require a writing sample which of course I am going to pull from this here shiny blog pond. Thing is I have been forced to go back to the archives and pull a marketable piece from this very collection. A collection mind you that is full of angst, sarcasm, bitterness, and swear words. None of the least which is marketable.

True the blog was created at first to merely vent the pressures of everyday life working in a restaurant, and double true is the fact that I make no bones about being a huge proponent of "comedy for one", the art of making myself laugh-even if you don't; but here I was so recently being forced to answer internal questions like "am I really that jagged?" and "should I create a literary Toby that is more shiny happy, care bear-esque in the hopes of getting discovered only to hold (then unleash) my wrath in season two of my Comedy Central series that I am bound to get?". I mean here I am as a human practicing the philosophies and teachings of Buddha, privately meditating on human suffering, then turning right around and calling people with celiacs disease a**holes (see the **-already starting to clean it up). Where is the balance here, and what do I stand for?

I will not waver from the structured belief that people on the whole need to learn how to eat out better, and I will not ignore that selected few representatives of our population should be singled out as ruining it for others, but I will try to be more compassionate in the hopes that I may be softer on the pallet if only to show that I truly believe that we are a remarkable race worthy of literary translation. I will just try and represent the other side of the spectrum more completely, even when my explored side of the spectrum piss me off....and they will piss me off......darn it-there I go again.

Maybe I need Prozac!

Don't Be A Celiacshole!

In the ever evolving world of food and beverage, a (relatively) new and worthy adversary has emerged with a vengeance.

Over the span of what could be interpreted as months, but has really been evolving for years is Celiacs Disease.
To those unaware, this is an autoimmune disease of the small bowel that occurs to genetically indisposed people of all ages starting in middle infancy. However; to those aware of this pre-disposition but not being directly affected by it, one could deduce that one of the most common symptoms is it can turn you into an asshole. (ironic based on the location of affected area)

Allow me to please take a sympathetic step back while Celiacs catch their breath and decide whether to keep reading or not.

I have nothing but the utmost sympathy for anybody affected by any disease and this is simply a rant to the small percentage of those that treat me (and others in my profession) like the very people that gave them their illness, and it seems to me that topically this illness could be related to kids and the ADD epidemic that seemed to gain speed and popularity as soon as Ritalin was invented and hyper kids could be muted...bottom line is that yes many people are affected directly by an intolerance to gluten and must eat accordingly, but just because you get a lower belly pain when you eat 3 loaves of bread in one seating or get a little farty when you drink a gallon of soy sauce with your sushi does not mean that you get to jump on or drive the bandwagon.

More importantly its not my fault.

So when you begin your meal with the tone of royalty telling me about your allergy and I, in turn, tell you exactly what items on the menu are safe for your consumption (because I am that prepared of a manager and so is my staff), don't waive me off dismissively like the royal food tester and aghast at my incompetence when I bring you your "very safe" soup of the day with a fried plantain chip in it, because you thought it was a tortilla chip.
Generally people don't get to take responsibility for the daily operation of an establishment when they can't even carry out the simple task of providing you a dining experience based on your dietary restrictions, and just in case your keeping score-I have the keys to the place.

Here it is-Celiacs have had a tough run of things while the general public has adapted menus and education policies for staff to assimilate themselves with this new allergy, and I can totally dig that for the last 5 years you have remained in your house eating nothing but chicken broth through a strainer behind drawn shades while the rest of us have tried to catch up, but the bottom line is communication.
All anybody has to do is make a phone call before your time in a restaurant and ask if the establishment is equipped to handle a gluten free dining experience. (most are) Then remove your empty Kleenex boxes from your feet and pull your hair back into a pony tail then step into the light and come enjoy a fine meal void of anything that may cause you pain. But leave the attitude back at the house with your collected bottles of urine because I really don't want to crumple a cracker into your salad dressing....but so help me god.

Naw, I'm just playing...could you imagine?

From Beef to Fish

The transition is complete and I have now moved on to greener pastures...or rather out, of I suppose.

My once arena of simple grazing menu items have led me to the vast openness of sea faring creatures and all the nuances that come as a package deal. Staying true to my game, I will not publish the name of my new restaurant out of respect for those that I may inadvertently reference in a "less than" positive light, but with a little leg work, if one was so compelled, the information is readily available.

