Tea Time

Many years ago...

So many of my stories start like that. Let's change it up a little, shall we?

A long fucking time ago...

There, that looks a lot better.

Let's continue.

A long fucking time ago, I worked at an upscale Italian trattoria named Bruzzi, located in oh, so fucking chic Aventura, Florida. The food really wasn't all that spectacular, but the place was new, trendy, and cool. Okay, it really wasn't new. Previously, it had been owned by Patrick Swayze, but it hadn't been an overpriced pizza joint then. It had been a 50's themed diner kind of place that  made the staff sing and dance and shit on command. Yeah, fuck that. It failed miserably. However, Bruzzi was still trendy and cool, although I don't know what was all that fucking cool about it. The restaurant was an interesting place to work and by interesting, I mean it was a fucking nightmare. The clientele was a jetsetting crowd that felt as entitled as they were rich. These folks thought their shit not only didn't stink, but tasted delicious too. Outrageous requests, extremely detailed special orders, to the point of constructing their own meals from various items on the menu and generally just being the neediest motherfuckers and the biggest pains in the ass on the face of the fucking planet. However, the money was incredible and shit tastes great, for the right price. Money makes up for a lot. Oh yeah, it certainly does.

Sometimes we served the famous and infamous, too. There was the time that I waited on Perry Farrell of Jane's Addiction. It was during his Porno for Pyros days and Perry was a totally cool cat, if a bit eccentric. Dude paid using a Porno for Pyros gold card. Awesome shit. Perry grew up in nearby North Miami Beach and he went to high school with a lot of my friends. Have you ever noticed how it is that when someone becomes famous, everyone that they went to high school with is their best friend? Not with Perry. No one admitted to being his friend, but the guy was a legend at North Miami Beach Senior High School and most notably remembered for running and screaming naked through the halls. 

So many crazy things happened in that place and my co-workers were all so delightfully demented. There are many tales to tell of my time there and a few of those stories will make an appearance here, whenever those stories are ready to be told.

One night, when the restaurant was slammed, which was every night, I was seated a party of four that consisted of two older Jewish couples who were obviously transplanted New Yorkers. As I greeted them and took their drink order, I silently prayed for them not to order hot tea and I repeated this mantra over and over in my head.

"Please don't order hot tea. Please don't order hot tea," I thought and I thought and then I thought some more. The two old ladies ordered hot tea. Of course they fucking did. I don't know why I bother pleading and whimpering to the invisible sky people, because that shit never works. It's either that, or the invisible sky people like to fuck with me. More likely, I'm just fucking insane. Take your pick, one choice is as good as another.

I got their drinks and delivered them to the table, dropped them off and politely asked if everyone was ready to order. They informed me that they needed some extra time and I took off to go do some waiter shit, like fuck off, smoke a cigarette, take a bake break, or whatever else I could sneak away and do, in order to avoid actually having to work. Look, we had food runners, service assistants, bussers and all sorts of other support staff and I had to tip out every single one of those bitches. Fuck that. Let them do all of the hard work. I just needed to look pretty, take orders and sling that shit. 

As I was making my way back through the dining room, one of the old ladies flagged me down by snapping her fingers at me. I winced. There's some shit that you just don't do and snapping your fingers at your waiter is one of them; it's incredibly rude. Normally, I'd look a snapper directly in the eye, smile and walk the other way, because fuck you. But for some reason (it must have been a bake break) I maintained my calm, professional demeanor and I made my way over to the table, thinking that they were ready to order.

