So you want to be a caterer:....
The Joys of Entrepreneurship:
“I always wanted to have a catering business. I love parties. And I have a really excellent recipe for crème brulée…..”
Boxing Day, December 26 (A Legal Holiday): The roof exhaust fan fails. Monday Night Dinner looms…..65 reservations, massive prep, devastating heat, volumes of CO2 and CO to vent.....or die. So, up on the roof in the pouring rain. Dismantle fan assembly. Mount forty pound replacement motor. Smash fingers. Flat-at-a-time nuts and bolts. Attach wiring. Wrong. Dismount motor. Repeat for two hours. Success!! Ahh, the joys of craftsmanship!!
New Year’s Day, January 2 (A Legal Holiday): Deluging rains again. 65 reservations for Monday again (the day after Christmas and the day after New Year’s Day are supposed to be the two slowest days of the year in RestaurantLand…..we only have 59 CHAIRS, and there are no turnovers…..People bring their own CHAIRS, for chrissakes…….) The roof springs leaks everywhere….most worryingly down the back of the wall with the PG&E meters, but also in the dining room, the bar, etc. So:
Back to the roof. Rake hundreds of pounds of sopping leaves dumped by the storm off the roof. Clear the gutters. Struggle like a deckhand on the Pequod against billowing sheets of plastic and staple the fuckers down at least over the VIP tables……In Cachagua, you know you are a VIP if your table doesn’t have a bucket on it, and if Gilda doesn’t hand out rain hats……A whole new aspect to the term “Dry Martini”…….
Oh......because of the storm, twenty five no-shows.......
“I always wanted to have a catering business. I really like parties. And I think I have a gift for food. You should taste my lavosh!!”
Twelfth Night, January 6 (Not even close to a Legal Holiday): Entering Whole Foods (White Hypochodriacal Overfed Lascivious Egocentric Fucking Overbearing Overpriced Depressing Shite....) to pick up bread for our 28th straight Twelfth Night Party for Mary Green. If she dies, we are coming anyway…but so are the guests. Twelfth Night is more dependable than the whole swallow-Capistrano thing.
I spot Molly The MILF. (Do I have to translate MILF? Molly is drop-dead gorgeous, and probably over 50….she has a daughter actress who has been in Maxim…..Chain Saw Massacre…the new one). Her batshit crazy husband, Dick, is irate with us for accidentally swiping his red Coleman cooler. We brought him a brand new red Igloo cooler, but no. We brought him a newish BLUE Coleman cooler…..No. We don’t have, nor do any of our friends or clients have, a red fucking Coleman cooler. What is the cooler for? Human fucking livers? He logged EIGHT phone calls in one day about the red cooler. Maybe there is microfilm, or drugs, hidden in the thing? Dick owes us four grand or so…..but he wants his red cooler first. . Of course, in the middle of the winter, no one is selling coolers, red or otherwise. Not even on EBay. Not even COLEMAN…….
So, when my cellphone rings, I have to hide from Molly the MILF behind the squash pile in front of White Hypochondriacal, etc. How humiliating is this? And THEY owe ME money?
It gets weirder: I am also hiding from Molly The MILF for other reasons. At the party before the last party, after one particular female guest arrived, Molly turned to me and said, “Follow Dick and that woman…..” Sure enough, Dick took the baggie old hag down to the garage (where we were set up) to show off his Indian….motorcycle that is. As the baggie old hag climbed suggestively on behind Dick, she stage whispered: “Dick….Buck me, don’t fuck me!” Yeesh.
So I can’t face Molly….because I am so weirded out by Dick……..But wait, there’s more!!
At their next party, two days after Buck Me Don’t Fuck Me: Dick gives me a meaningful look (after rejecting the red Igloo…..). “Michael, may I have a word with you? Man to man?” Oh, shit. The guy is going to probably grab my dick…….
No. Instead, Dick says: “Mike, I have this buddy. He is married, of course….but he wants a little on the side. Do you know any hookers? Call my pager……..”
Sweet Sleeping Jesus on His Holy Mountain! Here is a win-win situation for you: find a hooker; turn her on to your client’s batshit crazy husband. No problems there! Of course, if we don’t, he'll talk shit about us…..or if I rat him out to Molly……either way, I lose the client forever.
Where in business school do they teach this one? Oh, right. I forgot. I didn’t go to REPUBLICAN business school. They probably cover that on the first day there.
