A Case of Mistaken Identity

This is a story about the day that my mother robbed the bank down the street from the restaurant we used to own. Yes, you read that right. Who would have thought that a 4’11, 65-year-old women weighing in around 100 pounds could pull off such a feat without ever leaving her place of work? Well, let me tell you how it all went down.

On a super sunny, yet awfully chilly, Saturday afternoon in November we were doing what we always do before opening for dinner service – prep work. My mother was actually busy cleaning a leg of veal because the butcher didn’t have the cut of meat she wanted for delivery earlier in the week, so he had to special order it. Even though we had nothing to do with it, this setback made my mother rather angry and irritated with all of us, so my sister, HWSNBN, my Ex and I decided we’d let her be alone with her meat for a while.

As I was putting the liquor order away, I suddenly heard tires squealing like Vin Diesel and the rest of the Fast Five crew were tearing around a curve in the road. I look up and out the window across the way from where I was standing to see three police cars pull in fast and furious, alright. Two of them came right up to the front door, while the other car blocked the entrance to the parking lot.

My first thought was that they were coming for HWSNBN because he had just picked up some stuff from a couple of friends who are entrepreneurs of exotic plant sales, if you get my drift. My second thought was that maybe they found out what my sister had been up to lately (a story for another day). I had no time for a third thought because the cops started banging on the door.

Me: (holy crap!!!!!) Okay, everyone, just stay calm and act naturally.

Officer: Police, open up!

Me: (yelling out) Coming! Just a moment, please!

As I made my way to the door, my sister and my Ex went to stand around the corner where they could hear, but not be seen. Meanwhile, HWSNBN actually stayed with me, even though I thought that he was the one who should probably go hide.

Officer: (pounding on the door) Police! Open this door!

Me: (whispering) Sh*t, this is crazy.

HWSNBN: (whispering back) Yeah, but I think you better hurry up and open the door before they break it down.

Me: (taking a deep breath, and then slowly opening the door) Yes?

Officer: (entering with one of his fellow officers) Does a Mrs. B reside at this address?

Me: (my mother? WHAT???) Uh, well, yes… What do you want from her?

Officer: We have information pertaining to her and some illegal activities that occurred at a bank in a nearby village at 10am this morning.

Me: (hahahaha!! WHAT????) Did someone steal the $25 bucks she had in her account?

Officer: (dead pan serious) This is not a joke, Miss. This is a police investigation.

Me: (sh*t!) Well, I’m her daughter, thanks for asking, and I realize you are trying to do your job, but I think maybe you got some misinformation.

Officer: Please, if your mother is here, we need to question her.

Me: (literally laughing out loud at this point because it was all just to freakin’ hilarious) Um, my mother robbed the bank?? I’m sorry, but that’s just nuts.

At that moment, my sister and My Ex burst out laughing and ran into the ladies room to hide. HWSNBN stayed put, but I could tell it was taking everything he had to keep it together.

Officer: (in a very stern voice) This is a serious matter!

Me: (trying to hold back the sarcasm) Exactly how did she rob the bank and how much money did she supposedly take? She’s 65 years old, 4 feet 11 inches, weighs 100 pounds and has been standing in front of her butcher block since 8am this morning. Unless she’s part Harry Houdini and part Dirty Harry, you guys are mistaken.

Officer: We are not at liberty to discuss this with you, young lady. And, what is that banging noise?

Me: That would be my mother. She’s tenderizing veal.

Officer: Excuse me? 

Me: Just a minute. I will go get her for you.

Officer: Good. 

Me: (making my way to the kitchen and yelling out…) Hey, Ma!! The police want to talk to you about the bank you robbed this morning.

Mother: (yelling back at me) What you talking about?

Me: (entering the kitchen) Ma, the police here. They say you robbed the bank this morning.

Mother: (eyes wide) EXCUSE ME? You crazy or something???

Me: (giggling) Come out here and talk to them.