Before I go any further, I really, really, really need to describe this woman to you, it's essential to the story. Picture an old Jewish woman, around nine thousand or so years old, as wrinkled and shriveled as a prune, with the bluest grey hair that you can possibly imagine and a voice that I don't even know how to begin to describe with the written word, but I can do a perfect imitation of her voice. You really need to hear the voice, it's a key ingredient. Maybe I'll do an audio version of this story on YouTube. I've often heard that I have the perfect voice for radio. As an aside, I've also been told that I have the perfect face for radio, too. I'm not sure how to take that. What do you think? Want to hear a story? Anyway, back to her voice. Imagine all of the wonderful attributes that I just mentioned and combine them with a voice that was as dry as cracked parchment and pure gravel. We're talking fifteen packs of smokes a day, chased with whiskey kind of gravel. And of all of this pleasantness was accompanied by a raspy, wheezing noise that she used to punctuate her words.

As I approached the table, she grabbed my arm, which is the ultimate no-no, looked up at me and she said, "Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."

To my credit, I didn't grab her by the back of the neck and bash her fucking prune face into the table. Don't ever fucking touch me. I'll shank a bitch.

Instead, I apologized and removed the offending kettle of hot water from the table, returned it to the kitchen and I made her a completely fresh set up. I brought the hopefully hotter water back to the table, apologized once more and set the kettle down in front of her. She placed her hands around the kettle, which was a thick, glazed stoneware.

The old woman grunted, looked up at me and said, "Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."

I tried to explain to her that she wouldn't be able to feel the heat through the thick stoneware, but she would have none of it, demanding that I bring her hotter water. I once again removed the kettle from the table, went into the kitchen, emptied it and refilled it with scalding hot water from the espresso maker. I returned to the table, apologized again and put the kettle back on the table.

Her shriveled and bony hands shot out, encircling the kettle and then she made that angry grunting noise again.

"Oh, shit," I thought, "Here it comes."

"Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)," she spoke with what sounded like her dying breath. I wished I was that lucky.

Oh, for fuck's sake. This was starting to take up entirely too much of my time and I had other tables that needed attending to. This shit was really starting to get on my last fucking nerve. I was now officially in the weeds, which is restaurant speak for being completely fucked and so far behind that they need to send a search party out to find your sad, sorry ass. From all appearances, I was about to become Dr. Fucking Livingston, or so I presumed.

I snatched the fucking kettle off the table and I dashed into the kitchen, except this time, I exchanged it for a teacup and I filled that fucker up with boiling water, threw it into the microwave and I watched that shit boil like a motherfucker. When I was certain that the old bitch would burn the living fuck out of herself, I ran the hot water back to the table. The water in the cup was still bubbling, as I placed the cup on the table in front of her. I didn't apologize. Fuck that shit.

The old crone shot me the evil eye as her hands grabbed the tea cup.

I smirked. There was no fucking way. And then my arrogant, self-satisfied smile slithered away.

"Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."

Get the fuck out. Are you serious? Are you fucking with me? There was no fucking way, No fucking way. That fucking water was hot enough to fucking maim. Bullshit.

I completely fucking lost it.

I bent down next to her and I spoke into her ear, "Ma'am, it's because you're dead. You're dead and your brain just hasn't caught up to your body yet. Now shut up and drink your tea."

It's always so easy to pinpoint that moment where you know that you just fucked everything up. I only wish that I had hindsight for foresight. Fuck.

Everyone always freaks the fuck out when I tell them that part. Y'all know perfectly well that's exactly what I said, because by that point, I just didn't have any fucks left to give. My field of fucks was barren, but still, everyone is always like, "Holy shit! What did she do/say?"

I'll tell you exactly what the evil old crone said and did...

She didn't say anything. because she shut the fuck up and she drank her fucking tea.That's exactly what she did and that was the end of that. No complaints, nothing. I swear, if shit didn't fuck up all of the time, I'd think I led a charmed life.

Generally, I'm very professional and quite unflappable, but occasionally people can take things just a little too far and the customer isn't always right, either. While you're busy monopolizing my time for your petty concerns, perhaps you could explain to my other tables why you feel that you're more important than they are. I grew up around people like this woman, people who believe that the entire world revolves around them. Well, guess what, people? The fucking world doesn't revolve around you, not where I'm concerned. The only way to handle people like that is to beat them at their own game and stand up to them and put them in their place; bullies always fold and ridiculousness deserves ridicule.

