Bitter beer face

You know that wretched feeling when you’re out enjoying a cocktail or leisurely chatting and noshing with friends and your server abruptly drops the check and runs? “Wait, I’m having more,” you either  mutter back or indicate with your pissed-off eyes.

I know I’ve done it to tables. At least, though, when I have it’s been late in the evening and I’ve been so desperate to catch the midnight Metro that I level with the customers and explain that they can stay; I just have to vamoose.

That’s apparently not how they roll at Gordon Biersch. Now don’t take this as a tongue-lashing about another D.C. brewery. To be honest, their seasonal Amber may be better than our standard one, and their second “happy hour” of the night from 10 to closing is, in my mind, a stroke of genius since it gives special treatment to late-night workers. However, I have to say that I am baffled by their practice of constantly slapping a check down on the table whenever a new round of something is ordered.

My friend Kamil and I went to Gordon Biersch last night after our shift. We had each ordered a beer while seated at  the bar when the bartender placed a cup in front of us with a paper check.

Uh, ok. We playfully ripped it up. I mean we came for a few drinks, lady, not to be shoved out the door after seven sips of our first beverages. Then it happened again afer we ordered our second beers and food was literally on the way.

“What the?” we both said, practically in unison.

So I asked the bartender why she was constantly trying to close us out more than an hour before closing. Her explanation was that the flow of checks was a policy the waitstaff had to follow. Apparently it was the managers’ way of checking that servers and bartenders were making everyone pay for everything they asked to consume. Oh and then she added this ditty: “Yeah, we try to keep the checks updated so they are the actual right checks at that time, but that’s not always the case.”

Wait, what? First off, what an enormous waste of paper, especially when the checks are possibly only correct! And secondly, how does that ensure that no staff members are hooking up their buddies? Who’s to say that our bartender couldn’t pour three shots of Jack Daniels, chug ‘em down with us, clear away the glasses and keep the shots off the paper trail?

If anyone can explain this twisted logic to me, there’s a Gordon Biersch Amber in it for you…or a Cap City one.

Ah, the joys of being a woman

In 30 years I can only hope that I’ll be half as adorable as my mom.

When Linda (I don’t actually call her this) and I spoke this morning she boasted about “good news she was meaning to tell me and (my sister) Mindi.” My first thought was some type of mother-daughter trip, but we’re not really the spa together type. What the update ended up boiling down to is that, at least for the foreseeable future, my boobs are in no danger of going anywhere.

Confused? Here’s a little background: When I was in college my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Fortunately she handled treatment incredibly well and has been cancer free for some time now. She only sees her oncologist once a year to ensure that everything checks out, and — knock on wood — so far so good.

My mom has also, in the process of her experience, become an expert on anything that is even remotely close to a risk factor for breast cancer. Some are scientifically unproven wive’s tales. But I guess there really is an established gene that predisposes Ashkenazi Jews to higher rates. At her most recent appointment my mom was being tested to see if she has said gene.

“Turns out I don’t,” she boastfully told me today.

If a mother is not so lucky, her daughters often endure genetic counseling and then in numerous cases have a breast or ovaries removed as a precaution.

“You don’t have to,” Linda continued. “Isn’t that good news?”

“Well, yes. But it’s so much good news as not bad news since I didn’t even know that was a possibility,” I told her, laughing. “I wasn’t exactly on pins and needles about this.”

“Yeah, well the doctor said a lot of times patients won’t even tell their daughters because it doesn’t change anything,” she explained.

My mom, though, knows that  the journalist in me needs to know even the stupidest pieces of news. How cute.

What a drag

I have found the cure to ongoing tension and fighting with my little sis, Mindi.

Scrambled eggs, sushi rolls and most of all sassy drag queen performances.

Mindi and I spent almost three hours at Perry’s this morning, where every Sunday a pack of drag queens perform to hungry, eager, outgoing brunch patrons as they sip on Mimosas and Bloody Marys. And, to put it simply (and probably ridiculously) it did two sisters good. This was the second time we have experienced a Perry’s Sunday. And just like last time it was a lovefest.

Literally up until walking into Perry’s we were at each other’s throats or silently angry with each other. Then we stepped in and the energy changed. I’m not kidding. You simply can’t be mad while stuffing a dollar bill down a drag queen’s bra. It’s physically impossible. As we sat at the bar, the sun peaked its head out of the clouds overpowering the snow that had fallen earlier.

“Thank god. The sun is coming out,” I said, doing my best Annie impression.

“Sweetie, you know why, don’t you?” a girl sitting beside me chirped back. “It’s the drag queens.”

I could not agree more.

There’s just something about seeing these untraditional ladies strut their stuff and stroke the uncomfortable few straight men onhand that equates with joy. Our favorite, Gigi, has the thickest figure of the drag queens (not that she is not fabulous in her very individual way) and tends to wear the least clothing. Pasties just barely covering her nippes. Small silver skirts over her bootie and showcasing a lower back butterfly tattoo. Oh honey! Her routines are of the Britney Spears variety. Fun, flirty pop.

