The Hospitality Terrorist E-Book

Jason Aidan Smith

• Herausgeber: Inspiring Publishers / ASPG
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Jason Smith has been managing restaurants in Sydney for 25 years. His hard hitting tell all memoir takes you behind the scenes in hospitality from a waiter’s perspective. It includes all the secrets to running a good restaurant and dishes the dirt on what they all get up to when no one is looking, including the shenanigans. You will get an insight into the chefs, waiters, customers, tipping and everything you’ve always wanted to know.

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2020 (Jason Aidan Smith)

All rights reserved worldwide.

No part of this book can be stored, changed, sold, copied or transmitted in any form or by whatever means other than what is outlined in this book without the prior permission in writing of the person holding the copyright, except for the use of brief quotations and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publisher: Inspiring Publishers,P.O. Box 159, Calwell, ACT Australia 2905Email: [email protected]://www.inspiringpublishers.com

National Library of Australia The Prepublication Data Service

Author: Jason Aidan Smith

Title: The Hospitality Terrorist

Genre: Non-fiction

ISBN: 978-1-922327-29-1

Contents

1. The Hospitality Terrorist

2. Spain

3. Lock out Laws

4. Chefs

5. Waiters

6. Maitre D’

7. Food and Wine

8. Customers

9. Tipping

10. Turning Tables

11. Sex, Drugs and Deep House

12. Travel

13. The Worst Things I’ve Done

Epilogue: Upon Reflection

Chapter 1

The Hospitality Terrorist

Trying to clear my head from the pain and fog of a hangover, I slowly open my eyes.

“Where the fuck am I?”

I lie there in someone else’s bed, disoriented in a pair of someone else’s board shorts.

“What the fuck, arghh!” A sharp pain takes my breath away as I try to sit up.

“Fuck, cracked ribs. Where am I?”

Okay, had lunch with the wife and Stu, ran into that smoking hot Ukrainian girl from work. Being the utmost gentleman invited her back to Stu’s place with us. So I’m at Stu’s, probably in Captain Creepy’s bed that filthy animal, I’ll probably get fucking hepatitis or something. Thought shots would be a good idea, fucking shots. Naturally the wife bails, more shots in celebration. Oh yeah, thought a late night swim would be in order, hence the board shorts. Probably Captain Creepy’s and now I’m gonna get fucking AIDS as well! Remember looking forward to seeing Svetlana in her underwear, and that’s it. Fuck! Why did I have to black out then? Damn it!

Alright time to get up “Arghh fuck, fucking ribs!” Ohhh, blood in the bed, wonder if that’s mine. Ahhh feet all cut up, must be. What the hell happened last night?

No idea what time it is, I limp upstairs for more clues, only to be confronted with a kitchen floor full of broken glass and a massive hole in the wall. Right, Stu and I were wrestling again, which in itself is pretty dumb as he has eight inches on me, (shit that sounds a bit wrong), and about 30kgs.

Making my way into his room, I find him lying stark arsed naked, face down on his bed. There is a massive gash down his right buttock.

“Ha ha, sucked in, fucker!”

My clothes are on the floor. Maybe it’s best I don’t know what happened. I wonder when the Ukrainian left, and if she can keep her mouth shut at work. Fuck, its one o’clock I’ve gotta get to work! So I just leave. Stu can deal with the flat mates and aftermath: he is obviously taking a sickie. Jumping in a taxi on Oxford St I head to the Cross, where the wife and I live in a one bedroom apartment for $650 a week. Fucking Sydney! The wife, shit! She’s gonna be mad, luckily she works days and I work nights so I won’t see her till the weekend. Hopefully by then she’ll have calmed down. Ha ha, who am I kidding?

I ring my mate who is also my boss to call in sick, but I know we are short-staffed so there is no chance in hell.

“Guido?”

“Yeah Thomas, I just woke up in someone else’s bed in someone else’s clothes with cracked ribs”

“And a sore butt?”

“Not this time. Listen I need the night off?”

He just laughed and hung up, cunt! If it wasn’t for the ribs I’d be fine. Hangovers don’t bother me, or don’t bother me for long. It’s quite simple really, you drink half as much as you did the day before then half as much again the next day and eventually you sober up.

I shit, shower, shave, crack a bottle of red, then whack some chips in the oven. I peel onions and garlic, salt my T-bone, not pepper as it burns when you fry it. Yes I’m gonna fry it, I don’t have a BBQ and I want to make a garlic jus.