Maybe I should write Tom Delay for advice………
“I always wanted to have a catering business. I love parties. And I have a really excellent recipe for crème brulée…..”
Boxing Day, December 26 (A Legal Holiday): The roof exhaust fan fails. Monday Night Dinner looms…..65 reservations, massive prep, devastating heat, volumes of CO2 and CO to vent.....or die. So, up on the roof in the pouring rain. Dismantle fan assembly. Mount forty pound replacement motor. Smash fingers. Flat-at-a-time nuts and bolts. Attach wiring. Wrong. Dismount motor. Repeat for two hours. Success!! Ahh, the joys of craftsmanship!!
New Year’s Day, January 2 (A Legal Holiday): Deluging rains again. 65 reservations for Monday again (the day after Christmas and the day after New Year’s Day are supposed to be the two slowest days of the year in RestaurantLand…..we only have 59 CHAIRS, and there are no turnovers…..People bring their own CHAIRS, for chrissakes…….) The roof springs leaks everywhere….most worryingly down the back of the wall with the PG&E meters, but also in the dining room, the bar, etc. So:
Back to the roof. Rake hundreds of pounds of sopping leaves dumped by the storm off the roof. Clear the gutters. Struggle like a deckhand on the Pequod against billowing sheets of plastic and staple the fuckers down at least over the VIP tables……In Cachagua, you know you are a VIP if your table doesn’t have a bucket on it, and if Gilda doesn’t hand out rain hats……A whole new aspect to the term “Dry Martini”…….
Oh......because of the storm, twenty five no-shows.......
“I always wanted to have a catering business. I really like parties. And I think I have a gift for food. You should taste my lavosh!!”
Twelfth Night, January 6 (Not even close to a Legal Holiday): Entering Whole Foods (White Hypochodriacal Overfed Lascivious Egocentric Fucking Overbearing Overpriced Depressing Shite....) to pick up bread for our 28th straight Twelfth Night Party for Mary Green. If she dies, we are coming anyway…but so are the guests. Twelfth Night is more dependable than the whole swallow-Capistrano thing.
I spot Molly The MILF. (Do I have to translate MILF? Molly is drop-dead gorgeous, and probably over 50….she has a daughter actress who has been in Maxim…..Chain Saw Massacre…the new one). Her batshit crazy husband, Dick, is irate with us for accidentally swiping his red Coleman cooler. We brought him a brand new red Igloo cooler, but no. We brought him a newish BLUE Coleman cooler…..No. We don’t have, nor do any of our friends or clients have, a red fucking Coleman cooler. What is the cooler for? Human fucking livers? He logged EIGHT phone calls in one day about the red cooler. Maybe there is microfilm, or drugs, hidden in the thing? Dick owes us four grand or so…..but he wants his red cooler first. . Of course, in the middle of the winter, no one is selling coolers, red or otherwise. Not even on EBay. Not even COLEMAN…….
So, when my cellphone rings, I have to hide from Molly the MILF behind the squash pile in front of White Hypochondriacal, etc. How humiliating is this? And THEY owe ME money?
It gets weirder: I am also hiding from Molly The MILF for other reasons. At the party before the last party, after one particular female guest arrived, Molly turned to me and said, “Follow Dick and that woman…..” Sure enough, Dick took the baggie old hag down to the garage (where we were set up) to show off his Indian….motorcycle that is. As the baggie old hag climbed suggestively on behind Dick, she stage whispered: “Dick….Buck me, don’t fuck me!” Yeesh.
So I can’t face Molly….because I am so weirded out by Dick……..But wait, there’s more!!
At their next party, two days after Buck Me Don’t Fuck Me: Dick gives me a meaningful look (after rejecting the red Igloo…..). “Michael, may I have a word with you? Man to man?” Oh, shit. The guy is going to probably grab my dick…….
No. Instead, Dick says: “Mike, I have this buddy. He is married, of course….but he wants a little on the side. Do you know any hookers? Call my pager……..”
Sweet Sleeping Jesus on His Holy Mountain! Here is a win-win situation for you: find a hooker; turn her on to your client’s batshit crazy husband. No problems there! Of course, if we don’t, he'll talk shit about us…..or if I rat him out to Molly……either way, I lose the client forever.
Where in business school do they teach this one? Oh, right. I forgot. I didn’t go to REPUBLICAN business school. They probably cover that on the first day there.
Maybe I should write Tom Delay for advice………
posted by Txacoli at 9:29 PM
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