bitterwaitress

Well, well, well. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on here with something to say. Fortunately for me, nothing ever changes in the restaurant business. It just gets stranger. Or maybe I’ve gotten more enlightened - or jaded, you decide - in my years.

So let’s tend to some old business. A few things to clear up:

To Mario. You let that twit James Danos fire me, then acted like it was all something mutual in the New Yorker piece. Give me a break. Sure, referring to me as a “know it all” is like referring to you as “slightly plump.” Anyway, loyalty and politics in this business makes the X-Files conspiracy seem simple.

To the folks at clue inc. in Brooklyn - yes you designed my site for me when I was poor, but so were you. I enjoyed our many oil cans of Foster’s but now that I have money to send your way, you chose to ignore me. Fucking weird. Yeah, all those old stories are gone, and Shitty Tippers until now can sigh in relief. 5000 tales lost. 60 million or so people dining out tonight? I’ll catch up. I’ll catch up real fast.

To people who actually take the time to write shittysearch reviews - you are pathetic.

To Jay Thomas - those who can, do. those who can’t, teach. those who really can’t and manage to screw up on sitcoms, well there’s radio.

Now let’s bridge the time gap. Danny, Danny, Danny. Oh Mr. Meyer. You almost had me. You know, I almost felt bad for the rap I gave you. I was really impressed by the two interventions you and your management team did for “M.” and “W.” The GM, Mr. Paul Bolles-Beavan is as good as God makes them and I mean that. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer and your PBBs right by your side. But it pissed me off that you let Jon slide through the cracks. FYI it was him who pissed in the coffee after doing a crumber-full (I love the crumber as a unit of measure for narcotics) of crystal meth (To that over-sized Aussie reporter at the Post who tried to get me to fess up - well chap, I always did out-drink the Aussies). Or maybe I got pissed because I asked for my job back and Mark Vechierelli. said no, they don’t hire old employees back, only to let J.D. have his position. back two weeks later. Oh, that call to Gramercy Tavern to not hire me was really nice too.

Now that your restaurant primer for second-graders is still scorching up the charts (congrats, let’s see if my tell-all of my shenanigans at Union Square Cafe does as well. shall i start with the whole Strauss thing?), you just have to come up with something stupid to say about the whole “reservation-for-sale” “scandal”. (read it here, I can’t sicken my site with it) I remember when there was that black binder next to the reservationists desk with the names of people who could get tables whenever they wanted. I’m not sure how prioritized it was. I’m sure Open Table takes care of that for you know. But my God, someone is selling reservations! To whom? To people who really want to spend money at your fucking place. Hel-lloo. The rest of you nitwits just wish you could sell reservations to your own place. Those are called country clubs.

To the residents of the Upper West Side of Manhattan (well, most of you, the exceptions have my cell phone number). You are cheap. Rent control does not equal entitlement. You are also largely unattractive and almost uniformly poorly maintained. Less Boca, more Kiehl’s. Mere Naive cannot help you at this point. Do you hear me? Probably not, you’d complain a padded cell was to loud a place in which to dine. And no, you cannot check prosthetic limbs at the door. I mean it. Furthermore 15% doesn’t cut it. Do you ever wonder why you can’t get a table in SoHo or TriBeCa? Because they smell your cheap-tipping asses the moment you pop out of the IRT (a cab? never!) You might get a table if you tipped the person at the door, but you’d probably eat at McDonald’s before you did that. There’s a notion for you though - the next time you are waiting in that interminable line for brunch at Sarabeth’s or Ocean Gill of Nice Matin, palm the person at the door a twenty. You’ll get called really soon, I promise. And if you want an actual reservation for the” meal when they don’t take reservations,” well, pop in the day before. Diane Weist never waits for a table. But she’s fabulous and you are not. I know, it’s unthinkable that you should have to pay for the privilege of eating somewhere (although there seem to be quite a few people willing to do so, ask Danny).

Remember friends, this is New York City and you get what you pay for.

Except here. All this love is free.

Next time - you and your Bugaboo®, and my description of Frank Bruni (the former Italian travel correspondent turned culinary kingmaker in NYC for all you rubes). A photo might set you back $35 though

ahh, that felt nice. now send the hate

bitter