Then there’s the eldest drag queen, the mother hen who also serves as MC and mouthes ditties like “Fever.” Her mission is to get as many audience members as possible to say “Big black dick” into a mike, to embarrass the reluctant birthday girls and to make inappropriate cracks about Jesus and Barack Obama. Today she was very successful.

Mindi and I left Perry’s full of yummy food and with smiling mugs. Then I accidentally brushed my sister’s leg with my pocketbook as we walked down Calvert, and we were back to our normal reality of bickering.

Drag queens, why can’t you be around forever?

Out of touch

There was an accident at work yesterday which broke my streak of going 6 months without dropping trays, drinks, food or any inanimate objects.

I will forever contend that Shawn the bartender (Don’t you enjoy how I wrote that as if he’s Joe the Plumber) was at fault. There I was minding my own business with two tall glasses of ice water on my tray neatly sitting atop the bar. Everything was hunky dory until Shawn’s muttering of “watch out” or “let me through” to signal he wanted out of the bar area but not to have to limbo his tall frame out.

I started to lift said tray. As I did he lifted the bar exit door panel thingy – but he did so just a few seconds too soon. The glasses went flying and ice and water covered me.

Now I realize that you might think you’re seeing a pattern of me falling or being covered. That’s just not true, Matlock. The spill would have been a small deal. However my cell was in my apron. It may as well have gone through a car wash for how drenched it emerged from the incident.

Since then it’s been touch and go. With the phone, I mean. First it let me send and receive texts and not function as, well, a phone. Then it allowed me to pick up calls, only to not be able to hear the person on the other end. This little discovery resulted in a one-sided phone conversation with my dad where I screamed into the phone. “I can’t hear you. My phone got wet at work. I’m assuming you can hear me. Everything’s fine. Did you get that? Everything’s fine. I just can’t hear you.” Then I hung up to try to dry the SIM card in rice as directed by co-workers.

Poor Paul is probably still wondering where I am.

Today the pathetic cell has gone dark. I’m en route to T Mobile for some professional help.

Here’s my desperate plea. Pray for the senseless victim here, my phone. I’m lost without it.

Dog collars and fisting and slaves, oh my!

Christmas came early this year.

I don’t mean Jolly Old Saint Nick or stockings (unless you count fish net). But there was some ho ho hoing going  on for sure.

OK, enough teasing. The deal is that the Hyatt across the street from the brewery was hosting a swingers convention all weekend. So our customers were…uh…how to put this….insanely interesting on Saturday and Sunday. I should say that I don’t judge peoples’ sexual vices and turn-ons. I mean, I’m not into electrifying my lady parts down there (yes, there was a class on this at the convention) but more power to anyone who wants to give it a shot.

That being said, it was a freakfest. Maybe the typical image of people who engage in orgies and odd fetishes is that of hot and young experimenters. Nope. Not this group. The theme was Dark Odyssee so there seemed to be some sort of sci fi element to the event. Also I have to point out that most couples hovered around middle age — middle age in corsets and with harness indentations just the same, yet definitely middle aged. One of the kinkier servers of the bunch at one point got his hands on a schedule, so needless to say we were a giggly, red-faced staff trying to serve fish and chips to couples we knew were on their way to a session entitled “Tie -em up and fuck ‘em.” (also a real class name)

What we also learned is that swinger conventions must be pretty pricey to put on. In an effort to cover their costs the organizers charged somewhere around $50 a session or some pro-rated deal for the day or weekend. To ensure no freeloaders got in, they provided bracelets for people to wear as proof they paid. Purple, I learned from a chatty table, meant those participants who were willing to be videotaped, and red were the garden variety participants not wanting to be recorded.

During the two days these couples occuped our restaurants the bracelets worked like makeshift Scarlett letters, screaming out to anyone that knew the system, that they were swingers or at least swinger enthusiasts.

My favorite part of the weekend was watching colleagues — who, it should be noted, are far from prudes – covering  their faces in embarrassment at males customers with acrylic red nails and ladies with dog collars.

Don’t you love it when Christmas comes in February?!

The best bumpersticker eva!

My friend Kathleen had an odd sighting yesterday. She was driving to work, she told me over gchat, when she noticed that the car in front of her for most of the way had a simple bumper sticker I might enjoy: “The Dena.” That’s all it said, Kathleen explained.

I wonder if it’s someone who shares my name and the spelling and is so proud of that? It would be hilarious if they called themselves The Dena, as if Dena should be replaced by queen. My imagination, as you might guess, went crazy and I sat and chuckled as someone who could never find name goodies with my name on it.

Then I did some quick net research. Allow me to direct you to thedena.com. It’s a site where some guy named Mark Keshishian (yeah, his real name) who owns an oriental rug company sells tees and sweatshirt displaying his unbelievable pride for Pasadena. Immediately my assumption was that his pride was for the home of the Tournament of Roses. Not so much. There’s actually a Pasadena in Anne Arundel County that holds the distinction of possessing the most sizeable plot of undeveloped land between Baltimore and Annapolis. A whopping 12,000 people live in this magical land, presumably inculding Mr. Keyshishian.

