Morris Sendor

TOM'S TOP TEN 2006
by Thomas G. Schaudel

Dear Readers,

O.K. guys, it’s that time of year again when we recognize the best of the best. I present to you, my faithful readers,
the Class of 2005-2006.

#10 Berry Shady
Well, it didn’t take long. We were open about three days as the Jedediah Hawkins Inn when we got our first “all star”. The woman sits down to dinner with her husband and tells us she is in for the second time. We thanked her for her support and took her drink order. Everything was totally cool. She tries a sip, peruses the menu and orders, for her entrée, the duck. Here’s the menu description word for word: 1/2 Jurgielwicz Farms Duck/ Blueberries/ Farro/ Asparagus. Pretty straightforward, right? (Wrong). We serve her the appetizer, I really don’t remember what it was, and it went swimmingly (forgive the fish reference). I can usually spot ‘em but I have to admit this kind, gentle, seemingly charming little old lady had us fooled. We cleared the table, out go the entrees led by the duck. The waitress, “How’s everything?” The woman, “Fine.”
The waitress, “I’ll be back to check in on you.” Ten minutes later she returns to the table. The waitress, “How is everything?” The woman, “Terrible.” Waitress, “What’s wrong?” Woman, “The menu says 1/2 of a duck, I only got a breast and a leg.
Where’s the other half? The waitress, “A breast and leg is 1/2 of a duck.” The woman, “No it isn’t and I want the other 1/2.” Then she continues to say, “And the chef didn’t disguise the blueberries.” (Huh?) The waitress, “I don’t understand.”
The woman, “The blueberries weren’t disguised at all. They just sat on the duck.” The waitress (grinning), “I’ll tell the chef.”
I gotta tell ya right here, we’ve heard some lulus, but this is up there. The waitress tells Michael, the chef, and me, and as we are looking at each other, simultaneously burst out laughing. Then it starts. What would she like them disguised as? Strawberries, a Ferrari perhaps, how about a serial (or cereal) killer, like Freddy from the Halloween movie? Then you wouldn’t have to serve a knife with the duck. Gotta hand it to me, I’m always looking to better my service.
We took the 1/2 or 1/4 or 1/8 or 1/16 of duck off the check and she was happy, and I’ve checked every costume store on the island since, and can’t find one single disguise
that would fit a blueberry. The best business advice I ever had was “find a need and fill it.” I now have the need. Hey, what about small “Grouch Marx” noses and glasses? Nah, then they’d probably start robbing banks or something. A word of caution: the next time you order duck with raspberries, or blackberries, or gooseberries, or boysenberries, look very carefully at those berries. You never know.