A few major differences in the land of sea:

You will be pleased to know that the finicky diner that lends themselves tirelessly to the subject matter of this blog is, not only, alive and well at my new venue but in fact further armed with the "questionable validity" of fresh seafood. This allows every Tom, Dick, and Harry to really peel apart the layers of what should be a wonderful dining experience in the hopes that they may get sick just so they can blame us. (a note on food poising to come)

My new digs come with 13..count them...13 years in the game. A far cry from the 4 years of struggle and strife trying to put a relatively new restaurant on the local map. Upon getting to know my new staff, Me:"how long have you worked here"...Her:"Oh I'm relatively new, I have only been here for 2 1/2 years"....UNHEARD OF!

It has been my happy discovery in my new home that when shucking and slurping oysters, or cracking and eating lobsters, it becomes impossible to fathom keeping white linen tablecloths clean...the solution...lose em'. Funny thing about losing tablecloths, ties and coats follow, the volume gets louder and happier, and people tend to have a grander time! Keep it informal and they will associate you with a positive place to be. The selfish side of this is I get to shed my once mandatory suit jacket for a dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. I still have the tie, because otherwise people wouldn't know who to call a dick! But the summer pounds don't come falling off in the form buckets of head and pit sweat and I'm cool with that (pun intended).

Tips on Dining Here:

A note to all those that make the conscious decision to enjoy our fresh oysters, then call later that night to tell us how sick they made you....NOT POSSIBLE! Food poisoning takes over 48 hours to set in ,if and when the food product is tainted. Contrary to popular belief, you are no more likely to get tainted fish than you would be tainted Ice Cream so stop giving the little swimmers such a bad rap and do us both a favor...get done puking and Google, Bing, whatever you want, the words "food poisoning" and then see if you can go all Doug and Wendy Whiner on us. Chances are you pshyced yourself in to hurling based soley on what your 300lb cubicle mate told about what happened at the all you can eat seafood buffet in the Greyhound bus depot outside of Reno in 1982. We are a far cry from those days and that place.

If you call a manger (me) over to your table and say "I just don't like it, it tastes a little fishy", I am going to grab the lobster mallet off your table and smash your fingers. There is a good reason your dinner tastes "a little fishy"...it's because it's FISH! Maybe you should have tried something less fishy...like chicken!

If you feel properly educated now, please put on your Tommy Bahama shirt and linen shorts (we don't care if they are wrinkled) and come see me for the freshest variety of fish that you will ever have, but be aware: you will have a great experience and you will want to come back even if I am "the dick in the tie".

Dearest Cow: I miss you a little and think of you often, but I am very happy in my new life. I wish you nothing but the best in yours!

I Have Ben to the Top Of The Mountain...and the View is Spectacular

Contrary to anybodys belief on my own personal state of mind and the content that riddles this particular blog, I am not soley a jaded, chip on the shoulder elitist that takes valuable time out of his day to simply unload bags semantic waste on the industry that chose me as a member.

With every course of unwanted and seemingly indigestible plate of brussel sprouts and boiled cabbage, there is always the promise of an ice cream Sunday or piece of pecan pie as a reward. (let the record show I actually enjoy brussel sprouts and boiled cabbage, but one cannot escape the iconic image of undesirable when using these timeless examples). This is your (the readers) pecan pie!

This career in F&B marathon that most recently has yielded toil and torment have crescendoed in the form of the single handed best dining experience of my career!

I speak lovingly as to properly dictate the sheer gastronomical heights achieved by this sleepy little cottage in Yountville called The French Laundry, and accented so appropriately with the perfectly casted table of characters.

In attendance for this carnival for carnivores were some of my most cherished inhabitants of the earth from all generations and walks of life. All of whom, not only shared in, but overwhelmingly relished in appreciation for our 4 hour dining experience. "OOHHS and "AAHHS" abound!

The exterior of the French Laundry in Yountville is that of a Thomas Kincade painting. You know the place. Cozy brick laden cottage with wonderfully historic old gnarled trees wrapping around the front of the multi paned facade that allow just a peak into the candle lit kitchen from the manicured front lawn, not big enough to pitch a large camping tent on. Inviting to say the least.

Sufficed to say that I will not be reliving the marathon meal ingredient by ingredient, but rather touching on the aspects that set this place apart form all others.

Aspects like the servers in full pressed suits that are clinically clean. No traces of last night sweat on the cuffs of these pros, and all three buttons up the front fastened fastidiously accenting the perfect Windsor knot under a starched collar.....and her name was Shannon!

