I generally tried to maintain just enough contact with Allie so that she wouldn't start gossiping about ME behind my back, as she did about those at Brady's whom she judged as believing they were better than she. Well, Allie, if "better" means not addicted to painkillers, lies and bad-news boyfriends, then, yes, I guess most of us were indeed better. But we didn't want to set her off, delicate as she was, and always ready to launch into the next desperate and unbelievable story at any moment.
Not that any one person or thing could actually set Allie off. You just never knew when the tirade would begin. She would appear out of nowhere, arms around your patrons, and spill entirely Too Much Information on the helplessly captive audience. Usually she was trying to work the sympathy card, sadly relaying how hopeless and desperate her life was, just to work the good tips. But when she invaded another waitress's (or even mine, as bartender) section to unload her personal baggage on the poor unsuspecting diners, we weren't really sure what her strategy was.
We just knew that she was awfully close to insane, but could push that aside and expertly rattle off dinner and wine specials like she was born to wait tables. (Actually, this was her life's calling since she was a naive and fresh-faced 16-year old). Then she would throw in an awkward snippet of Allie drama, and customers and waitresses alike would cringe. At the end of the night, when we'd head over to Charters for a drink, we had to unload the night's "Allies" onto each other -- each one embarrassing us more than the last, especially when she turns on that awful half-Boston, half-uneducated accent:
"She grabbed that poor man's hand, placed it on her stomach, and said 'I didn't get fat like this by passing up on the frickin' FAB-u-LOUS deserts here.'You gotta try 'em!'" Gina told us last week.
"Gross!!!" we'd all agree, in unison.
"What about when she said to that judge, "Helloooooo Counseloh - is this your beautiful wife -- or maybe it's youhr mistress?"
And there were always a few "Hows would youzzz like some coffees" and "How youzz doin' tonight?" Those were par for the course - just a regular night of dealing with Allie.
She would often size up our customers for their buying power, and then slyly (not really) pull us aside, if it were our customer, and say, in her famous Irish Whisper, "You've got a MILLIONAIRE there!" or "Don't bother being sweet to him; he's a CHEAP bastahd." Most of the girls would tell her to get lost at this point. That's just what she would do, but she would remember to punch into the system later just to check what the millionaire or the cheap bastard actually did tip us.
And how she knew each one of our I.D. numbers was a mystery to us. Either, she had an in with Jason, or was actually a lot more clever than anyone gives her credit for. Whatever the case, we didn't like that someone like Allie had access to all of information. Once she actually changed another waitress's order, and then swooped in with the correct dinner, which she just so happened to have hot and ready, when the customer started to get angry about the mistake. Then she said to him, in front of the other waitress, "Next time youuz come in, you just ask for me, and I'll take good care of ya," with a wink and a pat on the back.
We could never actually prove that she messed with the computer. And she of course denied any wrongdoing. But things like this over the past few months, have not endeared Allie to me in the least.
And Jason can't be unaware of all her antics, but he sure acts like it. Maybe there's more to Jason and Allie than anyone really knows, too. That could also explain Allie's obsession with Leslie's rumored affair with him. And that would explain why Allie cornered Leslie last week and asked point-blank, in "Allie dialect" :"I hear you're F---ing Jason. Is it true?"
Friday, December 11, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Meet Allie
"I asked Leslie if she was f---ing Jason," was the first thing that assaulted my ears as I walked into work last weekend. Allie couldn't resist the gossip. Or the drama. I wasn't surprised she was the one to ask Leslie. In some ways, you had to respect the courage. In others you had to cringe because it was Allie.
Allie is what they call a full-timer. Someone who became a permanent waitress at the fresh young age of 16, right after she dropped out of school, and just a year before she got pregnant, married her boyfriend, and resigned herself to a full-time life of waiting tables. Some decisions were her own. Other things that happened were the result of some unfortunate fate. Her boyfriend turned out to be a deadbeat who stole her tips from her as she was sleeping, and then snuck out to buy drugs, and slept the days away, "caring" for their child, while she worked doubles to make ends meet.
