Monday, February 13, 2006
In the beginning, there was food.
Monday is the day that restaurant people call their own. The weekend's over, the real world has headed back to the office, and chefs and waitresses are parked in the coffee shop recovering from their work week, which generally is Wednesday-Sunday.
I got up early this morning, which was easy to do since I didn't work last night. Rode over to my French class at city college; a monumental feat because it takes a half-hour to ride. Easy to do on nights I haven't worked, nearly impossible to get up at 6:30 and get on the bike when I've been amped up, serving people until midnight.
It's a typical day off, drop off the laundry whites (aprons and Oxford shirts to be starched), head over to the cafe to read the Times and the Chronicle, return the movie that's been due since Thursday (Downtown 81, starring Jean-Michel Basquiat. It was really more like some guy with a camera following his friend around, terrible acting that is wonderful in its falseness. The movie was great as a snapshot of the early eighties Manhattan art and music scene. Very new wave).
It's pointless to try and watch a movie during the weekend. After the restaurant closes on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night, going out is the norm. I succumbed to the coaxing of my coworkers and headed out on Thursday night, thus ensuring myself a near-failing grade on the French test I had Friday morning. I showed up to class a half-hour late, still semi-drunk, and proceeded to mangle syntax, forget verbs, and scowl my way through an hour of misery before leaving (a half-hour early) to return to bed.
Last night my coworker Anthony and I went into the restaurant for dinner; I can't resist .50 cent oysters during happy hour so we sat at the bar and commiserated with the folks who have to work Sunday nights (I refuse to work Sundays, because I like to have one day in which I can be on the same schedule as the rest of the world). We were good, Ant only had one drink and I only had two. I wish more bars would carry Hangar One, which is a boutique vodka that's distilled in an old airplane hanger in Alameda. The original is clean, best served up with a twist. My favorite is the keffir lime vodka, which blends in perfectly in taste and color when mixed with ginger-ale: this is what many bartenders and servers drink *during* their shifts, because it's indistinguishable from a regular soda. Hangar One also makes a Buddha's Hand (citrus), Madarin Blossom, and Raspberry (which I don't like very much, but I think any berry-flavored alcohol is gross). Hangar One is the only drinkable flavored vodka.