Out came my mother wearing her bloody apron (literally, it was bloody from cleaning the meat). If you could have seen the faces of those polices officers... Talk about priceless.

Officer: (clearing his throat) Mrs. B?

Mother: Yes, I’m her.

Officer: Did you rob the bank this morning at 10am?

Mother: (looking at them like they were complete idiots) Excuse, me? You think I rob the bank?

Officer: Mrs. B this is serious. You car was involved in this robbery.

Mother: My car? I don’t think so. My car sit outside, no working anymore.

Officer: Did you cancel the plates on the vehicle?

Mother: My ex-husband, he do it.

Officer: I don’t think so because someone stole the plates and you should have reported this to the police.

Mother: No, someone stole the radio… this I know.

Officer: Someone also stole the plates.

Mother: Well, me, I no see it, so I don’t know this happen.

Officer: Yes, but we need to do some paper work for this and you should have that vehicle removed.

Mother: Now I have to finish my meat. You come back later for do the paperwork.

Officer: Yes, we can do that. Sorry about the mix up.

As soon as they left we all ran into the kitchen and asked my mother where she stashed the money so we could get the hell out of dodge. She laughed so much and just couldn’t believe they thought that she of all people would rob a bank!

Yup, best Saturday ever. lol

Get A Room!

The other day, I was over at Rob's blog reading his post about a couple caught having sex in a dumpster, and it reminded me of a similar story involving my mother. Get your heads out of the gutter, people. My mother is not a dumpster diver (at least as far as I know), but... Well, let me start at the beginning.

One night at the restaurant (FYI - if you're new here, my family used to be in the restaurant biz), this couple came in and we knew right away that they were the touchy-feely kind. This meant that they would be there all night because they'd be far too busy pawing at each to concentrate on anything else. How they managed to get through dinner without sitting on each others laps is still beyond me. Seriously, they were two bj's short of a porno & we thought they would never leave. Anyway... after four hours of petting, stroking, tonguing, and God knows what else (it's not like we could see under the table with the tablecloth draped over it), they finally asked for the bill & paid. Other than my mother who was going to do some prep work before calling it a night, the rest of us were ready to go home, so we headed out thinking that the lovers would soon follow suit. Well, the next day my sister and I arrived at work to find out that we were mistaken.

Mother: I have something to tell you.

My sister and I looked at each other with our 'Uh oh, we're in sh*t for something' faces and prepared for the worst.

Mother: You know the lovers that were here last night?

Me: Yeah.

Mother: Well, those lovers were really in love after you guys went home.

Me: (looking at my sister wide-eyed, then back at my mother) O... K...

Mother: I go to the door with them when they leave. I say thank you, good night, see you soon, and then I lock up.

Sister: OK.

Mother: Then, I go back in the kitchen to do my prep work.

Me: Yeah...

Mother: Before I finish, I think I need to go take out the garbage because you guys forgot.

Me: OK, and then what?

Mother: Oh, the lovers, they in love very much. Too much for me to handle.

Sister: Ma, you're killing me. Come on.

Mother: So, I go outside with the garbage, pulling the can because it's too heavy for me to carry. I making a lot of noise too. You think someone would hear me.

Me: And???

Mother: I see beside the garbage (she means the dumpster) that someone left their car. Maybe they take a taxi home, you know.

Sister: AND???!!!!!!!

Mother: I see white.

Me: White what??

Mother: I see a naked culo (that's slang for 'ass' for all of you who don't know Italian).

Sister: WHAT?

Mother: And then I see another one.

Me: WHAT??

Mother: They having sex beside the garbage.

Sister: WHAT???!!!!!!!!

Me: On the ground????

Mother: Yes, and I ask them what's a matter with them and why they do this outside.

Me: OMG!

Mother: And I ask them why they don't go in the car if they don't go home. They say they very sorry and that they going to leave. I tell them they better go because I call the police.