Get over yourselves, you're not that fucking special...

For more tales of restaurant mayhem, give this one a try:

Fondue You

The Greatest Day of My Life

No trip to Atlantic City is complete without at least one visit to the White House Sub Shop. No Philly "hoagies" here, instead, you get the real deal. This is a cheesesteak the way Philadelphia wishes it could do it; the best cheesesteak (don't you dare call it a steak and cheese) in America, hands down. I understand that their other subs are good too, but, to be honest, I've never tried them. It's all about the cheesesteak for me.

Allow me to back up a step here. One of the very best and most important things about a sub from the White House is their choice of bread. This bread, known as Atlantic City bread, is virtually worshipped, by those in the know, throughout the civilized world, and it comes from the one and only Formica Brothers Bakery, just across the street from the White House.

The Formica Brothers Bakery, located in Ducktown, Atlantic City, NJ, has been an Atlantic City tradition since 1919, when Francesco Formica and his wife, Rosa first opened the doors. In 1928, Francesco moved the bakery to its current location (2310 Arctic Avenue, Atlantic City, NJ 08401). Today's Master Bakers work around the clock, and hold to the same traditions and recipes that were established over 91 years ago, while producing over 30,000 loaves of bread every day. In addition to their legendary Italian breads, Formica Brothers Bakery also has an extensive selection of Artisan breads, dinner rolls, cookies, cannoli, pastries, biscotti and Nonna Rosa’s famous Italian Tomato Pie.


In 2006, the original retail shop was transformed into a state of the art Wi-Fi enabled Café with outdoor seating (open daily 7am – 7pm). On Saturday nights (7pm-10pm) the café features live music. On December 4, 2008 Formica's opened a second retail bakery cafe in Kensington Square, Northfield New Jersey (open daily 7am - 7pm). The cafes offers daily lunch specials, featuring soups and sandwiches made on freshly baked breads.

http://www.formicabrosbakery.com/

When we opened the door to the bakery, we were immediately overwhelmed by the wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread. The boys raced toward the display cases that were overflowing with fresh, handmade Italian cookies, crisp biscotti, flaky pastries and mouth watering cannoli. At the counter, I was quickly greeted by a young lady, who's name, I regret to say, I did not take notice of. She was very helpful, friendly and polite, and, upon learning that we were from quite a distance away, this young lady volunteered to cut and wrap the bread for us, so that it would stay fresh until we got it home. She went above and beyond the call of duty for us and service like that rarely exists anymore. I bought as much bread as I could carry and after we had brought the bread back to the car, we continued on our way to the White House for dinner. Well, we tried to anyway, but first we had to make three trips back and forth to the car to get everything that I kept forgetting to take with us.

Anthony Basile opened the White House Sub Shop ( 2301 Arctic Avenue, Atlantic City, NJ) in 1946. His hard work and dedication to perfection is what has given the White House its legendary reputastion. There are many reasons to visit Atlantic City but a trip to the hallowed grounds of the White House Sub Shop should be your main one.

Arriving at the White House, I was astonished to see that not only was there no line, there were empty booths as well. Normally, the line extends out the door and well down the side of the building. The take out area was packed, as it usually is, no matter what time of day, or year. We quickly slid into our booth and we were ready to order, no menus were necessary; cheesesteaks all around, with three iced teas (all drinks are in cans at the White House, Pepsi products only). The waitress was there within moments of our sitting down and was gone within seconds as well, our order in hand. Now, a quick note about the wait staff; I think that all of these women have been there since day one and they range from typically South Jersey friendly to the curmudgeon of your dreams (or nightmares). However, they are all professional and tolerate no nonsense. Ask for a special order or something not on the menu, be prepared for a withering look that will make you wish you could just crawl under your table and disappear. While waiting for your food, and it's never a long wait, glance around and drink in the ambiance of the place. Framed, autographed photos of the greats and almost greats line the walls. Frank Sinatra was a regular patron, having subs flown to various locations around the world. You can see the sweaty old towel from his last performance on the wall as well. The Beatles also put in an appearance, look for the photos on the wall to the left behind the cash register. Oh, and I really hope you like the color orange, because it is everywhere; it's on the stools, the booths, the walls, even the aforementioned pictures are framed predominantly in, you guessed it, orange. Or, you can watch your sub being made before your eyes by a small army of premier sub making experts.