Yes I can cook, I’m a wog. That’s how I got the nickname Guido. My real name is Jason Smith. My mum’s maiden name is Pisani. That side of the family is from Malta, and lived in Egypt. Being British subjects they had to flee in the 1956/57 exodus or be killed. They signed over all their property to the government and fled to England. They didn’t last long there because of the appalling weather—after saving enough money they bought passage to Australia. Mum was 11 when they fled Egypt. My nana always hated the English because they lost everything after being told to hang in there by the officials, while the French bailed earlier with all their possessions.

Anyway mum was the middle one of three sisters—she married a Smith, the youngest married a Jones and the eldest was engaged to a Brown. If they hadn’t have broken up they would have gone from Pisani to Smith, Jones and Brown.

It serves me right I got the name Guido. It was still fairly racist in the 90s so I was always banging on how proud I was to be a wog. Chefs being chefs, they started calling me dago wog bastard, which eventually evolved into Guido. I wasn’t overcome with joy—surely it was a term of endearment—ha yeah right. It was only when we were out partying that I would crack the shits. “I told you, don’t call me fucking Guido in front of the ladies!” That was 25 years ago, and now most people I work with or who work in the restaurants I go to don’t know my real name.

I had already finished half a bottle of Cabernet when I served up lunch. T-bone medium rare, chips crunchy covered in jus, which were quite good despite coming from the supermarket. I couldn’t be arsed peeling potatoes—some mash would have done the trick.

“Fucking Italians” I thought, mentally preparing myself for work. I would do some more expletive filled mental exercises on the walk in. It was a brisk 20 minute walk which I usually quite enjoyed especially on the way home—well that could be more of a stagger. In fact I generally walk as I don’t drive. It’s not that I can’t, it’s just that I like to keep my blood alcohol levels at an average 0.08% for maximum performance, which precludes driving. It helps me tolerate the floor staff, placate the chefs and calm my murderous impulses while entertaining the customers.

We have shit tonnes of Italians working for us…no surprise it’s an Italian restaurant I guess. All fresh off the boat on their 457 visas. There’s no work in their country after the Global Financial Crisis. Worst decision ever to scrap the 457—where the fuck are we gonna get waiters from? We are already under supplied which means we have three fucktards for every one half decent waiter.

Gotta love the Italians! I love their passion for life and women, their food and wine:- such a beautiful country. I love the way they compare everything to fruit, vagina is fica (fig), homosexual is finochio (fennel) and black as in African is melanzane (eggplant) since they’re racist bastards. As employees though, they fucking suck. Well the men do—all thinking they are alpha males, up to the eyeballs with testosterone, and getting upset if you dare tell them what to do. It’s a noble profession in Italy, but wages are low so they’ve about five bloody waiters per table all daring each other to actually do some work. In Sydney, wages, rent and electricity are so high every waiter has at least five to seven tables in their section which they are expected to turn over. The guns have ten.

I had this one testa di cazzo the other night, va funculo, we were in the weeds (in the shit) and he was strutting in his section like a fucking peacock, preening his feathers, walking past empty glasses, which I can’t stand.

So I called him over: “Luco, table 27, position 4, does he need another glass of wine?”

“No!” You know how they say it, with sharp finality. “He’s fine.”

So he goes back to strutting and I walked over to the table. Now there can sometimes be a good reason for a soiled empty glass being on a table, especially if they’ve a bottle on the go. Normally it’s because the customer is being a dick! “

“No, no, I will pour my own wine, thank you very much”

“Naturally sir”: my favourite response when someone is being a dick, normally a male. “I will get you a fresh glass.” I do this so the dumbass waiters can see the glass is untainted and wouldn’t continually try to top up his wine—I mean, why on earth would you bother communicating with your colleagues to say “Table 27, position 4, don’t top up his wine.”

Anyway I digress. I walked up to the table, not wanting to hassle the gentleman in case Luco had actually done half his job and offered another glass only to be declined. Another pet hate and so annoying for the customer: again it is down to bad communication. Spread the word: “no more wine on 27.” It’s not applicable to fine dining of course, as you will have your own sommelier.

So I picked up the glass, shook it a little and raise one eyebrow. Well, I can’t physically raise one eyebrow but I’ve always wanted to. “Oh yes please,” the gentleman said. Translation: Thank God about fucking time!

So I ordered the wine and waited for Luco who was actually helping one of the girls clear a table. Naturally! On his way back to the kitchen I waved the glass in his face.

“27 did want another glass.”

“So what, stop busting my balls.”