#9 Dead Man Sitting
Every once in a while, I win one. Not often admittedly, but every once in a while…We had a customer for about a year who was maybe the worst we ever had. I believe it’s Ok to fire a customer, much the same as a bad employee. More on that later. This guy was not only unhinged, but loud, mean, and wrong most of the time. It took an average of half an hour to get his seat right. “No, not there; no, not there either.” “How about that table?” “Sorry sir, four people are sitting there.” “Ask them to move.” “Sure, not a problem. I’m sure they’d be happy to move for you. After all, you are you.” You get the picture. You could finish half your dinner while this ass was still furniture shopping. After his highness finally got his royal, rather rotund rear end in a chair (hallelujah), dinner was worse. “Everything sucks, drinks were warm, my waitress is rude, busboys are stupid and/or inept, and you never change the desserts.” Why I subject myself to this I’ll never know. Oh, I remember, it’s my staff that gets the abuse. I hide. Trust me on this, he was worse than it sounds. I was in front one night when he came in. He says to me, “Where’s the hostess?” I said, “What’s the difference? You’re not going to sit where she takes you anyway.” He said, “That’s pretty funny, you’re getting to know me. I must be coming in too often.” Me, “Yeah, I had the same thought. Why don’t you do your Magellan routine around the dining room and let us know when you “discover” your table. Then I’ll send her over with menus.” He says, “Ok” (what amazes me is that it never occurs to him that he’s a buffoon, my sarcasm notwithstanding). He finds a seat (20 min), his third choice, the first two were already taken. I send the hostess with the menus. The waitress working that station sees him sit down, comes to the hostess desk, and says “I’m not waiting on him. He was so ridiculous last time he was here. He did this and that and this….” Me, “Yeah, ok, I hear you. I’ll get Lee to do it. Lee, pick up table #17.” Lee, “Oh no. That’s not my station and I hate that guy.” Me, “Alright, Diane pick up 17.” Diane, “No way, you can
fire me, but I’m not waiting on him.” And so it went. Every time I asked someone to wait on him they said no. It got funnier and funnier. By the time I got back to his table I couldn’t control my giggling. I said, “Well you finally did it.” He said, “Did what?” Me, “You’ve abused every server I have to the point that no one will wait on you. Him, “What?!” Me, “You heard me. I can’t get a server to your table.” Him, “That’s ridiculous, get someone over here!” Me, “Can’t help you.” Him, “You should fire those waiters.” Me, “All eight of them? Let me tell you, good waiters are way harder to find than bad customers.” Him, (get this) “If you don’t get a waiter over here right now, I’m never setting foot (or ass) in here again. (Ain’t that rich). Me, “Come on,
don’t tease me like that, it’s cruel.” Him, “That’s it, I’m outta here!” You ever see eight waters, three busboys, one hostess, one bartender and one owner rushing through the dining room to hold the door open for a departing guest? I have.

#8 La Cage Aux Follies
Dating is a funny thing. So much time and effort go into it. Look at any steak house on Thursday night and you’ll see what a popular sport its become. There are websites for dating, advice for dating, “agencies” for dating, dating for money, dating for food, dating, dating, dating. And now a new twist, married dating. A married (we were to find out later) woman comes into one of the restaurants on a date. Not with her husband. They’re the typical forty something first date couple. Really listening to each other, laughing, winking, eating and …drinking. As the alcohol goes down, the temperature goes up. Hand holding, kissing, hugging and then the… look of shock. The woman sees her husband sitting on the other side of the dining room, also on a date. Checkmate. She panics and walks, head down, to the ladies room unseen by her future ex-husband. And there she stays, for an hour. She comes clean with Diane, who by virtue of the fact that she had to pee is now a co-conspirator. They try to devise a plan to get her out of the restaurant unseen. Unless you’re McGuyver, there’s not much in the bathroom that can help you make a stealthy exit. Walking out of the restaurant with a garbage can on your head or a toilet seat around your neck is likely to get looks from the most jaded of diners. I had an idea that Diane and I discussed during one of our several strategy meetings during the ordeal. I said, “Break into the tampon machine, hang them from her ears and fingers and sneak her out as a Christmas tree.” Diane, “If your not going
to be helpful, shut up.” I guess she didn’t like the idea. Anyway, we have a birdcage in the bathroom. They plan to have the woman carry the birdcage on her left shoulder and walk out hiding her face. And they thought the tampon idea was ridiculous. Why not put your head in the cage, saffron your face
yellow and walk our as Tweety Bird? They’re set on plan “A.” The bathroom door opens up. Diane comes out followed by an inconspicuous woman with a birdcage on her shoulder.
You believe this? I’m in awe. (Hey, is that a birdcage on your shoulder or are you just happy to see me?) They walk right through the bar and out the door. Brilliant. Diane brings the cage back in and puts it back in the ladies room like nothing even happened. I have one question for that woman. How engrossed was her husband on his date that he didn’t notice someone who should at least look familiar with a two foot birdcage on her shoulder? Hum. Maybe it wasn’t her husband after all. Just maybe it was a blueberry in disguise.