But that was decades ago. And Allie was now a hardened forty-year-old, who looked about 15 years older. Her latest boyfriend (whom she sometimes referred to as her husband - we weren't quite sure which he was -- or maybe she had both.) was a professional workingman's compensation angler. He would work somewhere just long enough to get just hurt enough so that he could sue for disability. He was decent at this trick, but also liked to supplement his income with a few odd scams here and there. His most famous one was having Allie call her waitress friends and ask them to deposit checks in their bank accounts, and give Allie the cash, claiming she and Brad didn't have their own bank accounts.
Besides questionable financial habits, Allie and her boyfriend also had a fondness for prescription pain killers. So much so, that when Allie heard that Gina , another waitress, had called in sick because she slipped a disk, Allie went to visit her the next day and beg for a couple pills because she, too, had slipped a disk, and didn't have the insurance to go to a doctor to get treated.
Gina was so surprised to see Allie, and was caught so off guard, that she did give her a couple pills. That was all the encouragement Allie needed, because for the next week, she must have called Gina four more times to ask for more. Gina cut her off after the first visit, and finally stopped answering her phone altogether. Apparently, Allie was still getting her stash from some other connection, because one night last month, she was so doped up while working, that two waitresses had to hold her up, dab her forehead with cold compresses, and do all her work for her, hoping that Jason wouldn't notice she was spending an awful lot of time in the back room.
Yes, even though Allie drove them all crazy, the camaraderie of the women at Brady's overcomes the judgement and disgust that we all often have for Allie. We know she's had a tough life -- and it started with those first mistakes in her teenage years. Since then, she has had one more child of her own, and married into being a mother of 3 more. She tells stories about them -- each one sadder and more heart-tugging than the next. One's missing at war in Iraq, one ran away, the other is getting kicked out of high school. Oh, and add to those miserable details the fact that she has had 3 different kinds of cancer, is now married to (or girlfriend of) a disabled man ("He's not THAT disabled" she never hesitates to share with us), and living with her "in-laws," and one can't help but feel terrible for Allie.
But wait. She fooled me with all of these sob stories when I was one weekend into my first month at Brady's. Since then I have come to know that the "soldier in Iraq" is a mechanic on an Army Base in South Carolina; the "run-away" is in boarding school in Connecticut, and the one flunking out of high school is actually a normal, well-adjusted teenager (as normal as one can be as a by-product of Allie). And no, she has never had cancer of any sort.
And now I don't believe her when she tells me she is 5 months pregnant; is leaving her husband after the holidays; or is depressed because her mother-in-law passed away last night in her arms. Because, she will then turn around, tell Rodrigo, the very proper waiter, as she grabs him from behind, that she loves his "Italian ass" and that she is so horny because she hasn't had "any ass" whatsoever in 9 months. Allie, in a nutshell.
So when it was she telling me that she had confronted Leslie about the rumored affair with Jason, I didn't know what to say. Really, I try not to talk to her at all, as I do not want to be associated with that kind of crazy. But she was dying to talk, so, making sure that Chris, the bar back was there to overhear the whole thing, so that later, when she changes her story, he can corroborate, I did what every other waitress (or patron) tries so hard to avoid -- I engaged her in conversation. Must be the bartender in me.
Allie is what they call a full-timer. Someone who became a permanent waitress at the fresh young age of 16, right after she dropped out of school, and just a year before she got pregnant, married her boyfriend, and resigned herself to a full-time life of waiting tables. Some decisions were her own. Other things that happened were the result of some unfortunate fate. Her boyfriend turned out to be a deadbeat who stole her tips from her as she was sleeping, and then snuck out to buy drugs, and slept the days away, "caring" for their child, while she worked doubles to make ends meet.