“Dump those plates and get back here.” So the little fucker strutted over to the dish wash and, without scraping just threw them at the dish hand. Now these guys are all Nepalese and the hardest workers in the whole restaurant. They normally work two jobs, study and send all their pay home. So now I was furious, I grabbed him by the arm and walked him outside to the fire escape. No security cameras! I couldn’t fire him because we are already short two, but I vowed to as soon as I can. Instead I just calmly screamed and pointed my finger into his chest, saying something like: “Fucking, fucking little fucking entitled fucker! Now go home!”

“Can I have my staff beer?”

“No, go now before I fire you!” It was just water off a peacock’s back. Not quite sure how I was going to write this up in the management report later that night.

Remembering this now, I think: I’m getting too old for this shit! Time to retire the ‘hospitality terrorist’ (a self-appointed title earned after years of service), still haven’t fired the fucker, gotta find more staff first.

Okay I’m here now. Thomas is smirking as I wince while putting my suit on. I grab the bookings, run sheet and floor plan and head into the restaurant. First stop straight behind the bar to make myself a double espresso with a generous shot of rum. A perfect digestivo after my steak and wine party. Then I move onto the floor where the staff are resetting for dinner service. I change the floor plan the office girls have come up with so I can squeeze in a few extra tables taking note of regulars and their preferences. Then I run straight into Svetlana and her stunning blue eyes.

“Ahh Svetlana morning, how’d you pull up?”

“Afternoon… pull up?”

“Don’t worry, how are you?”

“Okay, you crazy man Guido.”

“Ahh yep, tell me, did we go swimming last night?”

“No pool closed.”

“Oh shame, maybe next time.” I go to the front desk to play around with the bookings some more. That wasn’t sexual harassment I don’t think. Who knows these days.

***

I haven’t always been either a hospitality terrorist or a functioning alcoholic. I acquired those skills over time. I grew up in a pub. No my parents weren’t pokie addicts, they owned one out Campbeltown way. Lovely area, rough as guts especially the day when the dole checks were cashed. There was no such thing as a bouncer back then, so all our barmen were six foot four and built like brick shit houses—they could fight like thrashing machines, which they did a lot, especially on the day dole checks were cashed. I was in love with all the barmaids and was behind the bar pulling beers by the age of 14. You could do that shit back then not like the nanny state we live in now! I was like their puppy dog and was almost deflowered at one Christmas party before my mum stepped in. Not that she actually stepped in, you sicko, but she put a stop to the shenanigans. I was far from impressed.

Eventually we bought a restaurant in Chatswood and called it Rosie O’Gradys. Our business partner’s idea, he was right into that American bullshit he even had a Sheila’s bar in North Sydney and New Orleans. Until our liquor licence came through we ran it illegally as a bar up to 3am. My sister, parents and I worked 100 plus hours a week running the joint. I was 20 and thought I was shit hot, with my long curly mullet and rock’n my shirt and tie for the ladies. On a Friday or Saturday night we could have up to 1000 patrons even though we were licensed for 300, but that was cool because on any given night we would have half the Chatswood police station in drinking, some of them off duty.

It’s where I discovered that not all cops were pigs. In fact they used to take my sister for joy rides in their cop cars. No, that is not a euphemism! It was pretty fucking awesome running around with impunity knowing they had your back. One time I was driving home after work at 5am stoned as all fuck. My mate was yelling at me to slow the fuck down, and I was screaming: “I’m going too fast I’m going too fast.”

“Well fucking slow down fucking slow down.”

“I’m going too fast I’m going too fast.” Then there is a knock on the window. Holy fuck! It’s a cop, so I wind down the window—yeah we used to do that back then.

“Pull over driver” he says. It’s Bob the Schlong, thank fuck! I’m parked with the handbrake on in the middle of the Roseville Bridge.

“Whatever you’ve been smoking you better hand over some of that shit.” He locks us in the paddy wagon, then drives us home, with his partner following in my car. I never asked my sister how he knew where we lived. Shame they all got sacked after the Wood royal commission. Fucking nanny state!

I did some pretty dumb things with that impunity. I was still living at home when one morning my father stormed into my room yelling: “How the fuck did you get home?” I had no recollection of the prior night, and now the freezing cold was permeating my hangover. For some reason my doona was on the floor. It was covered in vomit.

Dad grabbed a fist full of hair and dragged me out of bed.

“Ow! ow! ow!” He dragged me stark arsed naked out the front door. Our house is at the bottom of a short but very steep hill—it made reversing down it really tricky after I stole my parents’ car when they were away and I was aged 16. To the right of the driveway was a five foot cliff which I used to park above.

“How the fuck did you get home?” I looked up and my car was teetering off the cliff, and the mail box was smashed all over the lawn.