#7 Hot Potato
Ever had someone threaten to shove a potato up your ass?
I have. Let me start from the beginning. This is a library
selection so forgive me if I get a detail or two wrong. A guy and his date sit for dinner (these always start the same way). Anyway, the guy is a little bit macho and his date is kind of pretty, and cracking her gum. They order a bottle of Pully Fusey (Pouilly Fuisse) and look over the menu. He’s trying to match his dinner to a wine he can’t pronounce, and she is looking for something that goes with gum. They both order apps and entrees and we start the dinner process. He’s telling her that Pully Fusey is one of the best wines in the world but he’s got a real treat for her for dessert. She shows her appreciation with her full attention…not one crack for thirty seconds. Apps go out. He’s still impressing her with his storied and colorful life. She’s falling in love…with Wrigleys Peppermint. The entrees go out. She had fish (goes great with gum). He had a hanger steak with asparagus and fingerling potatoes. Just a note here. One man’s “al dente” is another man’s hard. I thought the potatoes were “al dente.” He did not. After chasing his potato around the plate with his knife and fork for two minutes (maybe they were extra “al dente”), he gives up in frustration and calls the busboy over. This is where a total lack of judgment occurs, fueled by testosterone. He says to my busboy, “These potatoes are hard. Tell the chef to give me some others or I’ll shove these up his ass.” Isn’t that precious? “I’ll shove these up his ass.” I had to write it twice because I still find it hard to believe, as did the
busboy. He didn’t speak much English, but you don’t have to be William F. Buckley to get the gist of that. The busboy should have just asked me for some more potatoes, but I guess in the interest of feedback, he gave me the whole (no pun intended)
package. He says, “Chef, the guy at table 24, he say he going to chub the papas upa you hass.” Me, “Huh?” The busboy, “He wang to chub the papas upa you hass.” With this, the waitress, knowing I’m unbalanced to begin with, comes running in saying, “Just give me a side of fingerlings.” Too late. The potato

[continued above, right]

[continued from below, left]
is out of the bag. I’m a pretty zen guy and have little interest in the tough guy thing, but I do have a limit. And I’m not exactly Woody Allen either. This, at this point, was the rudest thing I’d ever heard, not to mention what it would feel like. I decided to take the high road…and cripple him. I went into the dining room with a napkin over my wrist, and a plate of fingerlings in my hand, walked up to the table and said, “Hi, I’m the chef, start shoving.” He started copping more pleas than the entire Colombo family. I’m not done. He’s going, “Come on I was kidding.” I said, “You weren’t kidding when you thought
I was some old French guy. Start shoving.” Him, “No really, it was all in fun.” Fun? Here’s an idea for your next house party. Invite five or six couples, clean out the vegetable aisle, and supply everyone with olive oil. What fun. What a jerk. Now he wants to make nice-nice. He says, “Hey come on, don’t be mad. I’ll buy you a drink after dinner. “I believe in always giving someone an out, so I say, “Ok, but calm down with the macho act, Ok?” He said, “Sorry man.” I go back into the kitchen and resume cooking. At the end of the night, I went out to the dining room as they were about to order dessert. He calls me over and says, “Have a glass of wine with us so I know you’re not still mad at me.” I said, “That’s fine. I’m over it.” He says, “I ordered a special dessert wine for her,” Me, “Oh yeah, what did ya get?” Him, “Chateau Dick-em.” Me (here we go again), “What?!?” Then it hits me. He ordered Château d’Yquem.