Allowing us to select between the left side nine course chefs tasting menu or the right side nine course chefs tasting menu in vegetables (both $240.00 U.S. tax and tip included), she sided up to the table and warmly greeted us before reciting every word with extra descriptors from memory from both sides of said menu. (reader be aware that these menus are completely different day-to-day, presenting any intellectual being the mammoth task of flawless execution.)

At four points in the nine course meal, we the consumer are forced to make a decision between two items. I.E. the Sauteed Fillet of Columbia River Sturgeon or the Sashimi of Japanese Hamachi, the Sirloin of Devils Gulch Ranch Rabbit "En Persillade" or the Moulard (not Mallard) Duck "Foie Gras En Terrine"...you get the idea.

Shortly after marking our decisions she vanishes and is only to be seen again twice during the meal itself and then constantly at the end. The rest of the duties have been turned over to her more than capable support crew. I will refrain now and forever from calling these people runners, bussers, or expos because that does their craft no justice.

Throughout the next four plus hours plates are placed from the left with the left hands in synchronized service right under your nose, and silently. Really-you look down and there is food, and you wonder..."how the hell did that get there" as a flash of black blazer ducks down the stairs just out of the corner of your eye.

Upon placed perfection an adorable little french man (no more than 20 years old) arrives and explains what is in front of you with a heavy French accent and the precision of a surgeon. (Also flawless)

Let the "Oh My Gods" and the "Can You Believe This" followed by the occasional "There Are No Words" ensue, but never...I MEAN NEVER..the "Holy Shits" and "Jesus Christs" (this isn't the place, as much as you want to scream it). And it is this way until the last morsel and sip of hot coffee vanish from existence.

This type of eating is art. It is so much more than food and beverage. It is religion.

The evening starts very quiet and perfectly postured with conversations of world travel and books you are reading, but ends with voice volume above clinking silverware and conversation of Kool Aide and nakedness, not unlike how any successful and appreciated meal should choose to dictate what a wonderful time one is having.

While this particular experience has now been checked off my bucket list, not unlike anything a person thoroughly enjoys, the thought of a potential second helping is salivated over, and rest assured while not being able to use my time there as a bar for the standards of my own restaurant, you can bet that I will roll my eyes a little more defeated the next time one of my own forgets to put a steak knife down before the entree course......

........I just couldn't get out without a parting jab at SOMETHING, could I?

Reservations-Not Just A Suggestion!

First of all, allow me to welcome myself back to the land of the "paying to be served" tutorial that I hope some have come to rely on......"Welcome Back Me!"

Now-please open your web browsers to, well, here and lets start on page now.

We begin by breaking down the actual word "reservation". The first part of the word is "reserve" as in, setting aside an appropriate sized table to accommodate any persons attending the impending dinner/lunch extravaganza. This aspect alone is crucial to the outcome of any social gathering.

However; the unsung importance of the reservation lies in the root of the second part of the word -"ation", as in, "preparation". This is, to the staff of chosen dining place, as "reserve" is to the guests. So you see, the word itself is a complete representation of all parties involved in the execution of the perfect evening.

Confused? Let us put it in a practical, and an all to frequent, scenario.

Saturday 6:20 p.m

"Good Evening and thank you for calling ________, This is Toby, how can I help you?

"Yeah-Do we need a reservation?"

"Yes, they are certainly suggested. What time would you like to come in?" (let the record show that the following question is executed with a congenial smile, because although the question cuts to the core of any reputable restaurant, I really have no way of knowing if this person is an asshole or not....YET).

"I dunno, around 7:30"

"I believe I might be able to squeeze you in, how many in your party?" (smile getting tighter as phone guest rapidly approaches asshole status. Dumb question+peak hour request=possible asshole. Beware)

"Oh, Ok, Let's see 1,2,3,456,7....I think theres like 14 of us."

TOTAL ASSHOLE!

This is where Management jobs are lost, people cry, and a judge to be named later orders anger management courses.

6:30 on a Saturday and you and 13 of your closest Mensa think tank companions just decided that you wanted dinner, in one hour, at a linen and wine glass restaurant, and you start the phone call with "Do we need a reservation?"

If I could reach through the phone and perform a vasectomy or perhaps rip out your ovaries to prevent future generations of helmet wearing droolers-that like to dine out, so help me god I would.

Even if it were a Tuesday at 4:30 and the restaurant was empty, I still might hang up on this person out of principal alone.

"No, of course Sir. Let me just erase 4 of these other reservations that called a week ago to make some room for you and your super important guests."