“I must have driven!” He didn’t see the humour in that statement of fact.

Rosie’s was a raging success, but despite the cops backing us up Dad and I were getting into more and more fights. We are only little blokes though he was a tough as nails footballer who played for South Sydney. It was inevitable that… we’d eventually lose one, so we took the cops’ advice and hired a security company. Funnily enough all the bouncers were off duty cops! All except Tiny, who was a six foot eight auto electrician. Strange career choice. “What do you want to be when you grow up Tiny? Basketball player?”

“Nope, auto electrician!”

As much as I loathe violence, I love fighting! Yep, super dumb male shit! I learned the value of a bouncer quick smart though, it’s why, when I get into trouble at a club, and the bouncers arrive I just put my hands up, and let them do as they please. Don’t even go there.

I was struggling with two fuckwits in the front bar when Tiny arrived. He grabbed each of them by the throat and lifted them into the air. I followed behind as he walked them to the door: “Silly, silly boys” he said as their feet dangled. I’ll never forget it, he ended up marrying my sister, the dirty birdy! I didn’t object!

Chapter 2

Spain

I spent the whole of my twenties working and travelling around the world. Rosie’s was pumping, and despite working 100 hours a week for $400, (family of slave drivers), I managed to save $15k. I guess food, alcohol and accommodation were part of my package. My parents bought me a one way ticket to London for my 21st so a mate and I bailed. We used to alternate calling home reverse charge every week—no mobile phones or Facebook back then, just a backpack and a camera with real film in it. I got the bug hard, and anytime I returned home it wasn’t long before I would get itchy feet, and go again; I must have some gypsy in me..

My first experience of European hospitality was in Spain, and I fell in love with it. The whole country has a vibrancy about it, and the women—oh my God, the women! I had never seen so many beautiful women in one place. Dark skin, big brown eyes, curly hair, caring and kind but they could go off like a firecracker. They spoke insanely fast and the way they pronounced my name, Jayyysson, was like music to my ears.

I had become close to a Spanish guy called Juan Carlos, when he worked for us at Rosie’s. Of course we used to call him Johnny. He was a good looking son of a bitch and the Aussie women swooned over him. He was opening up a restaurant and beach bar in the South of Spain for the summer, in a place called Sotogrande, not too far from Marbella. So my mate Jamie and I decided to work for him. The Spanish don’t eat until 10pm so we’d start work at the beach bar around then and stumble home about 8am.

When Johnny was in Oz he couldn’t believe we had glass washers with minimum temperatures of 80 degrees: in Spain we just rinsed them in the sink and made another drink. At home we had nip pourers on the bottles—we’d already banned lay backs—but here you just poured. Alcohol was so cheap, it didn’t matter. If you wanted to be a tight arsehole, you would put four fingers next to the 10oz tubular glass and if the whisky, which was all they drank, was an inch above that, well that was your official measurement. The rich English twats would be slaughtered by midnight and passed out on the beach, while the Spanish continued to drink in a civilised manner until 6 or 7 in the morning. The legal drinking age in Spain was 16, but you could buy it under-age if you were with your parents, or as soon as you were tall enough to put 100 pesetas into a vending machine. Yep they had vending machines selling beer in service stations. I fucking love that country, probably why I’m so jaded with our ridiculous laws in Sydney.

The other thing I loved was that if someone bought three or four drinks over the course of the night, you were expected to give them one in return. That’s real hospitality: I learned the lesson well and that’s how I have always managed restaurants from then on. It’s not enough to recognise people and know their drink. Regulars want to feel important, especially in front of their guests. By the end of the summer I was giving away a lot of free drinks to the ladies, but Johnny didn’t care, he was making a killing at six bucks a drink, which was the price of a bottle in a supermarket. All cash, no till, no record, no tax.

It was in Spain that I tried my first line of cocaine, and once again I fell in love. Everyone had it, so there was no sneaking off to the bathroom. You did it discreetly but more or less in the open. You gave people lines and they—you lines: it was only $40 a gram, and it was so pure it would last you three or four days—you only needed a small line every couple of hours to feel like a king.

Naturally when you feel like a king, you run with the bulls! In summer there was a fair every week somewhere in Spain, and you could run with the bulls, at a lot of them, not just Pamplona. So we would close the bar early around 4am, jacked up on whiskey and lines, and Johnny and I would head to the nearby fair at San Roque, where we could continue the debauchery while senoritas tried to teach me the Sevillana, a truly sexy dance from Andalucia.