#6 Having A Fling
We all know someone like this. He talks only about himself. “Hey that’s enough about me, let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?” You know the type. He knows the “hot” restaurants, all the new food trends, drives the “it” car. Goes to all the “in” vacation spots, has the best house, and
of course the trophy wife. This guy sound familiar yet? As insufferable as these people are, somehow they get people to have dinner with them. A party of four arrives. Mr. “Hot Shot”, his trophy wife, and another couple. The other couple must have been friends with the trophy wife because the guy looked like
he was going to the dentist. You could tell he didn’t want to spend two hours with Mr. Hot Shot. They sit down, order drinks, and Hot Shot starts his diatribe. “We couldn’t get into Per Se (hot restaurant) so we decided to bring you guys here. We took the Ferrari (hot car) because it was such a nice night. Hey, we just got back from Napa yesterday. We ate at the French Laundry (another “it” restaurant). We had organic eggs from virgin chickens (food trend) with tiny potatoes, the size of your little finger (I’ve got a finger for you). Good to be home though. The house is a mess. We’re waiting for them to install the indoor baseball field. Hey, doesn’t Sonya look great? It cost me a fortune but it was well worth it.” A full half hour of non-stop, run on, bullshit. By this time the other guy’s eyes are glazing over. You could tell he was just trying to survive. Dinner comes and goes with pretty much the same routine. Hot Shot keeps talking and everyone else is feigning interest. Finally, dessert and coffee. It’s the first glimmer of excitement for the other guy. He ate a chocolate bag in under a minute (I had a Black Labrador that would take twice that long) and drank his coffee so fast it had to scald him. Here comes the check. I must tell you, I’ve seen and paid a lot of restaurant checks in my life. Only people who pay them infrequently make a big show about paying. Charity should be a quiet affair. Not this time. Both guys take out their respective credit cards. Hot Shot, “I’ll get this.” The other guy, “No, please, let me.” Hot Shot, “No, I insist.” Other guy (will pay anything just to leave), “No, please let me.” Hot Shot, “No, you paid the last thirty seven times. It’s my turn.” And with that statement, he grabs the other guy’s credit card and throws it across the dining room, flinging it like a gold card Frisbee, and it disappears, ….vanished, ….gone. We looked high, we looked low. We had customers fan out two feet apart in one of the most well-dressed search parties in history. An A.P.B. went out shortly thereafter and I’m told John Walsh is looking into it. We even dragged the coffee station. All to no avail. Nothing. The poor other guy. After spending two
torturous hours with this moron, now he’s down a gold card, and has to notify banks, cancel the card, etc. He called us back after service. “You find it?” Us, “Nope.” Two days later, the other guy, “Any luck finding my card?” Us, “None what-so-ever.” A week later, the other guy, “I guess no one found my card.” Us, “Good guess.” I have no idea what happened to the card. It’s still wherever it landed. We felt bad for the guy. I guess no good deed goes unpunished.
#5 Wigged Out
Here’s another date story. We have very romantic restaurants apparently. I’ve written extensively about some of the hi-jinx that go on but this one is different. One of our bar regulars, who is in every day, is a great, fun, nice, recently divorced man. He’s a character and that you’ll just have to trust me on. I love the guy. So does Mark. We argue politics all the time, breaking every drinking rule there is, but it never gets angry and its always great fun. And of course I’m always right. One day he’s sitting at the bar and this woman, who is very attractive…in a Billy Idol kind of way, walks in. They start a conversation and are talking and laughing…and drinking. Some people subscribe to the fact that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I believe martinis make the heart grow fonder. You know the difference between an optimist and a pessimist? A pessimist is nothing more than a well-informed optimist. Call me a pessimist. A couple of martinis later the couple becomes a couple, hanging out all night. This is one of those “hook-ups” where everyone except the happy couple knows it doesn’t have a prayer of working out. He’s
a very mild mannered, gentle soul (when sober), middle aged, upper middle class, professional. She’s younger, edgy, confident, and looks…well…looks like Billy Idol.
They go out a couple of times, and I guess it was going OK, but then something happened. I don’t know what, but something went wrong. End of story. End of relationship. Mark, “Hey, you still seeing that woman?” Customer, “No.” Mark, “She must have gone into the witness protection program or something, we haven’t seen her in a while.” Me, “Maybe she’s touring Asia with the band.” Customer, “That’s not funny.” Me, “Sorry, sometimes I have “Idol” thoughts.” We crack up, he doesn’t. Here’s the scene. The customer is sitting at the bar at happy hour. Mark’s working. In walks Billy Idol. Mark sees her walk in. She sees the “regular”, and stops dead in her tracks, spins around and leaves. Mark says nothing, the regular never sees her. Five minutes later the front door opens. In walks Billy Idol with a wig on that makes her look like Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. I swear. I’m not kidding. Two martinis later the regular looks at her and nods a polite hello. He doesn’t recognize her. Mark’s
wetting his pants. She has a drink at the bar, a guy comes in, meets her, has a drink at the bar with her. They pay their check and go to the dining room for dinner. An hour later Mark can’t contain himself any longer. He says to the regular, “You see that woman that was just here?” Regular, “Yeah, she was nice looking.” Mark, “That was the woman you were seeing.” He almost fell off his chair, which actually isn’t all that uncommon for him. He refused to believe it at first, but as time passed his
curiosity got the best of him. The problem is, how do you
nonchalantly walk past a table of two staring at the woman’s assets and not get knocked out? We finally convinced him it was her. I don’t know if he was more upset about her being on a date or not recognizing her. But two nights later he made a remarkable recovery with a woman who loves martinis, and who looks nothing like any rock star I know.