What exactly are they expecting to hear? And do they get mad and shocked when you say there is no possible way? Oh you betcha!

So you see-to "reserve" space (of any size) takes prepar"ation". So Please-for the love of all things holy-give your favorite places at least 24 hours notice of your visit, even if your dining alone!

At this point the smile is uber-tight, teeth grinding and I continue...."Why don't you come in for a pre-dinner beverage in the lounge, and I'll see what I can do about a table for you and your party, but It may be closer to 8. Your last name sir?"

I not only like my job, I need it-and no judge is going to tell me who to hang out with for 6 months while I work on my issues!

Should We Stay or Should We Go?

It is Sunday night and you know that your favorite restaurant closes the kitchen at 9:00p.m.

You look up at the clock on the wall and it reads 8:30.

You quickly do the math internally (because your so smart you don't need a calculator)...8:30 + 10 minute commute + 12 minute order time = 8:52. YES UNDER 9:00! "Get in the car hun."

HOLD ON THERE PYTHAGORAS! Your math does not include the implied restaurant formula of immediately add 20 minutes onto said starting time. This means it is really 8:50 when your starting out. The implied formula is put into place for the simple fact that restaurant employees have places to go to as well. GASP, I know.

Bottom line is- You should stay.

Your arrive at the bar at 8:30 in the same situation as aforementioned. You nurse your delicious house wine and flirt with the girl that eventually will spend all your money and leave you in the gutter with poop pants and an alcohol problem, and quickly the clock says 8:57.

"We are ready to go to our table now", you mutter because you just can't wait to pick the cheapest thing on the menu that will take 20 minutes to cook only to send it back and have it cooked again, so you can lose yourself in the eyes of the girl your sure will produce a beautiful family that your mother will be proud of, and she can return the gaze into the eyes of her free meal ticket.

NO, NO, NO CHIEF! Wrong move-Nobody wants to watch you slip into oblivion when they know that there is an angry spouse waiting for them to get home to help with the kid or a cocktail waiting for them at the local watering hole that stays OPEN way past 9 on Sunday. (You know-the place you should have gone to in the first place.)

Bottom line is- You should go.

Listen. I'm not saying that most places won't be happy, even ecstatic to have a table that has been in the dining room for a while enjoy their meal well past the closing hour, or even take a late reservation as long if it is understood that you area aware of how late it is and you audibly profess how appreciative you are and how you will eat fast.
The "go-to" formula for added insulation against server angst is tip healthier than normal.

And if you must come in 10 minutes before service ends and stay for 2 hours the "go-to" formula is that before you exit the building, take a short walk around the restaurant and hand $100 bills to the kitchen staff, the manager, the bartender, and the bussboy-all of whom you have force to make phone calls to the people they promised they would be "there" by 9:30.

You would have to pay a prostitute for screwing them, why should we be any different?

"Im Going to Make His Head Explode..Watch!"

The server approaches me and says that we inadvertently undercooked table 301's wives steak. Not an iscolated occurrence by any stretch, however the last part of the request was that the man was DEMANDING a free glass of wine for his "put off wife", and by the way, shes having the $20 glass of Nickle and Nickle.
Of course I did not trust that any person could be so blindly angry about medium rare instead of medium, so I proceeded to investigate.

"Good evening sir, I understand that we undercooked your wives steak."

"Where the hell is my free wine?" (whatever happened to hello?)

Wow-this guys for real. I am like a deer in the headlights, but then I remember, I have had a really bad month. A month of repression and emotion. A month of should I work, or should I stay home. The bottom line is "bring it on asshole, I have been waiting for you for a month!"

"We are working right now to correct our problem in the kitchen, and I would be happy to bring your wife a nice glass wine while she waits the unthinkable 4 minutes that this will take, however; I will be bringing her a glass of the Souverain (@ $8.00)".

Like a short fuse on a powder keg, the high strung man erupts. "Bla Bla, save a few bucks on me will you, Bla Bla" "Arg Arg, Leave my table, Arg Arg". He is so spitting mad that he is having a hard time creating sentences, and inside I am beaming sunshine at the babbling idiot I have reduced this man to.

I should have just brought the silly glass of requested gold, but I truly felt no different than if this man had a gun to my head and was demanding my wallet.

In the end, I leave and return with his wives $20 glass of Nickle and Nickle, as I intended to do from the start, but watching this man try and eat a steak through clenched teeth and bulging neck veins, while he felt me smiling at him the remainder of the evening, was money in the bank!