Sister: Holy sh*t , ma!

Mother: I no understand these people. What happened to the bed... the old fashioned way?

Me: (taking the opportunity to tease her) Oh, ma, you're so old school. Did you and Daddy make me in the bed?

Mother: (totally serious) That's not your business!

Me: So, did you see it (don't make me spell out what it is, people)?

Sister: (grinning) Yeah, ma, did you?

Me: (watching my mother blush & turn away from us towards the stove) You did! OMG, you did!!!

Mother: OK, enough, go back to work.

Sister: (laughing & teasing) No, not until you tell us if you saw it or not.

Mother: No, that's enough, I say. Get to work.

All day long we teased her. LOL The poor woman. Seriously, though, what the h*ll is wrong with some people? Sex in a dumpster... beside a dumpster? For the love of God, folks, get a room!!!! If you can't get one, beg, steal or borrow one, please!!!

JB

The End Is Near

Some of you have probably noticed that it’s been a while since I've written a restaurant related post. Well, I wanted to let all of you know that when I do sit down to write a new restaurant story that it will be from days gone by because, as of next month, I will no longer be in the restaurant biz. It's closing time for us, and we have two really good reasons for doing it at this point in time.

1. Besides the fact that my mother is no longer a spring chicken (but damn it the woman is tough), she needs major surgery on both her shoulders, ASAP. She has lost a lot of motion in her left arm and is really suffering with her right. Even with the surgery, she simply can’t work like she used to, and she shouldn't have to either. It’s time for her to enjoy her golden years before it’s too late.

2. Not long after my mother was told that she needed surgery, my sister was diagnosed with Lupus and degenerative disc disease. The combination of the two is more painful than she can put into words, and being on her feet all day long is only making matters worse.

In other words, there is no way that we can continue with the condition that those two ladies are in. If we do, one or both will likely end up collapsing on the kitchen floor and none of us want that to happen. So, closing is what’s in their best interest, and, honestly, I think it’s time for me to move on as well.

Looking back, we've been very successful, but there have been some very hard times too. After 20 plus years that we've been at it, letting go isn't easy, but at the same time there’s also sense of relief for us all. The life lessons that we learned will follow us wherever we go. I’m really going to miss the people that we got to know over the years, and the employees that have been with us for many of those years. I’m also really going to miss the family get-togethers that we had during the holidays, and whenever relatives would visit from out of town. So many memories, folks, so many memories...

JB

Note: If you're new here and haven't read any of my restaurant related posts, I've listed all of them below. Please feel free to leave comments, if you wish. I'd love to hear from you.

To Plastic Wrap or Not To Plastic Wrap
Half Al Dente, Half Slightly More Cooked?
Laundry Guy vs. Bitter Sister
The Secret of the Sauce
Today I Watched
P.S. I Hate Alfredo!
Letters To My Customers
Letter To My Customers - Part 2

Letters To My Customers - Part 2

Dear 'Why Aren't You Open New Year's Day?' Customer,

You know, I thought I really hated 'Are You Open Christmas Day' customer, but I think I just might hate you more. Like I told that guy, STOP CALLING US EVERY F-ING YEAR & ASKING THE SAME F-ING QUESTION! We have never, and will never, open New Year's Day, and we don't give two sh*ts that you think it's 'bad for business' for us to be closed. Trust me, we'd rather lose one day's business than have to put up with you & your hung-over friends.

Cheers,
JB

Dear 'Hugo Boss Perfume Wearing' Customer,

I must say, you have great taste in perfume, but is it necessary to drop the whole bottle on yourself? I mean, it's nice that you smell good, but where is your limit, man? Even way back in the kitchen, your scent is beyond intoxicating, and that's incredibly dangerous for those of us handling sharp objects. Seriously, I could accidentally cut myself while chopping vegetables, and I don't think that you'd appreciate my fingers in your salad. So, let me assure you that a quick spray or little dab behind the neck is more than enough perfume to attract attention. Lastly, I beg you to never hug me hello or goodbye ever again because I find it truly unpleasant having to smell like you for a good week afterwards.