But that was decades ago. And Allie was now a hardened forty-year-old, who looked about 15 years older. Her latest boyfriend (whom she sometimes referred to as her husband - we weren't quite sure which he was -- or maybe she had both.) was a professional workingman's compensation angler. He would work somewhere just long enough to get just hurt enough so that he could sue for disability. He was decent at this trick, but also liked to supplement his income with a few odd scams here and there. His most famous one was having Allie call her waitress friends and ask them to deposit checks in their bank accounts, and give Allie the cash, claiming she and Brad didn't have their own bank accounts.
Besides questionable financial habits, Allie and her boyfriend also had a fondness for prescription pain killers. So much so, that when Allie heard that Gina , another waitress, had called in sick because she slipped a disk, Allie went to visit her the next day and beg for a couple pills because she, too, had slipped a disk, and didn't have the insurance to go to a doctor to get treated.
Gina was so surprised to see Allie, and was caught so off guard, that she did give her a couple pills. That was all the encouragement Allie needed, because for the next week, she must have called Gina four more times to ask for more. Gina cut her off after the first visit, and finally stopped answering her phone altogether. Apparently, Allie was still getting her stash from some other connection, because one night last month, she was so doped up while working, that two waitresses had to hold her up, dab her forehead with cold compresses, and do all her work for her, hoping that Jason wouldn't notice she was spending an awful lot of time in the back room.
Yes, even though Allie drove them all crazy, the camaraderie of the women at Brady's overcomes the judgement and disgust that we all often have for Allie. We know she's had a tough life -- and it started with those first mistakes in her teenage years. Since then, she has had one more child of her own, and married into being a mother of 3 more. She tells stories about them -- each one sadder and more heart-tugging than the next. One's missing at war in Iraq, one ran away, the other is getting kicked out of high school. Oh, and add to those miserable details the fact that she has had 3 different kinds of cancer, is now married to (or girlfriend of) a disabled man ("He's not THAT disabled" she never hesitates to share with us), and living with her "in-laws," and one can't help but feel terrible for Allie.
But wait. She fooled me with all of these sob stories when I was one weekend into my first month at Brady's. Since then I have come to know that the "soldier in Iraq" is a mechanic on an Army Base in South Carolina; the "run-away" is in boarding school in Connecticut, and the one flunking out of high school is actually a normal, well-adjusted teenager (as normal as one can be as a by-product of Allie). And no, she has never had cancer of any sort.
And now I don't believe her when she tells me she is 5 months pregnant; is leaving her husband after the holidays; or is depressed because her mother-in-law passed away last night in her arms. Because, she will then turn around, tell Rodrigo, the very proper waiter, as she grabs him from behind, that she loves his "Italian ass" and that she is so horny because she hasn't had "any ass" whatsoever in 9 months. Allie, in a nutshell.
So when it was she telling me that she had confronted Leslie about the rumored affair with Jason, I didn't know what to say. Really, I try not to talk to her at all, as I do not want to be associated with that kind of crazy. But she was dying to talk, so, making sure that Chris, the bar back was there to overhear the whole thing, so that later, when she changes her story, he can corroborate, I did what every other waitress (or patron) tries so hard to avoid -- I engaged her in conversation. Must be the bartender in me.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Banana Nights
Leslie wasn't in on Saturday. And, as expected, the banana did not appear. The banana had come to represent the existence of their extramarital affair with each other -- Jason's extra mojo builder to get him over the late-night-hump so he would be able to keep up with someone half his age, once the stragglers were kicked out and Brady's was finally closed for the night.
On Banana Nights, the entire staff, ex-Leslie, would cash out and head next door to Charters, a dive bar that served cheap drinks and was open much later than Jason liked to keep Brady's open. Most of waitresses made this a weekend tradition -- the only requirement being that they made at least ten times more than they were planning to spend at Charters. (For most, that threshold was $150, but the number would go down, relative to the amount of frustrations and obnoxious patrons they dealt with at Brady's. And yes, the place is that cheap, where the girls could gossip for an hour or two, have 2 or 3 drinks, and still manage to drop only $15 each with tip included.)