After the dust settled, and around the water cooler, we determined that this is probably a person who yells and screams all day to get what he wants at work and has been doing it for so long that he is physically unable to turn it off. Poor bastard is going to snap a such a cog one day that he will probably end up face down and drowning in his free bowl of split pea with brain matter all over the person across from him. I hope he sees my face smiling ear to ear in torment as he does. The world has enough misery, whats the use of a perpetuater.

The bottom line is that restaurants mess up, and when we do, we will gladly make right on the problem. The secret is that you can have anything you want in the building for free, the more understanding, level headed, and calm that you are. We respond much more openly to this than the "Ra Ra cooked wrong, Ugh Ugh free shit now, Bla Bla........I'm a dick" approach.

Valentines Day Massacre

It has never ceased to amaze me how a date, of all things, can sneak up on a person, but every February 14th a slew of people flood the phone lines last minute to try and appease potential angry partners with a last minute reservation at their favorite fine dining spot. My restaurant is no exception and part of me relishes the opportunity to expose these unprepared patrons of the steak.

To their credit, some people sprinkle their desperation with a smattering of creativity in the hopes that we may take the reservation without ever noticing that it is our busiest day of the year.
"Thank you for calling, how can I help you?". " I would like to get a reservation for Saturday around 7:30". "The 14th?". "Yes". "Valentines Day?". "Oh! Is that Valentines Day?". "Nice try sir, we have been booked solid for 2 months. Looks like another Valentines Day has snuck up on you again but good luck with your special night of Dominoes pizza and masturbation. I hear there is a good skin flick on Max."

Romulus invented the calendar in 753 BC. You have no excuse to be surprised by a holiday that requires reservations.

The other anomaly that fascinates me is how empowered people are because they want to spend money.
"Happy Valentines Day, how can I help you?". "I would like a reservation tonight at 8." "I'm sorry sir, but we have been booked solid for 2 months, but can I put you on the imaginary wait list that, if actually existed, would be as long as the Washington Monument is high and offer absolutely no chance of entry into the building tonight?". "You mean to tell me that you are going to turn down my business in this economy?". "No sir, I am telling you that I am happy to turn down your business, because it just occurred to me that if you were here tonight, something tells me you would find a way to send your food back, because you sound like that kind of an ass. I look forward to our annual conversation next February. Have a good year!".

Please people-heed my advice. February 14th is Valentines Day and it falls directly between the 13th and 15th every year. This day requires a nice meal for your partner, and therefore a reservation. Most restaurants can take reservations up to a year in advance. So eat your meal, pay your check, then go to the host stand and make your reservation for 365 days in the future. If for no other reason, so I don't have to talk to you next year at the zero hour.
This checks and balances works just as well on Mothers Day, Easter, Christmas Eve, New Years Eve, and The Fourth of July.
As George W. Bush would say-"It's not rocket surgery folks".

IOWAnt my family back

Well the time has come and gone in the foreshadowed period that sees the Iowa contingency of the Tullis clan shed their snow boots and don their floral print winter gear for the annual trek back to Cali.

Just who are these nomadic people of Iowa? My Brother Andy and his lovely wife Stephanie moved to Iowa shortly after my nephew Ben was born 5 years ago. Since then they have added the endearing Miss Addison Paige who is all of 2 going on 30.

With her perfect vocabulary, wittle wisp, and a non-existent verbal filter-their short time here was nothing short on entertainment from minute one.

Upon entering grandpas car curbside at SFO, Addy spoke first.

"What's your name?"
"I'm Grandpa Sam"
"Well I'm not sure if I like this Grandpa." (this is going to be a great week)

Including the the sprint with open arms to an awaiting Uncle Toby for the stand up hug, she buries her face in my crotch prompting my uber-mature brother to ask, "Oh God Addy, what does that smell like?", to which I honestly reply-"Dust, Andy, Dust." I bow my head in sad truth.
Up to Addy watching me snack on a small piece of cold steak from the fridge. "What's that Uncle Toby?" "Steak". "Your big belly is sure full of Steak!" I bow my head in sad truth.

But while young Addison is certainly the star of the show, my heart belongs to the trail blazer that came before her, brother Ben.

It has been known that I have often had more of an affinity for the opening act. For instance Public Enemy left Anthrax in the dust the night of the Oakland Fires, and to me, Annie Lennox blew doors on Sting, but I digress.