Peace,
JB

Dear 'Allergic to Garlic' Customer,

Of all the possible kinds of restaurants that you could have gone to for dinner, why did you choose an Italian restaurant? Surely, you must be aware that we lace everything with garlic. I mean, exactly how do you expect us to serve you a meal without our food making you go into anaphylactic shock? Seriously, please do me and all other Italian restaurant owners a favour & go elsewhere the next time you decide to go out for dinner.

Best Wishes,
JB

Dear 'This Isn't Spicy Enough' Customer,

Could it be that a whole bottle of Tabasco sauce, six jalapeño peppers, and a handful of chilies in your pasta dish the last time you were in for dinner were enough to finally shut you up once and for all? Well, I certainly hope so because we were choking on the fumes in the kitchen for a good 20 minutes afterwards, so actually ingesting that fiery meal must have surely done away with your internal organs. In fact, I bet that's why we haven't heard from you since that night. You must still be on the toilet sh*ting your insides out.

Happy New Year,
JB

Letters To My Customers

'Tis the season, as you all know, which means things at work are a whole lot nuttier than usual, especially when it comes to my customers. Sure, I know it’s a stressful time of year for many, but enough already. Seriously, I’d like to tell them off, but that wouldn't be very professional. Instead, I have composed a few letters to vent my frustration.

Dear 'Mathematically Challenged' Customer,

Thank you for choosing our restaurant as the location for your Christmas party this year, but we are unable to accommodate your group of 88 people. As I have already explained, we only have room for 50 guests maximum, so why do you continue to call & insist that we find a way to seat everyone? I understand that you 'don’t mind if things are a little tight,' but this does not change the fact that we do not have enough tables & chairs for 88 people. In other words, once a little more than half of your guests are comfortably seated in our cozy little establishment, the rest would be left standing outside, and I don’t think that they would appreciate that seeing as it is well below zero degrees this time of year. Yes, I know 'it’s Christmas time,' but we’re chefs, not miracle workers. There is no way that we can 'fit you in' no matter how hard we try. So, either you cut down your guest list to the maximum number that we can accommodate, or you find somewhere else to have your get-together. At this point, I highly recommend the latter.

Peace on Earth,
JB

Dear 'Are You Open Christmas Day?' Customer,

We are flattered that you wish to treat your family & friends to dinner at our restaurant, but we are not, have never been, and will never be, open Christmas Day. As such, I would appreciate it if you would STOP CALLING US EVERY F**KING YEAR & ASKING THE SAME F**KING QUESTION BECAUSE I REALLY HATE YOU, SERIOUSLY!

Cheers,
JB

Dear 'Do You Have A Turkey Special?' Customer,

I'm so glad that you enjoy our holiday specials, but turkey isn't one of them. I realize that it’s hard for you to wrap your turkey obsessed brain around this fact, but it’s not part of Italian tradition to have turkey dinner for Christmas. In fact, my mother has never cooked a turkey in her life & flat out refuses to make one for anyone, including her own family. Therefore, I strongly suggest that you stop calling with the intent of making her change her mind, otherwise I will be forced to hunt you down & remove your giblets.

Happy Holidays,
JB

P.S. I Hate Alfredo!

When I got to work today, my mother was making Alfredo sauce. No one, and I mean no one, can make Alfredo like this crazy Italian woman can. Well, at least that’s what she thinks. Back in the day, when we first started the restaurant, I would agree. Now, however, I’m not so sure. I could say something about it, but, trust me, there’s no point. The best I can do when it comes to Alfredo is offer to stir it for her because you have to keep at it for a while before it’s ready to come off the heat, and her arm (which is sore from years of cooking… arthritis...) can only take so much before it feels like it’s about to fall off. So, that’s what I was going to do, but first I needed a coffee.

