“Dude, did you just see that shit on Eater?”
I was pretty fucking clueless considering my body decided to shut itself off for 4 hours prior to stumbling my way to work.
“No, what happened?” I thought for a second and then I knew what was coming.
“I think they shitcanned Steph.”
Feigning surprise, I could only respond, “wow, are you serious?” Considering Stephanie was coked out half the time, came in frequently with hangovers, couldn’t handle pressure, and looked to cock-tease every fucking chef there, I could honestly say that surprise was far from my first reaction.
Apparently there was really no reason to keep Stephanie around the front of house as a manager due to complete and utter incompetence.
“Eh, whatever” seemed the most appropriate response at the time from me.
James on the fish station flashes a deviant smile and starts to dig in, “aren’t you sad that your girl is leaving?”
“No and she’s definitely not my girl.”
30 minutes later Steph walks into the kitchen and her eyes are visibly red and swollen. I didn’t see her at work all weekend, so I had already thought something was wrong. She scurries to a couple of the chefs and coworkers, offers a hug and quickly waves goodbye. She doesn’t come my way and I don’t bother interrupting the prep for my lineup to see her out.
For the longest time in the kitchen, I had never bothered to make sense or concern myself with the dirty little details of the front of house. Suspicions aside, my ambitions in the kitchen never coincided with pointless desires of chasing/expelling demons with hard drugs. My preference was strictly rooted in liquid substance in the form of gin or bourbon.
For Stephanie, things were quite different. She had spent years in school and decided there wasn’t anything worthy of doing, so she started working herself into managerial roles in restaurants. Considering how young she was when she had begun working as a waitress, she was fairly impressionable to the whole bullshit rock and roll mentality.
How did I know all this shit about her?
Well, how it seems to work in this industry is that if you happen to spend enough time in one restaurant where both back and front of house drink together, you often find yourself in interesting and memorable situations. And so, that is exactly what Stephanie and I had shared – interesting, memorable and fucked up situations.
One of my personal favorite Stephanie stories occurred very early in our relationship after we seemingly became fast friends in the restaurant. And, we were primarily fast friends because I had every intention of getting into her pants and she had every intention of making me think it was possible. Of course, it only requires very simple understanding that these two directions would not end up in a savory result for either of us.
After service one night, she was very quiet at the corner of the bar and steadily swirled her fingers on her wine glass. Her friends were not responsive despite making loose plans to come by that night – though it seemed she was clearly distraught by something else that day. As the story unfolded later on, Stephanie apparently had broken up with her boyfriend a few days ago and needed distraction. So when she saw me approach the bar for a drink, she must have thought I was a shiny bowtied dick-in-a-box.
After spending the next 40 minutes washing down multiple Corazon shots with gin tonics, Stephanie starts spitting a ton of shit out. Amongst all her rambling and big talk, she sweetens up the conversation and without my provocation, promises to give me a public blowjob that night. When she says shit with her devious smile, you know you’re fucked (in a negative way). To some effect, my big brain knew that the night was going to end in shitshow status, but my little brain peaked at the thought of something so special.
Five minutes later, we ditch out of the restaurant and cabbed towards
My head is practically dizzy because she’s writhing around in her little dress, but the shitty House really gives me no chance to get her to dance a little closer. At least hip hop would have put her ass in my general vicinity. Double fuck. The music was so pointless and monotonous that I was actually praying that they would break into “Pour Some Sugar On Me” like they do at one of the douchebag
The night fast-forwards to the
Finally, we get to this nameless late night party and suddenly I begin to notice that she’s disappearing frequently to the bathroom – undoubtedly for a few bumps (of coke that is) to get her going. Why the fuck was I still there?
3:30 AM… why the fuck am I still there? The music is not only worse, but she’s dancing harder to it.
4:00 AM… why the fuck am I still there? I’ve now knocked down the only decent 6 pack in the refrigerator
because I hid it under my jacket.
4:30 AM… why the fuck am I still there? She’s still fucking going at it on the dance floor. How am I getting to work tomorrow? How the fuck is she?
At this point, I’m dead sober and dead tired. She’s tries to urge me to stay with the same conniving smile that started this night. But what she doesn’t know is that my little brain is tired from all the alcohol exiting the system and my big brain is tired of her bullshit.
… I’m in the restaurant after 5 hours of sleep and of course Steph is nowhere to be seen.
… Laurence, the floor manager pokes his head into the kitchen and I ask him if he’s seen her. To this he sarcastically says, “yea, she’s sick.” Figures.
When all is said and done, I admit that I was a little sad to see Steph get fired, but this isn't one of those stories about life's little lessons. If anything, she’s basically taught me three basic things, coke is good if you like to dance to shitty house music, public blowjobs happen to everyone but you, and fucking eater.com always gets their info quicker than you do.