Brother Ben is a humble, subdued, intellect that is sharply humorous and wise beyond his few years. He is acutely aware that his sister is in the spotlight, and seemingly unaffected by the recent swing of attention. He not only picks her up-he holds her up, and they are friends the way that a senior and a junior are friends. It is genuine, but you know who the elder is. When they finished a puzzle together of Alvin and the Chipmunks, to which Addy did Simon and Ben did the rest, everybody celebrated the marvelous feat of young Addys contribution, and rightfully so. This was a puzzle for seven years + and that is their age combined. In all the celebration, a young Ben with shirt sleeve in mouth should have been witnessed by more than myself quietly leaving the room and proudly mentioning under his breath with his head held high,as if to let Addy have her moment..."I did the rest!"

And so it goes~the big brother, little sister dynamic. Interesting to watch and, in this case, admire. But as a man of science (yeah right) I would like to compile more data for my studies, so if you guys wouldn't mind moving back here for a few years for observation, that would be swell.

What A Day!

Rising at 7 am to catch all the excitement of history unfolding and ending the day catching more history playing live! If ever I was on death row, I believe I would request to fore go the final meal and all the splendor that comes with it and ask if I may somehow, just somehow, relive January 20th 2009.

One must forgive the slightly fuzzy undertones of this post as I am still trying to eliminate the contact high that comes from watching Willie at the Fillmore. It really is more like watching a concert from inside Woody Harrlesons bong, and if by some chance you aren't a pot smoker (which I am not), your going to be one that night!

I have seen Willie numerous times and the only negative critique that I have about last nights show was how hard it is seeing him get long in the tooth. His voice is strong, his guitar playing was manic and controlled beautifully, but in his short sleeve shirt exposing his arms and neck, he appeared to be wearing a skin suit that was a few sizes too big. Just kind of droopy.

He is also nurturing his young son Lukas and slowly passing the torch. Lukas' band opened as a kind of "Blind Mellon meets Fish" feel, and while Lukas is a superb guitarist, he sings through his nose forcefully. A message to Lukas-Your dad does that naturally and pulls it off flawlessly. If you don't got it~You don't got it~So don't try it.

I have a gut wrenching feeling that this may be the last time I see Willie play. Not because hes going anywhere, because he is not. (He tours 200 days of the year and is mentally strong as an ox), but watching Lukas play with his dad and take over on vocals a couple of times stung! I don't want to see anybody but the Red Headed Stranger sing Willie tunes, and I can't help but suspect that good ol' Willie might be increasing his sons involvement. Watching your parents get old is something you are forced to do, but I can choose to remember a younger version of Willie Nelson without being subject to personally see him wither. I am grateful for being able to witness one of my hero's so many times under better conditions.

To President Barack Obama: I am excited about where we are going!

To Willie Nelson: I am endowed to you for where we have been!

Don't Do It!

Here now I reveal some restaurant subject matter that is the topic of many fury laden tyraids around the proverbial water cooler behind the scenes (or the service station as it were).

"Table 62 just gave me the verbal tip, and then ordered 3 fuckin' hot teas!"

Let's break it down.
The "verbal tip" is the kiss of death for any server anywhere on the globe. The meal is almost done, the server is in "go" mode making sure that the final minutes before you enter the gratuity are amazingly memorable, despite the fact your steak was undercooked, or your favorite table wasn't available. Then it happens-The patron touches the servers arm and says, "You were a fantastic server, thank you so much".

AAHHHH! The server never even saw it coming. This is the verbal tip. As soon as the bill is laid, and the verbal tip applied, the actual tip is scribbled in....10%. Most verbal tippers actually think that the compliment translates to cash!

"Thank you so much for the kind words, I'll just put them here in my self addressed stamped envelope and mail them to my land lord. I'm sure he'll think that's more than adequate for this months rent".....Don't Do It! Let your monetary tip be the compliment. We appreciate it more.

Secondly-Hot Tea

Unless you are dining at an Chinese food establishment, hot tea is the worst item you can order, and will evoke eye rolls and shit talk.
Hot tea takes 7 steps to complete for just one order-Cup & saucer (I'm even counting this as one), hot water tea pot, sugar, cream, spoon, and lemon, all balanced precariously atop a bulky-non server friendly tea box. All for a staggering $2.00. Add to the fact that because of all the steps, the busboy won't even get it for you, just boils down to...your screwed. (note: you will never find any person that has ever worked food and beverage fine dining, order a tea for themselves when dining out...ever~and if they do..refer to earlier blog "You Do, or You Don't".)
Nothing throws a tempo off of a busy server than a hot tea order, so...Don't Do It!

