I see you up there. A grown man standing on his chair, holding a piddling little free birthday sundae over your head as a flock of servers lead the crowd in a horrendous birthday song, everyone clapping just off rhythm as they implore you to “shake your booty.” You look as miserable at that moment as I do and I feel your pain. I’m sure we would both rather be at Les Halles, or Alinea or even snacking on those weird edible menus at Moto.
But we’ve both made our choices and our fates have collided here, at TGI McFunsters, in the familiar stew of regret and failed expectations. The funny thing is, I left here once before. And fuck me with a plunger, I actually missed it enough to come back.
I’m not sure what it is, but for all the snarky comments, the hatred and venom that wells up in me as I run to get you yet another side of ranch dressing (aka liquid gold), I really like being in restaurants. I love the dysfunction. I love that they attract those people that reside on the margins. I love the chaos and sounds of everyone yelling in the kitchen, Spanish and English jumbled together and mixed with the clangs of pots and pans, turning it all into an inaudible mess. Most of all I love the camaraderie that occurs between people who outside that world would never associate with each other. I guess I find a strange comfort in broken things and there are few things more broken than the life and spirit of a server at TGI McFunsters.
So I’m back. Back to running to get you more honey mustard for your chicken fingers. Back to suffering through table after table of country motherfuckers who think $5 and a wad of compliments is a good tip on a $100 check. Back to explaining what cilantro is to that one guy as he furrows his brow in a vain attempt to understand before he finally just decides not to risk it and orders the fried chicken instead. I can’t say I missed any of you, but it still feels good to be back.
And with that rambling bit of nonsense that probably came off like it was written by someone who has watched one too many No Reservations episodes (it was), I will put an end to the feel-goodery and get back to the bitterness. Next up, you motherfuckers who insist on getting everything well done and that one guy who wouldn’t try cilantro.
I need a plunger.