And on these Banana Nights, when the girls would wrap up for the night and escort each other past Brady's to their cars, they would always notice Jason's office lights still on. Jason was not one to stick around, working the numbers or ordering inventory into the wee hours of the night, like some restaurant owners did. In his perfect world, Brady's would be closed up and he would be home every night by 10:30. He seemed bothered anytime he was forced to stay open to cater to any late arrivers, especially those that ended up nursing their glass of wine past 11:00.
He has been known to flick lights, noisily remove the cash register drawer, mop up floors around such patrons and explosively turn the music up deafeningly loud for half an instant, and then turn it off -- all in hopes that the late-night revelers would abandon their drinks and head out. Sometimes he would even offer up Charters next door - though he would never be caught dead in there himself.
This is how badly Jason hated being at Brady's too late. If he could meet these hopeful women at the door, that would have come in for the too-late-night-cap, he would, and say quite gruffly, "We're closed." They didn't want to eat, they would say. Just have a quick drink. Then he would stare, not say anything, until they changed their minds and left for friendlier places. As they left, he would pleasantly call after them, "Come back next week at 9...!"
He was so mad at me one night for letting some late-night women come in for their "quick drink" that he lectured me on what to do next time for the entire time they were there, explaining to me," If I wanted to listen to male bashing [which is what they were doing, and it was quite funny] I would just go home and talk to Sarah." Yikes. I bet Leslie doesn't male-bash...
And then the waitresses would notice Leslie's car still in the parking lot, too - and it was quite clear what they both were doing together at 1 in the morning, while their respective spouses waited at home for them to return from a "busy night" at Brady's.
But something happened to suddenly halt the affair for more than 6 months. Leslie left one day, mid-shift, throwing around allegations of sexual harassment on her way out the door to whomever would listen. (We're women -- we all listened!) But we weren't sure whether Leslie was telling the truth, or if she was feeling like a scorned woman and was lashing out to punish Jason for staying with his wife.
The week before Leslie's husband had come into Brady's with a few colleagues. Jason, it was reported, was acting like a jealous boyfriend the whole time, and kept sending for Leslie to see him in his office for made-up "emergencies" like scheduling conflicts and new drink menus. And then, before Leslie's husband ended his business dinner, he quietly stepped into Jason's office himself, closed the door, and spoke to him "man-to-man," Leslie told us.
No one was able to corroborate her story, since Leslie was the only waitress on the floor that night, handling both the bar and the dining room. Something probably happened, but the extent of the drama and intrigue is unknown. What we did all find out is that Leslie is a delusional, crazy, ego-maniac. And Jason isn't too much better for getting wrapped up in her drama-filled life. But from all accounts, he did seem to like her plenty.
And then suddenly, the same weekend that Jaques, Jason's star chef was gone, Leslie was back. Jason had plenty of things to worry about -- but Saturday night, a banana was not one of them. He must have given her the night off so he only had to deal with one crisis at a time. We thought.
On Banana Nights, the entire staff, ex-Leslie, would cash out and head next door to Charters, a dive bar that served cheap drinks and was open much later than Jason liked to keep Brady's open. Most of waitresses made this a weekend tradition -- the only requirement being that they made at least ten times more than they were planning to spend at Charters. (For most, that threshold was $150, but the number would go down, relative to the amount of frustrations and obnoxious patrons they dealt with at Brady's. And yes, the place is that cheap, where the girls could gossip for an hour or two, have 2 or 3 drinks, and still manage to drop only $15 each with tip included.)
And on these Banana Nights, when the girls would wrap up for the night and escort each other past Brady's to their cars, they would always notice Jason's office lights still on. Jason was not one to stick around, working the numbers or ordering inventory into the wee hours of the night, like some restaurant owners did. In his perfect world, Brady's would be closed up and he would be home every night by 10:30. He seemed bothered anytime he was forced to stay open to cater to any late arrivers, especially those that ended up nursing their glass of wine past 11:00.