Lets re-cap. Hot tea in Chinese restaurant...good! Hot tea in any other restaurant....C'mon man, whats wrong with coffee? My busboy will get that!
And, I don't care if I do remind you of your son, or you acknowledge that I'm really good at what I do-Translate that into dollars and scribble it on your bill. Words don't pay bills!

Class Dismissed

A (Thank God Not Gruesome) Reminder

Every Wednesday I can be found at the Martinez Gun Club, shooting trap and eating a meal with my dad and some friends.
This routine has become just that, until last night.
It becomes easy to get complacent when the same methodic steps are followed for a continual amount of time, however; when it comes to something as potentially dangerous as shooting, an eye opener can be quite startling.

I have a Remington 1187 12 gauge automatic shotgun. I step to the shooting position, muzzle pointed up, wait for my turn, put the shell in the auto chamber, push the release on on the chamber that loads the shell, point out to the trap house, yell "pull", aim and shoot. But something went wrong last night.
When I pushed the release on the chamber the gun went off. It auto fired 4 steps too early and while my gun was pointed straight up in the air. I thought I prematurely pulled the trigger which shocked and scared those that I was shooting with. This is a major mistake. I apologized profusely. We took a couple of deep breaths collectively and went back to business at hand. With shaky composure, I began my routine again. wait, load, push....BANG! It happened again.
"I'm done." I was too startled to continue.
Later thinking that it might be the shells I was using, I opened a fresh box. Went to the closest range with nobody at it, loaded, pushed...BANG!
Just thinking what could have happened if my muzzle wasn't pointed up, and remembering seeing people ignoring this shooters rule in the past, shook me to the core. I could have killed someone.
Turns out my firing pin is broken and the gun is unsafe until I get it fixed, but let this be a reminder to anybody that shoots anything. Anything that can go wrong will, so muzzles up everybody!

Jumping The Shark

This delightful colloquialism was introduced to me by my friend and fellow blogger James, and I feel that it should be spread to those who are unaware of it's existence. For those of you that have been previously introduced to this term, please refrain from muttering "geeez Toby, get with it", I'm here now and that's all that matters.

side note: James is a talented writer with a very entertaining blogspot with many videos in which to pass the time with. Check out Star Wars over SF. http://brainrageblog.blogspot.com/

Back to matters at hand. "Jumping the Shark" is a term that refers to a television show that has just bled the creative tanks dry and are scraping the bottom hoping to hold onto the once cash cow that now produces no milk.

The best part about this widely understood metaphor is the origin. This refers to the September 20th 1977 episode of Happy Days where the writers had Aurthur Fonzarelli donning powder blue swim trunks, a bright yellow life belt, and of course his trademark leather jacket, water ski jump over a caged shark. With Richie behind the wheel, and nare a hair out of place, The Fonz successfully jumped into television terminology lore and shortly thereafter the Happy Days were no more.

As sad as it was to say goodbye to all of the gang from Al's, the legacy continues as benchmark for doomed television shows.

It should be noted that in light of the latest Indiana Jones debacle, the term "Jumping the Shark" can be comfortably interchanged with "Nuking the Fridge".

Knowledge is power!

The Biz-She Can Be Fickle

As stated the Holiday season has come and is slowly going in the restaurant. This is a period in time that is greatly anticipated, enjoyed manically, then revered in the proverbial stages of it's lifeline. However; the phenomenon that lies in the wake never ceases to amaze me.

The holidays are what I like to call our Harvest Season. That is to say that we open our doors to the throngs of steak hungry patrons and their visiting families and collect revenue, tips, and profit so much like the gathering of acorns, in which we stuff our trunks for the leaner summer months that are sure to arrive just as the holidays did.

But do people prepare....NOOOO! And that's when I get thrusted the role of Gargamel with the added bonus of being a soundboard for the frustrated.

This is not the job description I had in mind.

A Message: You were told that you would be making money hand over fist for just a few months of the year like no other...It is not nearly my fault you have nothing to show for it already.

An Absurdity: You also you knew that the once bountiful 5-6 shifts a week were going to go back to the allotted 3-4 when the restaurant slowed down...So please stop asking me if you are being punished. That's Absurd

A Truth: We are still packing them in, just not turning their tables, therefore; the opportunity to make ample cash is dangling in front of your disgruntled/broke noses like a carrot..GRAB IT!