It was not unusual for us to lose track of time which was possibly a reason Johnny’s girlfriend hated me so much, of course he wasn’t to blame.

So this one time we were herded out afterwards onto the street, which was now filled with guys, and a few girls.

“What the fuck’s going on?”

“We are running with the bulls.”

“We’re fucking what?”

“Running with the bulls Cabron, come on.”

“Holy fuck.” Sure enough at the top of the stone cobbled street, they were preparing to release half a dozen or more bulls.

“What do we do?”

“They’ve released them, come on fucking run!” Sure enough, people were starting to move as the bulls ran down the hill. That’s right—down a hill—yeah let them get up some momentum! We were in a flat part but I could see they would catch us, so I bolted. All the doorways and window ledges were already full of people who had planned their escape rather than stumbling onto the street at the last minute, high as a kite like the two of us.

As the bulls got closer there was an air of excitement and panic, as people started to jostle each other and scurry away. I had lost Johnny but I was having a ball, flying on adrenaline. A couple of them were near and one missed a corner, ploughing into a car making everyone laugh at the fucking moron who’d parked their car there. Up ahead was the bullring, so I headed there with a hundred odd blokes while the rest dispersed into the square. Once the danger of the bulls was gone I just followed everyone into the bullring.

To my surprise it was packed with about thirty thousand spectators, all wildly cheering, though there was no sign of Johnny. We were separated from the spectators by a fence, and most of the guys were finding spots along it.

“What going on?”

“Soon they release fresh bull.”

“In here?”

“Yes, here. Find place on fence, then when bull come, lift yourself up and bull go under.” Ha ha yeah right, that simple! I was still flying though so I decided to stay, the atmosphere was electrifying. There were about twenty or thirty people, mainly men still hanging around the centre of the ring, so I decided to stay with them.

Then a gate opened and a bull came charging out: this one wasn’t quite as docile as the ones we had just run with. Everyone in the middle scattered, while the bull chose its victims and chased. The guys being chased dodged and weaved sharply: the bull was fast but its turning circle was limited, so they got away easily. They had obviously done this before.

Next the bull focused on the people around the fence and charged:- those in its way pulled themselves up and the bull’s horns narrowly passed under their arses. That didn’t look pleasant to me: it felt safer in the middle where I could run. The bull again charged the people on the fence and under the weight of about thirty people the top part collapsed. They were the first victims of this spectacle, if you didn’t count the bull. People ran in from everywhere hounding the bull and distracting it so that it veered off its target and everyone scrambled to safety, with only minor injuries.

This seemed fun and quite easy, and the crowd was cheering. As the bull started to tire it was surrounded, with people running close by to try and provoke a charge, and upon occasion he complied. Then the gate opened again and another fresh bull bolted out.

Fucking Christ two bulls, it had just got a bit more interesting. The first bull was stirred out of its lethargy and then there was mayhem. Trying to keep my eyes on both, I watched as some guy running blindly away from the first bull, was run down and gored by the second. Again people swarmed in to intervene distracting the bull as the injured man bleeding badly was carried off by his companions.

Fuck me this was crazy—but the noise of the crowd and the high of the coke kept me running. When you were trying to avoid one, it was impossible to know where the other was so I went to the fence to take a breather. The first bull was just about spent and was again surrounded by young Spanish men—the second had also stopped but still had a bit of go in him.

I looked up into the crowd and took in the atmosphere. At that point, I was infused with temporary insanity. I started up a jog and ran straight for the second bull. As I got closer I slid onto my knees in the dirt ending up about five metres from the bulls face and horns, I wiggled my chest like a good old girl, yelling: “Come on!” The crowd erupted to their feet as one screaming “Ole ole!”

I felt like a fucking rock star—but then the bull charged. I sprang to my feet, turned and ran. I must have got about ten metres away before I suddenly slipped and crashed to the ground. I turned my head to watch my impending doom, when from out of nowhere a Spanish dude ran between the bull and I, smacking it in the face. “Ole ole.” The crowd screamed and the sound reverberated in my chest. “El Toro” followed the guy, luckily for me and I got to my feet and pumped my fists in the air like a fucking idiot.

Soon the second bull tired and I was drained: it was like a double come down, so I made for the exit, being patted on the back all the way. When I got to work at 10pm that night I had only told Jamie, who I was sharing an apartment with, but Johnny was in the crowd and bore witness.

“You insane motherfucker! From now on you are Kangaroo Loco. “Turns out a few people had seen my stupidity and it wasn’t long before Kanga Loco caught on.

Better than fucking Guido Sarducci at least!

***