#4 Penalty Claws
Just when you think you’ve heard it all…never mind. A party of three sits down and proceeds with the incredibly complex task of ordering dinner. Some people can make a Shakespearian tragedy out of a lobster. “What’s it come with, what’s in it, how’s it cooked, how was it raised, did it go to college, how was it killed, did the killer use any racial slurs, was the lobster profiled, does the fish monger practice diversity in hiring? Geez. It’s food, eat it. My daughter Courtney was waiting on the table. Courtney has been in the business since she was born and she’s not only a great server, she’s good with customers, has great tableside presence, knows the menu, and is very patient (a quality she got from her mother). The lady, finally, after exhausting every possible question that pertains to lobster, she orders the Grilled Caribbean Lobster/Black Thai Rice/Snap Peas/Mango Rum Butter. The other two have the Seabass. Out comes dinner. Courtney, “Can I get you anything else?”
The woman, “No, we’re fine.” Twenty minutes later Courtney walks to the table. All the plates are cleaned except for the lobster shell. Courtney, “How was your dinner?” Here’s the quote: the woman, “My lobster has no claws.” Courtney, “What?” The woman, “Where’s the claws on my lobster, it has no claws.” Courtney, “Ma’am, Caribbean lobsters are
different from Northern lobster. They’re a different species.” The woman, “Don’t tell me they don’t have claws. I’m a teacher and I’ve eaten lobster all over the world (except the Caribbean apparently) and all lobsters have claws. I know what you did, you took my claws so you could eat them on your way home. And another thing, the two seabass were only half portions, I’ll bet the chef ate the other half or gave it to the dishwashers.” There hasn’t been a conspiracy of this proportion since the Nixon administration. Courtney decides to take the mature route and says, “They were full portions but I’ll get you another order if you’d like.” The woman, “No thank you. What about the claws?” Courtney, “These lobsters don’t have claws.” The woman, “They do too.” Courtney, “Do Not.” Woman, “Do too.” Courtney, “Not.” The woman “Too.” Courtney, “Not.” She managed to get the last word in (a quality I also believe she got from her mother). Courtney, “Can I do anything else for you?” Woman, “Get me the owner.” Court, “He’s not here.” Woman, “He is too.” Courtney, “Not.” Woman “Too, fine, I’ll call him tomorrow.” Court, “Fine.” The next day I get the call. “My lobster had no claws and we got half a seabass.” I said, “Caribbean lobsters don’t have claws.” “They do too.” I said, “Do not.” “Do too.” “Not.” “Too.” I said, “Okay, how do we solve this? Can I buy you dinner or something?” She said, “That would be nice.” I said, “ Great.” “Can I bring some friends?” I said, “If it will get me to the end of this conversation, you can bring the Daughters of the American Revolution.” She said, “I cannot.” “Can too.” “Can not.” “Too.” “Not.” By the way, what are your school taxes?
#3 Happy Birthday
This one comes from a friend but it’s too good not to use. My friend manages a restaurant on the water with decking on the first and second floor. Fourteen women come in for lunch
saying they have a reservation. The manager can’t find it. They said they called for a birthday party and to see if they could bring a cake. Now, reservations do get lost but when it’s a birthday party with a cake and balloons, those don’t usually get lost. I know this may be hard for some people to believe, but some customers screw up their own reservations. They forget to call, they get the date wrong, they make fifteen reservations in twelve different restaurants under nine different aliases. So don’t assume it’s always us. Anyway the manager says she will get them seated. Some people, when they believe the restaurant was wrong, see an opportunity for a kill, like when a lioness sees a gazelle. The manager is marching these women from table to table trying to find a perfect seat (What the hell are you looking for?). You ever walk a dog on a cold night? You know he has to go, he knows he has to go, but he will spend forty minutes sniffing every inch of turf to find the perfect spot. What the hell is the difference? Just Go. Same thing. Just sit for God’s sake. They settle on a large table in the front room that has to be pushed out into part of the lobby (After all you lost our reservation). Fourteen salads, fourteen problems. Are you going to buy us a drink? (After all you lost our reservation.) As they’re finishing their lunch, a man walks into the upstairs bar from the
outside deck with an infant in tow. He needs to change the diaper. He puts the bag his loving ex-wife packed for the day, with about half of what he really needs, on the communal table, and gently lays down the child. Downstairs the salad plates have been mercifully cleared. Out comes a “Fudgie
the Whale” cake with a three alarm blaze on top and fourteen mentally ill women start an off-key version of Happy Birthday at the top of their lungs. Dad opens the diaper and the only living witness tells me that he needed a haz-mat unit instead of a handy wipe. He places the soiled diaper off to the side. As dad reaches for another handy wipe he knocks the diaper off the table and over the mezzanine ledge. Just as fourteen mentally ill women sing the last two off key words, “To you,” the diaper explodes on the table. Ain’t that some shit? There is a God.”