A Perspective: At this time in history, we are all extremely fortunate to have a place to earn money on a daily basis. Make the most of it!

An Ending: I truly care for everybody that I have the privilege to work with, but sometimes...just sometimes, I would like nothing more than to give them all a collective viking funeral....even if they aren't all quite dead, just yet.

According to Joe-part 2

My little brother is not without his quirks, as discussed in part 1. And in the fashion of Joe-he has offered yet another little tid-bit into his rational.

Joe left his cell phone at my parents house last Sunday, only to be discovered the next morning.
Knowing how absolutely helpless we all feel when without our communication devices, I thought it would be nice if I brought it to work with me so he could pick it up there on his lunch break, considering how the abbreviated distance to my restaurant and his office as opposed to mom and dads place and his office is exponential.

I called him at 9:30 am with the "phew, that would be great, news", but was immediately thwarted.
"Are you going to be there at 5:30?" He said. "Yeah. but why don't you come down at lunch and Ill feed you in the process." I made sense of the situation.
"Because dude, you work at a fully stocked bar. I can't start drinking at noon. Ill see you at 5:30".

Now that's Self-Control!

"Your The Coolest Boss Ever!"

This comment was said to me after an employee heard me telling another employee on the phone to enjoy her family and extend her holiday another day. "Don't worry about your shift, I can get it covered. Family is what matters this time of year". Truth is, we really weren't going to be that busy and I might have called her off anyway. Could this quick comment be just that.."quick" and then possibly forgotten? Not for this over analytical mind the occupies the lump three feet above my ass.

"Your the coolest boss ever" set me to hours of dissection.

What does that mean? Is it a compliment? It sounded like one, but are bosses supposed to be cool?...and so on and so on.

"Your the coolest boss ever" is your typical example of a work space fallacy. Example: double edge sword, slippery slope, half truths, straw men, etc.

While certainly not intended to be so critical by the server who implied my coolness, one cant help but to use this innocent comment as a detailed snap shot of my managerial skills.
Do I think that my boss is cool?
I think he is a great, brilliant man that posses the knowledge and patience to teach me how to bring my level of the game up a peg, but certainly not the "coolest".
Does that mean that ergo-I should not strive to be the "coolest" and concentrate on being more like him?
While I love that my staff seem to enjoy me being around and the feeling is certainly mutual, the title "coolest" could serve as the albatross around my neck, and it becomes very hard to govern with a dead bird as a scarf.

I suppose part of me wishes she had said "Your the most intelligent, witty, level headed, authoritative, and respected boss ever", because that is the kind of sentence that just rolls off the tongue freely, right?

So many questions from this small and topical complimentary sentence. After all, I want to be a positive energy kind of leader for those that support the same cause as I do because you are only ever as good as those around you. And if coolness is a step of achievement on the ladder to a successful career, then I emphatically embrace my new title "coolest".

But wait-maybe I am over thinking this thing just a bit.

From The Ashes Rise a Blogger?

Writers block is bizzare untamed animal that I have been stricken with for far too long. Like a fire, it consumes and destroys the longer you avoid fighting it. So in my uninspired mind, and my desperation to wake that which has become dormant, I have decided to start this new year by writing about not being able to write.
I have not been with lack of inspiring tails to regale you with; quite the contrary. As of 11 hours and 19 minutes ago, I successfully made it through the holiday season in a VERY busy, upscale restaurant. (a slow restaurant can provide for pages of fanfare). I have seen the items that are blog worthy unfold before me and pass my dormant fingers with almost a snicker. I have reflected on these events in the ponderous time of my morning cigarette and coffee and mentally narrated the content, and I have passed the computer and shied away without even sitting as if to say "another day my unused friend...another day."
But the problem is that these blog worthy events come fast and many (perhaps too many to sort through), and my internal narration that was once in the tone of Anthony Bourdaine now sounds more like Rachel Ray, and the passiveness that I offer the computer is fear that I can't do it. STOP LAUGHING AT ME MOUSE!
So make no mistake about it, writers block is an affliction, with no medication but to dive right back into what you enjoy doing the most and re assume ownership.

I only hope that this therapeutic Drano-esc exercise unblocks me like a bran muffin and I begin to hemorrhage the observations that I am privy too on a daily basis, clearly and concisely enough too fulfill my only healthy vice.

Here's to a prosperous 2009 for everybody!