A scene in a restaurant left me shocked. This “deffo” happened to me

Bad Customers, House Wine, and Friday Nights Are a Bad Combination

Sometimes you do what you gotta do

In almost 35 years in the restaurant game, I have thrown two customers (Tables) out of my restaurants. Both were in the UK and both happened within a month of each other.

The die was cast

The grapevine, jungle drums, and folklore did the rest. I gained an instant reputation as an arrogant prick amongst a particular subset of my local customer base … those who waited until the last minute to get a table, could not get in, and immediately used the fact I had ejected customers, as part of the reason that I was an arrogant prick.

Too full for my boots to let the “locals” that had made me a success in to get a table. You know the type. You may even be that type.

At best, I am a slovenly prick.

Arrogant suggests purpose, and an upright posture. Zest. Zeal. Zucchini … I am none of those things.

I had in fact designated 2 x tables for walk-ins and locals, at great cost to my revenue stream.

But these plonkers were forever (now) tasked with trying to piss me off. It was not a lot of people. But it only takes one to get under your skin.

My managers also forbade me from fraternising with customers until I had been cleared of rabies.

In truth, I hate the customers anyway. And people who breathe.

How do you tell Maude from Skegness, that she’s talking bullshit when she says her Cod is not cod because it has a bone in it.

Without saying she is a dumb bitch and talking bullshit.

Exactly. You cannot.

I suggested to her, to not waste the bone and rather choke on it, so she doesn’t waste any more oxygen, which could be given to normally aspirated decent people, with functioning brains. And that if she can find me a species of cod in the ocean, sans bones, I personally will give her her first sexual orgasm, and 1 million quid a year in profits in perpetuity.

I did kick my fish prep guy up the arse. It should not have happened. Maude came regularly from that day on. I think she was a deviant who enjoyed the (rough) attention.

Anyway, as folklore does, the story gathered momentum.

Those two incidents were repeated to every staff member who joined our merry band of restauranteurs from that day forth, within 37 seconds of them being hired.

Within 6 months, the story went, that I had physically picked up the three men, with one arm, while simultaneously shagging the three wives, making all three cum simultaneously … twice, with just my one cock and a large crustacean called “Roger”. And then hurled them out the door, whereby they vaporised in an ocean of body fluids.

The moral of that story is, most restaurant stories are 10% fact and 90% suet fat. But in any event, I was barred from walking out from behind the stoves and into the dining area, if shit was going down.

Being as how I am a shy and reserved chap, a loner, I was as happy as Roger the Crustacean whose claw smelled of fish for an entirely different reason for once.

I owned 76% of the restaurant, and I’d given a combined 24% to my FOH manager and Head Chef. I say given, but they’d earned it. Really earned it.

Joseph (FOH) had been with me for 7 years and John (Head Chef) for 3 years, which once John was fully trained, made me the Chef Patron and a clipboard-carrying pain in the arse. I took clipboarding extremely seriously.

They were awesome. But I, apparently, had grown a “bit too big for my boots.” According to my wife.

There is nothing quite like a confident wife who knows the value of a va-jay-jay, to take you down a peg or two.

Joseph took all orders because we operated with fresh fish in small quantities — called ‘day boat fish’, and did a set number of specials. They could change from one table order to the next. Depending on popularity.

Trying to bring every server up to speed, if they took orders, when they didn’t know Turbot from Tilapia, was daunting. I canned that idea as quickly as the idea hatched.

Rule 1: The FOH manager takes all orders. In time we trained an assistant FOH manager, and mostly, that worked.

Except when you had 4 portions of wild Cajun Scottish salmon fillet on crushed Parmesan & Parsley New potatoes with a Noord-See brown shrimp creme brûlé and creamed spinach that everybody wanted, and both managed to sell the 4 portions left, to 2 x four tops, at the same time. So 8 portions.

The only way I could fill that order, at 8:30 pm, was to quickly fly by helicopter to the River Tweed with my snorkeling gear already on, a fishing rod, and a fucking big night light.

Rule 2: To counter this, if everybody at one table wants the same special – shoot 3 of them stone dead. And chuck a pan of fricasseed fava beans on the table, and a nice bottle of Chianti, and shout, “Come and get it.”

Or … fucking communicate. It’s a bloody small room.

If you can’t make another special sound amazing, and sell someone a different special – then you’re not worthy of shagging “SS Sally.”

She was called SS Sally for two reasons:

She was a human ship.

Getting around her in a compact kitchen required ‘side thrusters’ and 3 deep water tugboats. The SS stood for ‘slow’ and ‘syphilis’. Sally was her name.

The syphilis part was a bit unfair. She could not have had syphilis ‘cause she had shagged every member of the kitchen team, and most of the male waiters. And they caught nothing.

But it worked great with the ‘S’ alliteration, lovingly given to her by Kirk from NZ. My sous chef.

Now one thing needs understanding before the PC police come and nail my arse to the cross. Everyone gets a nickname at some point in a busy restaurant kitchen. And the worse it is, the more popular you are.

And (B), I am just a messenger.

Sally was large. But she gave as good as she got, and she was a dear and loved member of the staff. But a nightmare on a busy night if you needed to get somewhere fast.