#2 Shortage Of Customers
I never thought I would be writing about someone in my own
profession but I guess bad behavior knows no job description. Here’s the deal. There’s an ironclad, steadfast rule in this business: you never, ever, under any circumstances, poach someone else’s employees. It’s just not done. Not once, never. If someone applies for a job from another restaurant, I want a phone call from that owner saying everything’s cool. Period. I’ve just learned not everyone thinks that way. In a restaurant I’ve opened recently (hint, hint), the owner of a restaurant down the block stops in. I’m thinking, what a nice guy, he came to wish us luck (which is what most owners do by the way). He comes over and says hello, talks for a couple of minutes and then does a curious thing. He goes to the bar and orders a half glass of wine. Now, I gotta say something here, and some of you will think I’m being bitchy. The man is short, real short. Still, if you’re over 5’2’’ you should be able to drink one glass of wine. He leaves. Next night, same routine. Half a glass of wine and whispering to the bartender. Two nights later, I take a manager and a hostess over to his place and order a bunch of apps, four
bottles of wine (they were out of the first two), over tip and leave. That’s just restaurant etiquette. Then, the next day, he changes
tactics. He walks by the window, counting our customers. It was getting hysterical. We actually started a one dollar pool to guess what time he would pass. Then he changes again. Now he comes in, orders his half glass of wine, walks through the dining room, talking on the cellphone, pretending to go to the men’s room. I don’t care how short you are, you can’t pee six times on a half glass of wine. The next day we’re getting ready for service and I go out to the bar. My staff are all talking about, “Do you believe that guy?” I said, “What’s up?” They told me that whenever he would come in he would say to them, “Why are you wasting your time here when you could work for me?” Believe this? I’m always the last to know. He even asked my girlfriend to work there when she was briefly helping me out. Is nothing sacred? The funny thing was that all of the employees were laughing at the guy. And I wasn’t really upset, more bewildered. You’re a big (little) restaurant owner. Shoot the lock off your safety deposit box and run a twenty five dollar ad on Craigslist. Come on, dude. Memo to restaurant owner: I’ve had it up to here with you (picture my hand cutting across my navel). Oh, and you should at least tip 20% on a half glass of wine. Cheers.