Once the food arrived, the boys stared wide eyed at their sandwiches. They had been told to expect the best cheesesteaks ever and they tore into them with gusto. Anthony, my oldest son, became mute (which is no small feat for an 8 year old) for the first time in his life, as he devoured his sub in minutes and clamored for more. Dominic, my 5 year old, was just the opposite, taking his time and savoring each and every bite. When I asked the boys how everything was after their first bite, Anthony mumbled something unintelligible while trying to shove the entire sub into his mouth and Dom yelled for the entire restaurant to hear, "This is the greatest day of my life!" Upon hearing this, our waitress came back over to check on us (which can be a rarity there), asking if everything was okay. You should have seen the smiles on their faces... and hers.

Finishing our meal, it was time for dessert. Unfortunately, the only dessert available at the White House is a Tastycake, so we decided to reserve dessert for custard on the boardwalk. I paid the check and we made our way past the long line of people waiting outside, and we were sated, but for a moment. I was happy, I had what I had made my pilgrimage to Atlantic City for, but I was saddened as well; saddened because I knew that it would be many months until I could enjoy this pefection again. If you find yourself anywhere near Atlantic City, do yourself a favor and heed my advice and treat your belly to a sub at the White House.

I'm not much of a mushroom guy, but my wife loves them.

The White House Special is a cornucopia of cold cuts; huge portions of Genoa salami, ham, capicola, and provolone cheese, all tightly packed inside the loaf, lightly brushed with olive oil, and adorned with just the right amount of lettuce and bits of sweet pepper.

Hungry yet?

Anthony was a vegetarian until he tried his first cheesesteak. He finished the whole thing.

One bite and he says, "This is the greatest day of my life!" You just can't get a better endorsement than that.

I realize that this isn't my normal type of post, but I am trying to highlight various types of writing and this is the first time I've ever done any type of review, for anything. Leave me a comment and let me know what you think.

I do have a very special post coming; a great story about a very spooky night. I'll try to have it up as soon as I can, but please be patient, I want it to be perfect. Take care and thanks for stopping by.

Well, that might be a few more days now. I have a new writing assignment due as well as a speech, but I should be able to post one of those.

Primal Forces

A soft, southern drizzle was falling that night, a minor prelude to the main symphony that was soon to play out as the hurricane edged closer. Hurriedly, we tied our surfboards down and ran back to the shelter of my friend Rob’s apartment. Once under cover, the steady calypso rhythms of the storm gave way to the enraged tantrum of nature gone wild. Hurricane Bertha was nursed in the warm, tropical waters off Western Africa. This angry, petulant child cut a swath of destruction across the Caribbean and now she was steadily bearing down on us. My friends and I had hoped this storm would come. Indeed, such is the recklessness of youth, we had even prayed for it. As morning broke, the sky was a Rorschach blot of disturbing swirls and shapes that seemed a fitting backdrop to the insanity that was about to take center stage. I could barely hear the car engine start, the wind and the rain was that intense, but the engine managed to sputter and cough its way to life, and we were off to the beach. The deserted streets and the unnatural light created a nervous energy; a primal fear in those who strode forth to challenge the sea as we were.