She was large enough to earn the butt of that joke –

She was so large, if you wanted sex, you had to roll her in flour and look for the wet spot!

You know the one.

She was rolled in flour most evenings and loved it. She “de-virginised” many a young 19-year-old male waiter on his maiden cruise.

Now as it’s a restaurant, and we don’t have enough shit to deal with. The chefs – that’s John and myself, would try and make the specials with the fewest possible portions, the most spectacular.

And then bitch at the managers because they couldn’t “sell for shit”, when they brought orders with every customer ordering that special, instead of something else.

Why didn’t we just buy more of that product, you ask?

Who doesn’t like a bit of competition and needle at work?

You know the story. The bowlers always think they could bat better than the batsmen did. Until they are called out. And go out for a duck.

We did 2 main and 2 starter specials, and at least one whole fish. Something like wild seabass. Or a whole grilled baby turbot. Dover Sole. Always something special.

The whole fish could not be filleted.

We did not have the time or space to do it.

But we always had 4 or 5 filleted fish available for the regular menu anyway.

60% of our sales were daily specials. On weekends it was almost bumping 75%. We worked fucking hard to produce exceptional specials.

It was Friday. I hate Fridays. Everybody is sleeping in tomorrow and so, leave the restaurant pissed, and late.

Saturday mornings were Billingsgate mornings. I hated Saturday mornings. I hate getting up early. I hate Billingsgate. It was the biggest fish market in the world. I hated it until I got there, and had woken up. Then I loved it.

Saturday was a 4 am start and you had to be on your game to get anything decent for the weekend, and Monday. If you’re not inside Billingsgate ready to rock when the sales bell goes at 5 am.

Tickets.

On Fridays, your last customers stumbled out of the restaurant at 1:00 … 1:30. Billingsgate is closed on Mondays. So the next available fish day, was Tuesday. You could not oversleep on Saturdays. Or you were fucked.

Joseph took the order at table 1 – table 1 was a 2 top. The man was a bit of a regular, and a lot of a prick. He lived in the town, and ate once a week, on Fridays, which to be honest was unusual.

Most of our weekend customers were from out of town. Specials were more expensive on weekends, the locals came on quieter, cheaper weeknights.

You know the type.

Millionaires.

Why spend 30 on the weekend, when you can get it on Monday for 20?

Joseph gave the specials, and dick-breath, then proceeded, as was his custom, after a year of coming and being refused, to try and change them. It was a weekly occurrence with him.

For the reasons noted above, we did not allow this. We couldn’t. The kitchen was the size of a Mini Cooper. And we had a ship in there. My kitchen staff was more choreographed than the Bolshoi Ballet. Just so they didn’t kill each other.

Except for SS Sally. But she had a ship’s horn – so it was okay. And she worked on desserts … there’s a surprise. Which was a little to one side and had its own cubbyhole. Let’s call that a golf cart. For visual referencing.

Sally worked in a golf cart inside a Mini Cooper.

Sally wasn’t fat because she ate a lot mind you, she had a “glandular” problem … and was “big boned”. That and the ability to hoover 82 desserts left over at the end of the evening, in as many seconds.

She did like a big bone though.

Although I was forbidden to talk to customers in moments of conflict, on this occasion, someone had left the gate open. And for a totally “other” reason, I was in a bit of a pissy mood.

Our kitchen was a ‘theatre kitchen’, visually open to customers. I could hear and see most of the ground floor dining area while working.

Yes, carrying a clipboard is work! So shaddup.

I walked around and told Ben, that was the customer’s name, to fuck up … and order as per the specials given, or fuck off. Ben was a tosser because he was a member of the “lucky sperm club” — Daddy had left him the gross domestic product of CHAD, the country, as an inheritance. Which already fucked me off.

Actually, that may have been the reason for being so pissy.

So Ben started behaving like a Chad.

And as we all know, anybody named Chad is a tosser.

Now it was a bit premadonna’ish. I’ll admit. But you have to understand, it was every Friday for 2 years that he tried to rearrange my menu. And he was a member of the lucky sperm club. He deserved it.

Every . Friday!

I do not mind if you want the sauce on the side, or no garlic. But I am not taking a designated fillet of fish, and replacing it with another fillet, that I now have to take off the bone. It takes far too much time.

Plus … I’d far rather use that time constructively arguing with Chad the Chump. It just makes me feel like I am achieving my time management goals, and all around, … just feel better.

The only thing I’d ever experienced that was similar, was in India.

I walked out of my hotel, in India, and bartered with an Indian slip of a man, for a taxi ride in a TUKTUK, to a friend’s restaurant, where I was gaining some knowledge of various Indian cooking techniques. After 4 wonderful hours of bartering with Mr. TUKTUK, … we arrived at an agreeable price.

He drove me, and I paid the man. A slip of a man.

The following morning, I exited the hotel and saw him. Having established a price, yesterday, I went straight to him.

Something internally made me check the price again, for the same destination. I began with:-

“Do you remember me?”

“Oh yes, sir, I remember you,” (head bobbling), and he announced the price for today’s trip, at the price we had started haggling from, yesterday.