Me: Morning, ma. I’m going to make myself an espresso. Would you like one?

Mother: If it’s no problem.

If it’s no problem? Great, I've been here less than 5 minutes and she’s throwing punches already.

After I made coffee, I went to put on my armor (full body for today) and headed for the kitchen.

Me: Can I stir that for you, ma?

No response, just a look that would scare even unborn children.

Me: What’s that look for?

Mother: You have something else to do, like go write that stuff you write on your computer?

Me: Why, do I need a stirring degree for Alfredo?

Mother: JB, stop bothering me.

Me: Ma, please. I can see your arm hurts. Let me stir the Alfredo. I swear I won’t steal your job from you.

Mother: Oh my God, please, I’m not handicapped. Go blag.

Me: Blog, ma. It's blog.

Mom: Blag. You talk about me, eh? You say bad things about me. Your sister told me.

Me: Oh, you believe her, the women that forgot to tell us she changed religions & got married (a long story… not going there right now)?

Mother: Don’t be like that. She made a mistake.

Me: You call that a mistake? You’re kidding me, right?

Mother: JB, you talk about me, I know.

Me: Stop changing the subject.

Meanwhile, she isn't even looking at me. She’s still stirring the Alfredo, holding the freakin' spatula with all her might, just in case I attempt to pry it out of her hands.

Me: Ma, are you going to let me help you or are we going to play this game all day?

Mother: What is this blag? Why you tell strangers my business & call your sister ‘Bitter’? You talk to people you don't know. You go crazy?

Me: Why are you asking me? As for Bitter, I call her that because she is bitter... and you’re controlling. Nice combo.

Mother: I no control you. And her, she get married when I was in Italy, so I no control her either. Then, she even get a divorce.

Me: Yeah, and how much did it cost us to get her divorced?

Mother: It’s OK, JB, you give me babies one day, OK?

Me: Stop it! I’m not giving you babies. Not now, not next week, and not for you.

Mother: You tell people on your blag you don’t want to give me no babies? You tell that?

Me: Oh my God, ma you make me nuts!!

(Enter, Bitter…)

Sister: Ma, as if she would have a baby. She is a baby. Here, let me finish the Alfredo for you, OK?

Without missing a beat, my mother hands over the spatula to her.

Me: So, what, you two are on the same side today? It’s you guys against me?

Sister: JB, why don’t you go blog instead of standing around. Or, even better, why don’t you go talk to people?

Mother: Ya, let’s go have another coffee.

Me: No, I don’t want to have coffee with you right now.

Mother: Come on. Tell me what you tell people about us.

Me: I tell people you guys are nuts and you're making me nuts.

Mother: So, why you don’t get married to a rich man and have kids? You can stay home like me.

Me: Uh, hello? Dad was always out somewhere and you worked two jobs. No one was home. What, all of a sudden you got Alzheimer’s?

Mother: Don’t make fun of those people. They forget. Me, I want to forget, but I can’t because I have you to remind me. You just like him. Thank God I have your sister.

Me: Oh, today you thank God you have Bitter?

Mother: What? You jealous?

They both grinned at me like Cheshire cats.

Me: I’m going to the office.

Mother: OK, go write another story, go.

I'd do just about anything to get the heck away from you two right now, I thought as I made my way to my desk with their cackling laughter trailing behind me.

Seriously, why do I bother?

JB

P.S. I hate Alfredo! And, why the h*ll is it called Alfredo, anyway??

Today I Watched

There are days at work when everyone and their mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin, best friend, neighbour and a slew of other people come busting through the doors begging for a table. There are also days when you can count the lunch reservations on one hand & the dinner reservations on the other. Today was one of those days. Since there wasn't much to do, I sat on the kitchen stairs watching my mother & sister doing what they could to keep busy. God forbid they take a break while they have the chance. No, they just had to argue about what food to prep & how to do it.