He has been known to flick lights, noisily remove the cash register drawer, mop up floors around such patrons and explosively turn the music up deafeningly loud for half an instant, and then turn it off -- all in hopes that the late-night revelers would abandon their drinks and head out. Sometimes he would even offer up Charters next door - though he would never be caught dead in there himself.
This is how badly Jason hated being at Brady's too late. If he could meet these hopeful women at the door, that would have come in for the too-late-night-cap, he would, and say quite gruffly, "We're closed." They didn't want to eat, they would say. Just have a quick drink. Then he would stare, not say anything, until they changed their minds and left for friendlier places. As they left, he would pleasantly call after them, "Come back next week at 9...!"
He was so mad at me one night for letting some late-night women come in for their "quick drink" that he lectured me on what to do next time for the entire time they were there, explaining to me," If I wanted to listen to male bashing [which is what they were doing, and it was quite funny] I would just go home and talk to Sarah." Yikes. I bet Leslie doesn't male-bash...
And then the waitresses would notice Leslie's car still in the parking lot, too - and it was quite clear what they both were doing together at 1 in the morning, while their respective spouses waited at home for them to return from a "busy night" at Brady's.
But something happened to suddenly halt the affair for more than 6 months. Leslie left one day, mid-shift, throwing around allegations of sexual harassment on her way out the door to whomever would listen. (We're women -- we all listened!) But we weren't sure whether Leslie was telling the truth, or if she was feeling like a scorned woman and was lashing out to punish Jason for staying with his wife.
The week before Leslie's husband had come into Brady's with a few colleagues. Jason, it was reported, was acting like a jealous boyfriend the whole time, and kept sending for Leslie to see him in his office for made-up "emergencies" like scheduling conflicts and new drink menus. And then, before Leslie's husband ended his business dinner, he quietly stepped into Jason's office himself, closed the door, and spoke to him "man-to-man," Leslie told us.
No one was able to corroborate her story, since Leslie was the only waitress on the floor that night, handling both the bar and the dining room. Something probably happened, but the extent of the drama and intrigue is unknown. What we did all find out is that Leslie is a delusional, crazy, ego-maniac. And Jason isn't too much better for getting wrapped up in her drama-filled life. But from all accounts, he did seem to like her plenty.
And then suddenly, the same weekend that Jaques, Jason's star chef was gone, Leslie was back. Jason had plenty of things to worry about -- but Saturday night, a banana was not one of them. He must have given her the night off so he only had to deal with one crisis at a time. We thought.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Mystery and Drama -- On the Inside
Wow, do I wish I had more time before heading back into the insanity that is work these days. And no, I don't mean the Insanity with a capital "I" that I have started subjecting myself to on a daily basis. Now that P90X is just a fond (yeah, right) distant memory, a crazy, jacked, (dare-I-say "hot") former track and field star named Shawn T (well, actually he goes by Sean but I like the way Shaawwwwwn sounds so much better.) has been kicking my ass into cardio shape.
He promises 1 year of results in just 60 days of exercise. The way my attention span falters, I figured it was a sure thing. You are not sure if you watching a Saturday Night Live skit when he says things like "You see this leg?" with his slightly-flamboyant mannerisms and less than masculine voice. "You are gonna pick this leg up. Oh, yeah, look at me pickin' this leg up, ya'll!" But hey, he's cute, sweaty and if I can get abs even close to the hot chicks that run suicides and mountain climbers behind him in the basketball court, then I am more than thrilled to have signed up.
No, the insanity of which I am speaking is the predicted sure demise of a once-great bar and restaurant. Well, maybe that's an overstatement - an exaggeration of sorts. But things, they are a changin'.