“But we agreed a price yesterday,” I said.

“Yes sir, but that was yesterday, … sir.”

He said “sir” … the second time, and it had the outward ring of a term of endearment, but we both knew he was really saying, “Colonial rich cock.”

As the sun was setting over the Ganges, we arrived at the same ‘closing price’ as yesterday, and we left the taxi rank together.

The following morning I came out, and he saw me and waved. With his hand and his bobbling head. But I went to a different tuk-tuk driver – I’ll show slippery slip.

Do you know what the new tuk-tuk driver said?

“Sorry sir, I can’t take you. You are his (pointing at slippery slip) customer.”

None of them would take me. The entire taxi rank was one family. I was fucked. He managed to increase the fare slowly over the week I was there.

I began to love the little slip of a fucker. I definitely respected him.

Anyway, Ben wound his neck in and ordered. Or Chad, depending on whose side you are taking here.

Now, we have a process:

When the food is delivered, a waiter will ask if everything is ok, and that you have all that you thought you needed, or had ordered. Once you’ve taken a few mouthfuls, he asks again. This time it is to check that the food you ordered, tastes the way you’d hoped. And finally, the FOH manager will also check.

This way, if you suddenly start complaining, we can refer to the process. And say — we checked you were okay and you said yes. So fuck off.

And that is what most restaurants do. It’s an annoying intrusion, but now that you know why, perhaps you will understand and let it slide. There is a lot of give and take in the hospitality industry, and trust. There is not all that much a restaurant can do if the food is in your belly, and you kick off.

So we stick to the process to mitigate damage.

I told my FOH manager to ensure the process was strictly followed with Ben. I had a feeling. We had exchanged words, and he did not like that. He was also wealthy, and that sort.

A while later …

He and his wife were now into the third bottle of wine. And his false posh Eton accent had slipped down to East End slurring, along with his cravat, all the way to the floor.

They were practically shagging each other under the table. But as all the downstairs customers had left, I did not mind. It at least gave the floor staff who were polishing cutlery and preparing for Saturday, something to watch. Porn was only pay-per-view in those days.

It got to around 2 am, and I had had enough. The restaurant was empty, only his waiter was left, the front of house managers, and me. I presented the bill and asked him to finish up. We were closing.

I seldom do this.

It is a personal pet peeve of mine to shut before the stipulated time, or start clearing and refuse entry when the closing time has not passed. Or if you were in, to rush you out.

Closing time is up to the point in time, your last customer can enter and be fully served.

Alternatively say: Kitchen closes at 9 pm and the restaurant at 10 pm. Or words to that effect.

I closed at 10 pm. If a customer walked in at 9:55 pm, he was served as if he had walked in at 7 pm. They were paying big money, and I was happy to let customers enjoy the evening.

But this was different. He wanted a 4th bottle of wine, and they were really obnoxious. I refused him and said should I call a taxi.

He said, no, I have my car.

I looked at Joseph and he knew, no way was that happening.

And then it started. He threw the bill folder across the floor, told me the food was probably the shittest he had ever tasted and he had never been treated so badly.

He would not be paying.

I started to reason with him, explaining our “process”, but soon realised I was wasting my time. I walked over to the reception and called the police. Obviously he heard me. And being an upstanding gentleman, he decided to bolt. He and his wife gathered their things and quickly left the restaurant, very unsteadily.

Note: If you think you have been badly treated by a restaurant, in the UK, you can leave without paying. But you MUST write your actual address, and telephone number on the back of the bill before exiting the premises. That makes it a civil matter, and not criminal, (Theft). You can then have your day in Court if you are so possessed. I can say because of the process noted above, it is a tough thing to win if the process (above) is adhered to, and it is costly.

He did not do this.

Her breasts were showing. That is how bad it was. Both were slurring and she broke a heel and could hardly walk. I told my assistant manager to hold the fort, I told my manager to follow them and call me with details of where they were parked, and I got my car.

I drove up next to him and wedged him in. Within 20 minutes the police arrived and handcuffed me, my manager, and them … obviously. To the police, it was a drunken brawl.

30 minutes later, common sense prevailed, and we were released. But the police officer told me, that because they were behind the wheel, and the motor was running and the car had moved, it was drunk driving.

it was a little after 3.30 am when this ended. I had 30 minutes to get ready for my 4 AM drive from Buckinghamshire across London, to Billingsgate.

I fucken hate Fridays.

On Monday, my solicitor slapped them with my dining bill, damages, and legal costs. Normally I would write this sort of amount off. Chalk it up to experience. But this was Ben.

The silly bunt chose to defend it. In the end, his £ 280.00 bill (3 bottles of good wine), cost him £ 5 950.00. Excluding his legal bill. And the funniest thing was, the waiter had made a witness statement that he was a university student, and had waited until after 3 am to go home. Had missed his transport and had received no tip.

The Judge ordered Ben to pay 10% of the entire amount, to the waiter. He got a £ 595.00 “tip”. And Ben was barred from driving for 2 years.

I loved it.

A month later, my manager called me over laughing, and said, “You’re not going to believe this, it’s Ben. He wants a table at 8 PM for this coming Friday.”