Why do they do this? Well, the long & the short of it is that my sister is a complete control freak and so is my mother. They're also both perfectionists. I, on the other hand, am neither of those things. I don't care too much about how we get something done, as long as we get it done. They always tell me that I don't take things seriously enough, and I just say, "Why, are the serious restaurant police going to arrest me for not taking my job seriously enough? Please, ladies, give me a break.”

I don’t understand why they have to make things so freakin’ complicated all the time. Back and forth they go, trying to one up each other. It’s never ending. My mother even tried to pull me into their drama by asking, "What are you looking at? You have something to say?" I just said, "No, I think you guys pretty much have it covered."

This non-bitter, non-aggressive, approach that I have really bothers them, but I don’t see any reason to get into it with those two, especially in a room with sharp objects at hand. So, I just watched them thinking about how it would make for great TV, and wondered who’d stab who first the closer they got to the knife block.

JB

The Secret of the Sauce

My mother’s always said that the best kept secret in cooking is the one that doesn't exist. Well, if we have any cooking secrets in our kitchen it’s that you can use water in everything. Yes, folks, I said water. For example, my mother makes a great meat sauce (ditto for her tomato sauce), and when she puts some in the steam table to reheat for service, she dilutes it with water because it’s too thick. If she didn't do this, we would use double the amount of sauce every night. So, adding water means she doesn't have to make sauce as often, which means we save money.

Half water half sauce makes for something special, let me tell you. We argue about it all the time (big surprise), but she tells me and my sister to mind our own business because she knows what she’s doing. Well, she might be a genius in the kitchen when she’s on, but when she’s off, she’s so far off that there’s no GPS that can get her back on track. Take tomato sauce, for example. It should be red, right? On a good night, ours is a pinkish orange colour and fills the ladle like a watery soup, not a sauce. It’s hard for us not to stare as she scoops it up, but my mother just glares back at us with her ‘what the h*ll are you staring at’ look, like she’s daring us to challenge her. If we actually do say anything, the conversation usually goes something like this…

Me: Ma, that's too watery. It won’t stick to the pasta. We need to add more sauce.

Mother: You don’t know what you’re doing.

Me: Oh, I didn't know that over 20 years wasn't enough experience.

Mother: Don’t talk to me like that.

Me: But it looks like you left the sauce pot sitting under running water.

Mother: Stop being so smart.

Me: Sorry, I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to be more stupid around you.

Sister: Seriously, ma, we have 26 people to serve right now. I need more sauce.

Mother: You guys use too much sauce! I told you, you don’t know what you’re
doing!

Sister: OK, ma, we don’t know what we’re doing, but I still need more sauce to serve all these people!

Mother: Basta, Basta (translation: enough, enough)! I’m standing right here! Stop yelling! OK? I understand! You need more sauce!

Me: Finally! Who’s going to get it?

Sister: I can’t go with all of these pans on the stove.

Mother: You know something? You guys make me go crazy in here. I’ll go get it. OK? Just stop talking.

I know, all of this commotion over sauce is crazy, right? Well, this is what it's like working with a woman who got her start kickin' it old (make that very old) school. Sure, what she learned in kitchens way back when can be applied today, but they require a modern twist to make them work. Trying to make her understand that is the hard part. I mean, not only is the woman as stubborn as a mule, but she's also Italian (if you have European parents, you know what I'm talking about), so it's just about impossible to get through to her. Not for lack of trying though, believe me.

Anyway, there you have it, folks. The secret of the sauce is good old H2O.

JB

Laundry Guy vs. Bitter Sister

I have to say that Friday's are really special at work, and I don't mean that in a good way. Whenever Friday rolls around, it’s like something I can’t explain. What I do know is that it would take much too long for me to go into detail about the whole day, so I’m just going to share one particular story.