Arriving at the nearly deserted beach, we could see that the swells were enormous. Sets of ten to twelve foot waves and even the occasional fifteen foot monster were storming across the great stone jetty like a panzer blitzkrieg across the Low Countries of Europe. The jetty was nothing more than piles of carelessly placed, enormous stones, shaped like a “C.” The jetty ran due east for about one hundred yards and then curved south for another fifty or so. Like a sheltered cove, it provided a safe haven for us to paddle out into the ocean, out to where the waves were breaking. The three of us started to paddle out when we were suddenly caught in the death grip of a rip current that shot us down beach about three hundred yards. In a calm spot for a moment, we settled in and waited for the next set of waves to break; the wind and the rain swirling about us. It wasn’t much of a wait. Rob caught the first wave, a nice twelve footer that he peeled like an apple before slicing and dicing it. I was next in, on a similar wave, rushing down this raging wall of water before snapping back up; thrashing and grasping at empty sky before plunging back down; forty-five seconds of pure adrenalin rush. Jeffy went next, flipping off the backside of his wave in a truly spectacular wipeout. Catching wave after wave, we were having a great time. The three of us were young and indestructible in that idiot way that only youth could be.

Paddling back out, another set loomed large behind us. Rob caught his wave and was off, while half a heartbeat later, there was, I think, well over eighteen feet of water at my back. Realizing what a bad position I was in, relative to the wave, I began paddling like hell, hoping to gain position on the wave without being crushed by it. Blink. It was do or die time. I jumped up, planted my feet firmly; I did it; a smile and um, no I didn’t. Suddenly, the world turned upside down as I was hurled like a rag doll through the air and into the bottom of the wave; the leash on my ankle pulling my surfboard along behind me like an angry snarling dog; a dog that was soon to turn on its owner. Spun end over end, I was completely disoriented. I was deep and there was no indication of which direction was up. The logical thing to do would be to follow the surfboard to the surface as fiberglass and foam likes to float. Unfortunately, my board was below me. Large waves continued to crash down, keeping me pinned where I was. Realizing I was trapped,

I thought, “This is it, the end; game over.” Well maybe nothing quite that stoic but my thoughts did contain a lot of words that just aren’t fit for print. Strangely, I was calm and detached; resigned to and accepting my fate, when suddenly I was at the surface, gasping for air, my lungs straining to catch a breath. The surfboard exploded from the water right next to me, the nose smacking my head while the fins bit deeply into my flesh. Any relief I may have felt was short-lived, I had surfaced just in time to be hit by another large wave, dragged under, only now to find myself caught once again by the rip current. I can’t say with any certainty how many times this scene repeated, spinning over and over again, lost in the endless hours of seconds until the sea finally released its grip. Exhausted and bleeding, I washed up on the shore, more a piece of flotsam than a human being; but at least I was still alive. Maybe I should have been thankful, jubilant, even joyous to be alive, but I felt none of these things. Instead, I felt cold, wet and absolutely miserable. I felt as if I had tried to tackle a freight train, albeit a very wet one.

After choking and sputtering for a few minutes, coughing up what seemed like half of the Atlantic Ocean from my lungs; I managed to drag my waterlogged butt further up the sand and away from the ocean. I was amazed to see that I was over a thousand yards away from where I had started. After checking on me, my friends paddled back out, eager to catch a few more waves before the full fury of the storm landed upon us. As for me, I was done for the day. It had been man against nature, and nature had clearly won. Hurricane Bertha took the lives of two surfers that morning; I was lucky not to have been the third.

Here's a few pictures of where this story took place.

This is the jetty at Bal Harbor Beach, FL

Haulover Beach is on the other side.

Click on any photo to enlarge it.

I did not take any of these photographs.

Aerial view from the Harbor House.

Just to give you an idea of what the surf can occasionally be like.

Nothing like a stormy day and cutting school.

These aren't very large really.

This is mild compared to the day of Bertha.

It was never this crowded when I was a kid.

R.I.P. Shawn

Nothing like a beautiful day and cutting school too.

Long Boards and Old Guys. We Rule!