The Epic, Part One: Tex Mex

For a brief time while I lived in New Orleans I was a waiter in a Tex-Mex restaurant. It was the sort of corporate affair that lived in a world of bright teal, baby blue and various other combinations that might immediately bring to mind the word "Pueblo". (Say it to yourself. Pueblo. Feels good, doesn't it? It's a pleasant word.) It was garbage in terms of authenticity. I'll save you the trouble of having to read a bad analogy about authenticity. Just understand that the place was very un-authentic. We'll call the restaurant "El cuero". The corporation that owned it gave it a name that must have been the Spanish equivalent to to "Zingers!" or Chuckles!".

El cuero had to have been part of a corporation because the general manager was the type of person you might find described in the dictionary under "Bitchopotomus” or "Bitch Mite". Either of these creatures may be defined as the sort of heartless shell left over when you take a middle-aged woman and beat the hopefulness and happiness out of her with a club comprised of a material made from a lifetime of disappointment, bad relationships, missed opportunities, hard lessons and alcohol. Her species is native to corporate climes. I don't feel the word "thrive" is appropriate, but I can only imagine her and her lot are strengthened by the unnaturally harsh environment only a corporation or an abusive marriage could provide. Kind of the same way crying children and sweet, lovable, cookie-making, afghan-wearing grannies are used to fuel reality television.

It is important to note that it is not common for me to use terms that imply gender, race, religious affiliation, etc. Using common terms like bitch often imply that whatever fault you are pointing out is due to some other characteristic, such as a person’s being female. If a white male is an rude, we call him an asshole. If a white female is rude, we call her a bitch, thus implying that her being rude was because she was female. I’m sure you can think of some other examples of this type of behavior. I’m making an exception in this case. My GM had a way of being rude, dismissive or any other activity that may make you want to call someone a name while at the same time giving you a look that assured you, without any trace of doubt, that she knew you had a small penis.

It was in her eyes. It was a whisper. It was something written on the inside of a matchbook and silently laid next to you at a bar. you have a small penis. “How long does it take to pour iced tea?” you have a small penis. “Why can’t you seem to get a single dish completely clean?” you have a small penis. “Tuck in your shirt and zip up your pants, your small penis is hanging out.” you have a small penis. I would often see a freshly chastised waiter or cook subconsciously cover his groin as she goose-stepped her way to a new victim. It’s not the type of feeling men tend to leave other men with, thus the gender specific insult.

Women were spared this rather specific assault. They actually endured something much worse. Women were forced to accept another thought: “I was once like you. You will become me.”

Seriously, that bitch was an asshole.

Actually, she wasn’t that bad and she isn’t someone who occupies a great space in my memory. She is only an example, a caricature of several people I have met who shared this programming. For all of the bad things I have to say about her, she probably just needed to get laid and cry about it for a month or two. A mild nervous breakdown might have served as a….i can’t think of the word. Rather than fake it I will write a description of the term in capital letters and you can imagine a robot saying it. Someone who figures out what I’m looking for can report it to me and feel superior.

A mild nervous breakdown might have served as a “ACTION THAT HAS THE EFFECT OF RELIEVING SOMEONE OF AN EMOTIONAL, PSYCHOLOGICAL OR PHYSICAL BURDEN. “

That’s all I really have to say about my old boss. The story will take another direction from here. I feel it is important to leave you with a few more details about my experience at the tex-mex joint:

1.      We served at least five different sauces. They were all identified as part of an entrée, and customers were encouraged to specify if they would enjoy a different sauce than the one we had planned to put on their food. There’s nothing special about this detail until you consider the fact that the sauces were not intuitively named. They had hipster names such as “El Ranchero!” or “El Jefe!” and regardless of your native language; they did not in any way indicate what a given sauce might taste like. Having hailed from the bible belt, I knew only two sauces; Nacho cheese and gravy. I had no need for other sauces. I liked my two sauces and my country boy palette felt no need to venture. When the occasional over-achiever of a patron would ask what a given sauce tasted like, I would pause, avoid eye contact and say “ummm……..Brown?...........Light brown?”

2.      I made very little money because I was a terrible waiter. Of the many skills one might desire in a competent waiter, I lacked the most essential ones; the ability to multi-task and the ability to lie to someone’s face. I had no moral objection to blaming the kitchen staff for someone’s food not having arrived in an hour and a half. I just sucked at the actual blaming part. Picturing this from a customer’s perspective I see a waiter delivering what is to be my fifth glass of tea when it appears that he is suddenly startled. He pauses, his eyes search frantically for something, maybe an exit. He rushes to the computer where orders are entered and after a pause, his shoulders slump. He disappears into the kitchen. My friends and I discuss what might be wrong and he re-emerges momentarily trailing a woman that makes smiling look angry. She apologizes on his behalf and departs. As he starts to take our order saying “Sorry, I thought you guys had left.” I notice that he is timid and keeps self-consciously crossing his legs.

3.      I worked with a man called “G”. He was a black man of medium height that possessed the type of build that suggested he was born and raised to punch body parts off of people. It was a known fact that he had killed at least three people and gotten away with at least two of the murders. He was both friendly and intimidating. He was patient and understanding and seemed to enjoy my company. I found this entertaining as I was the only white guy there who didn’t try to act black when talking to him. He was my favorite person there; he was also the one I trusted the most. He seemed like someone who had learned from his mistakes and valued honesty. Also, as evidenced by a wound to his right leg just above the kneecap, he is still the only person I’ve ever known that has actually been hit by a falling bullet. In the private little world I have created for my mind to live in, having known G fully qualifies me to make a rap album or, if need be, show some foolish young buck “How I roll.”

4.      Lastly, due to the fact that this was technically the second restaurant I worked at that had been inspired by Mexican food, I felt fully qualified to relate to Hispanic people. This despite the fact that I never worked with , or even served food to, a Hispanic person in either establishment.

Note: One of my followers (Awesome. Followers. Awesome.) reminded me of something. I actually walked out of this job on 9/11/01. Like everyone else, I had my face glued to a television watching the footage loop when my manager prodded me to get back to work. I honestly don't think she was being insensitive. I think she felt that it was important that we continue to do our jobs and not dwell when dwelling does no good. I turned in my apron and proudly walked out.



More to come...