Every Friday, we get our table linens from our laundry service. You would think that the delivery would be rather uneventful, but it’s actually something that no one around here looks forward to. You see, the laundry guy that we have is a real jerk. None of us can stand him, especially my sister (aka Bitter). Whenever this guy shows up, he goes straight for the refrigerator & grabs a drink, like it's his own place and he can do whatever he wants. Then, he leans up against the bar & starts talking to my sister. I can’t begin to tell you how much this infuriates her.

Laundry Guy: So, what's new?

Bitter Sister: Since last week? Nothing. Why are you talking to me? Don't you have something to do, like the laundry?

Laundry Guy: Nope, I made this my last stop, so I could stay longer.

Bitter Sister: Well, can you just hand over the table cloths & stuff, so I can go through them?

Laundry Guy: In a minute. I want to talk to you first.

Meanwhile, my mother & I are watching all of this unfold from the kitchen, and doing our best not to laugh.

After a good 10 minutes, he finally does start handing out the linens, and it’s never the right amount. Considering the company he works for has been our laundry service for ten years, you would think that they would have the numbers down by now, but no. We are always short on napkins & table cloths, and often get a bunch of the wrong size table cloths as well. My sister is always in his face about it, but it doesn't help him bring the right order when he comes again. One time she actually told him that maybe he should go back to school and learn how to count. He said, "Relax, Laundry Nazi (his choice of word, not mine). You know I just deliver. I don’t count the linens. The ladies in the laundry room do the counting."

I swear I thought my sister was going to explode, but she just shoved the invoice in his face and told him to go get the linens we needed out of his truck. Every week, she has to send him back out to his truck. Personally, I don’t think it’s the ladies in the laundry room that mess up. I swear he just does it to get my sister all riled up because he has a thing for her. (Note to self, laundry guy, that is not the way to get my sister on your good side.) Speaking of which, he also always goes for a dump (I’m so not kidding) in our men's room (my sister cleans the bathrooms, so you see where I'm going with this) when he comes by. When he finally comes out of there (followed by the most heinous smell ever), he always flashes a huge grin at my sister, and says, "So, how about a cappuccino?" (OMG, is he for real??)

By this point, my sister’s had it. Her face gets flushed, her eyes narrow into pointy daggers, her lips flatten out into a straight line, and....

Laundry Guy: Aw, what's wrong? Not in a good mood today?"

(Stupid, stupid, laundry guy, don't push Bitter's buttons. I mean, even I'm ducking for cover, and I'm in the kitchen, ten feet away.)

Bitter Sister: I'm going for a cigarette.

Laundry Guy: Smoking is a bad & expensive habit. You should quit.

Bitter Sister: (under her breath) Go f**k yourself.

Unfortunately, her going outside for a smoke means that my mother & I have to listen to him go on and on (God, help us) about nothing, until my sister makes her way back inside and he starts talking to her again. (Does this guy ever learn?) When he does eventually make his way to the door, he always says, "Nice seeing you, ladies. This is my favorite restaurant. See you next week."

I'm telling you, if looks could kill....

JB

Half Al Dente, Half Slightly More Cooked?

I don’t know about everyone else, but for me pasta should be cooked al dente, which means that the pasta should have an ever so slightly firm texture when chewed. When pasta is over cooked, it expands and breaks quite easily, especially if you're trying to roll it onto your fork. I say roll it onto your fork because that's how it ought to be eaten, with the help of a spoon, if necessary. Do not cut the pasta into a million tiny pieces (unless you're feeding a child, then I can understand). Seriously, what’s up with that, people? You don’t cut your spaghetti or any long noodle.

Cutting pasta is actually something that drives my mother completely crazy. When she sees plates come back to the kitchen with the pasta looking absolutely murdered instead of eaten, it's an insult to her. As an Italian, she really takes in personally. For me it's a hoot to watch her get all worked up as she lists her Italian do's and don’t about how pasta should be eaten.