So if you want a bumper sticker or a work shirt that declares “You’re in the Dena,” there you go.

Superstar of the week

Today I am premiering a feature I hope to keep up with weekly — my award for the most memorable customer I serve at the brewery during that 7-day span. I have always said that working in the restaurant biz for me at this juncture in life helps with money, sure. But it’s also character study. Situated in the middle of downtown DC and specializing in brews, Cap City — lucky for me — attracts stuffy business travelers, Italian men who  kiss your hand yet stiff you in the tip department, kids from Oklahoma in town to sing at the Kennedy Center and ready to belt out high notes for others. You get the idea.

This week was tough to select customer numero uno. Runner up definitely goes to my homeboy who was so high on what I can only assume was crack that he inhaled a steak in two minutes flat and then fell asleep in the booth while his special lady friend scarfed down wings seated beside him. Aah, and they say romance is dead. I had to crazily keep taking items off the table to wake him up long enough to pay.

Alas, there was another male customer who beat out Mr. Crackhead Narcoleptic. This gentleman was probably about 55 or 60 years old and here on business with three other friends. The group made up my best demographic in terms of customers — middle aged males who say mildly inappropriate things but are basically harmless and reward me monetarily for putting up with their cracks. Anyway, when the meal was finished the ring leader of the bunch launched into a business pitch. “You seem really smart and kind,” he said to begin buttering me up.

Then it was on. He left to head back to his hotel room and bring back the product they were here to promote: Mona Vie.”You have to try it,” he bragged. The bottle looked like it would hold some great Pinot Noir so naturally I was thrilled. Instead, it was a juice blend with 19 different fruits like acai berry, lychee and aronia berries (yeah, I don’t know either). The brochure my customer handed me touted “the all-important anti-oxidants” and “fabulous fruits” that set this juice apart. I took a small sip out of view of the managers who would likely assume I was drinking on the job. The Mona Vie had, as I remarked, the thickness of a face mask. I later learned that you can either drink the concoction or put it on your face, which I suppose made my initial reaction dead on.

“So where can I get this stuff?” I asked, trying to be polite. That’s when I learned the catch. “Well, you would have to get it through me. We don’t sell in any store. And we’re always recruiting people to sell this great juice as well.”

Wow. I always love how people explain pyramid schemes. It’s an opportunity. You barely have to do anything and the money rolls in. Riiight.

I actually have had my fair share (scratch that — make it my fair share and others’) of friends and virtual strangers asking me to jump on the pyramid bandwagon. My first experience was in high school when Cutco recruited me to sell knives door to door. I remember being so flattered that I was considered charismatic and talented enough to cut leather in an effort to sell wood locks of cutlery. What a sucker I was. The worst part is Cutco makes you believe that you’ll be selling to strangers, which is definitely an easier pill to swallow. Then after you’ve endured hours of training, they subtlely slip in the critical information that you have to generate customers from your inner circle. “I am not letting you sell to my friends” was my mom’s very quick refusal to participate. The Cutco dream died right there.

Then in college my boyfriend Chip became obsessed with Quickstar, which I still don’t really understand as a company. All I know is I would have had to get my friends to forego shopping for basic toiletries at places like CVS and Target and instead order through me. It was ludicrous…to me, not so much Chip. He may still be involved for all I know.

Needless to say, I will not be Mona Vie’s newest salesgirl. I’m sure, though, that if anyone wants to be I can hook you up.

Field trippin’

a you-know-where state of mind

My apologies right off the bat. Blogging absolutely took a back seat to traveling and living this past week.

I got the chance to escape Washington and head to the Big Apple for a journalism fellowship. That I don’t apologize for. D.C. feels like home these days but New York is — simply put — the ultimate city. Walking around, whether it’s in Midtown Manhattan or the bowels of Brooklyn the energy takes over you. I only wish I could say the same for the nation’s capital. It’s why I may live here but I always assume I’ll end up there.

I’ve always found too, that New Yorkers get a bum rap. Two cases in point from my week in The City:

It’s safe to say that the long days of the conferences I had to attend made me sicker than when I arrived. By day three my cough had taken over and I sounded like a life-long smoker with a hole in her throat from which to get her daily niccotine fix. So I laid low and got a bite to eat at a nearby diner before retiring to bed. I was very reserved at the diner, only speaking to my waiter. Still, a 50-year-old man two tables over stopped in front of me as he made his exit. “Darling, I really hope that you feel better,” he told me, with a big grin. Such sweetness I did not expect.

Then two days later waiting for “Slumdog Millionaire” to begin inside a Columbus Circle movie theatre that kept me warm from the ice, I made an unexpected friend. A young lady came in, looked around, baffled that she didn’t have a private room on the middle of a work day. “Oh, are you unemployed or something?” she asked me, though more curiously than rudely. Turns out we’re both freelancers, just trying to keep it together. When our conversation was said and done I had a new professional buddy with new contacts I could use and hopes that we could keep in touch.

Proof once again that The City never disappoints.