# 1 One For My Baby
and One More For The Road I’ve always been a fan of quality over quantity. It’s not for everyone, but for me that’s the deal. I know people who judge restaurants by how many sandwiches they can make from the doggie bag. Not for me, but for one of my customers its dogma. She comes in and sits at the bar and orders wine. We serve 5-6 oz (an industry standard pour) in a 16 oz glass to allow the wine to breathe. She orders the wine, we serve it, and she’s looking at the bartender like he insulted her mother. She says “What’s that?” Mark the bartender, “Pinot Noir.” She says, “Where’s the rest of it?” Mark, “The rest of it?” She, “Yeah, the rest of it. Fill it to the top.” Mark, “That’s a half of a bottle of wine. We serve it in a large glass so it can breathe.” She, “ I don’t need it to breathe, I need it full.” Mark (heard it before), “Ok, bombs away.” He fills it to the top. He walks away. Three or four minutes later he sees her trying to get his attention. Mark, “Yes.” She, “How the hell am I going to drink this? It’s too full. “(Only in the restaurant business is this expected to be tolerated). Mark, “You asked me to fill it.” She, “Now I’m asking you to unfill it and put it in two glasses.” Now she has two glasses of wine, both of which are larger than a single serving, but it’s good material for me so we go with it. Here’s the real problem. I don’t mind losing the glass of wine,
but now she’s had “one” glass of wine that’s 16 oz. That’s a good amount. You do have to drive. She’s a pain in the butt but doesn’t deserve an accident or DWI. You could blow .08 after 16 oz of wine depending on your size. Maybe we should have a handicap system for drinkers, like golfers. This would make it easier for the police to gauge what kind of shape you’re in. Since I’m a professional I should be a scratch drinker and should not be held to the same standards as, say, a 17 or 22. They don’t practice as much and therefore aren’t as accomplished as some of us pros. Works for golf, why not try it? Anyway, she drinks them both and orders another. Another two that is. She gets up to go to the ladies room and she’s starting
to wobble in her Jimmy Choos. She comes out, finishes her glass. No, two glasses. No one glass, I’m confused. She drinks her wine. Mark, “Are you ok?” She, “I’m fine.” And she was. She pays her check, walks into the lobby, takes her shoes off, places them on the floor, rubs her aching feet, and leaves. One hour later, a customer comes back in after leaving and says, “Someone left a pair of high heels in the lobby.” Really. How much time elapses from when you take your shoes off, rub your feet, and walk out the door? Eight – ten seconds, I’m guessing. How’s that for a bad memory? Have another (two, no, one, no two) glass of wine.

Thanks again to Rosalie and Morris for
your support for this “thing of ours”, your friendship, and most importantly, your “patience.” I seem to be a one man deadline wrecking crew. Sorry guys, I’ll do better next year. Congrats on another great issue. I know how hard you work at this and it shows. Great Job. I want to thank you, the readers, for your encouragement and your e-mails and all the kind words on the articles. Thank you all. Last but not least I want to thank my staff for all your grace under pressure, for how you put out my fires, make me look better, and keep the ship afloat. You’re the best out there. Oh, and one more thing. Thanks to the ninety five percent of my customers who are fabulous, sane, generous and supportive. Without you, I’d be in plumbing. And to the five percent who are mentally ill, you guys rock. Thanks for the material. Without you, I’d be...bored?
Fresh Herbs, Tom Schaudel

CLICK HERE TO POST YOUR COMMENTS
ABOUT THIS ARTICLE