Anyway, where was I... Oh, yeah, when it comes to cooking pasta, my mother & sister always have the same discussion about whether it will be al dente or not. They can go on for a good half hour (if not more) about it. As I said, I like my pasta al dente, and I tell them that's how I think it should be cooked, but my mother says, "It's not about how you like the pasta. It can't be too hard or cooked too much. You understand, JB? Please stop being so smart." (OK, ma, I'll try to be more stupid.) Then, my sister says, "No way. I’m not over cooking the pasta. We are an Italian restaurant, and what kind of Italians cook their pasta to the point of it expanding? Then, when you strain it, the pasta looks like mush. Please!"

Back and forth they go, arguing about how to cook pasta. Meanwhile, I’m over in the corner laughing at the both of them, thinking: Holy sh*t, we have this fight at least once a week. What the hell is wrong with us? Finally, I have to butt in and tell them to just cook the freakin’ pasta because tomorrow is coming up fast and I want to go home. I tell them that a happy medium would half al dente, half slightly more cooked, and they both give me this look like I'm on freakin' on crack because what the h*ll does half al dente, half slightly more cooked mean anyway, right? Then, my mother says, "Please stop watching those cooking shows. They messing up your head & they making us look bad." Meanwhile, my sister is making faces at me from behind her. (Sometimes, we resort to being like small children when it comes with dealing with mama pasta dearest.) I tell them that we should have a cooking show because nobody would believe that for a complete hour we can discuss how to cook pasta for people who use a knife and fork to eat any noodle that is too long to roll onto the end of a fork, but my mother doesn't think anyone would believe us. Well, if she's right about one thing, it's that what you see on TV doesn't even come close to what goes on in a kitchen. Seriously, if Gordon Ramsey thinks he's running Hell's Kitchen, he can think again because we are the original Hell's Kitchen.

JB

To Plastic Wrap or Not To Plastic Wrap?

I was at work yesterday (I work in a restaurant with my mother and sister) and my mother decided to give my sister a lecture about how the chicken breasts that she tenderizes should be packaged and stored. Those two don’t agree on anything, especially when it comes to chicken & plastic wrap. I always just observe the verbal fireworks between them because no one really listens to me when I try to put in my two cents. Having said that, I don’t recommend ever working with your family. It's like drinking acid for breakfast everyday. I should know. We've been working together for 25 years.

Anyway, this chicken & plastic wrap business drives my sister bonkers. You see, mother likes to wrap 2 pieces of chicken at a time, and then wrap 6 packs of 2 pieces together. (Are you following me??) This drives my sister nuts because not only does it take double the plastic wrap to do this & make for twice the work, it also really slows us down when we're busy. With the chicken wrapped & re-wrapped in plastic, it's not exactly easy to get it unwrapped, especially when we need to get orders out on time. My sister said, "Mom, you use too much plastic wrap. It’s a waste. Why not put 12 pieces in Tupperware containers, since we have them? This would save time & it would be easier to get at the chicken when we need it. Do you know how much plastic wrap you use? One roll a month! That’s insane! It's 5000 feet! What the hell are you wrapping?!

Sometimes, that type of conversation goes on for a good 20 minutes. Mom wraps everything in plastic wrap. I swear she put plastic wrap diapers on us. The woman is obsessed with plastic. I've tried to explain that it's really bad for the environment, but it's pointless. She thinks recycling is throwing everything in the garbage. She says, "I be dead before the earth explodes. Oh, fack off (seriously, with her accent, that's how it sounds). You be brainwashed by TV and that guy, Al Gore. Him he’s fat now because you guys go buying that DVD he selling on Oprah. Stop be so stupid."

You know what's funny, though? Washed plastic bags used to hang on our clothes line with our laundry when I was a kid. No joke! Those bags were wrinkled to the point of being unrecognizable, but washing them in order to reuse them would now be considered recycling. I could bring that up, but I wouldn't dare.

JB