Last night, for instance, after walking into work after only being gone for 5 short days (love those 2-day work weeks! Especially on Sundays when the work "week" is over...), I learn that the award-winning, much-beloved chef is no longer running Brady's. Hmm, odd - wasn't I just dancing with him at the Club next door not 5 nights ago, blowing off after-work steam, and NOT TALKING about how it was his last night? Hmmph. I guess he didn't want to ruin the celebratory mood or our late-night buzzes, happy to finally enjoy them after a crazy night of relentless service. We were enjoying being the ones to say "Blah blah blah, in a tall glass, with crushed - not cubed - ice, 4 olives, cryogenically cold, and really strong". (Oh, right - that was snobby, bum-hip, elbow-patched navy blue blazer... not US).
Anyway, Chef Jacques was gone. But the lines were still forming, people still clamoring to get seats at the bar before the people ahead of them who lingered just a second too long at the hostess stand did. (Oh, and these seat-stealers always come prepared to defend their brazenness to those whose seats they "stole". "It's a free country" they say. I always hate that reasoning. And it's always met with "Well, we were ahead of you." Another equally compelling defense. And then it always moves along to "As long as you buy us a drink, we'll LET you have our seats." I try to mediate, wanting everyone to sit, to enjoy, to tip... So I interject when I should, stay quiet when I can, and use my bartender ESP to solve everything, like "Hey, these people are leaving soon; you can have their seats - they're a better angle to the TV and basketball scores anyway," I manage with a side-nod and a wide-eye connection to the offended party. Usually works.)
But, back to the missing chef. It doesn't really affect my night, because bar-sitters come first for the atmosphere (okay, "Bartender"), second for the drinks, and a distant third for the chef's reputation. As long as one and two on their priority list are covered, I am sure they will overlook the fact that the sous-chef has quietly assumed the top duties. And yes, the kitchen is open, so it is really their fault for not noticing themselves that the celebrity is no longer back there concocting their orders with his notorious flair.
No matter, really, because their backs are to the kitchen; their attention being paid to the Celtics, the bartender, and sometimes even their date. So crisis averted. LAST NIGHT.
But will tonight be different, I wonder. Will the word spread as it does in the close-knit fine-dining environment, enough by tonight that people will actually ask, interested in the imagined (or not) drama that surrounded this surprising exit??
Or will tonight simply be a retrodden version of LAST night? Where people worry more about the obnoxious drunk in the corner, who called the classy bartender "the girl with the pipes" who he would want on his side if there were ever a fight in the bar (wishful thinking on his part on both counts); or that Chris, the Bar Back is so dejected over the sudden break-up of his still-in-college sweetheart that he wanted to punch the guy because he referred to him as the "kid" he would "forget about", not wanting him on his side in the fight.
Or maybe the mysterious "banana" will reappear again tonight (which can only mean that Jason the owner is trying to increase his late-night stamina later before he goes to visit his rumored ex-mistress, whom he recently hired back to the restaurant.) The Banana was back last night, a silent and sudden fixture on his office desk, that hadn't been there for over 6 months -- the same amount of time as Leslie's hiatus from Brady's. And, as a coincidence, wife Sarah was absent. Had she taken off with Jacques to make a fresh start in this gossip-riddled, tawdry food industry?
Time will tell. Tonight the bartender will be just as interested in the interworkings of the staff and management as she will be in the blind dates, drunken shenanigans and embarrassing moments usually reserved for just the patrons. Can't wait to go in: T minus 2 hours!
He promises 1 year of results in just 60 days of exercise. The way my attention span falters, I figured it was a sure thing. You are not sure if you watching a Saturday Night Live skit when he says things like "You see this leg?" with his slightly-flamboyant mannerisms and less than masculine voice. "You are gonna pick this leg up. Oh, yeah, look at me pickin' this leg up, ya'll!" But hey, he's cute, sweaty and if I can get abs even close to the hot chicks that run suicides and mountain climbers behind him in the basketball court, then I am more than thrilled to have signed up.
No, the insanity of which I am speaking is the predicted sure demise of a once-great bar and restaurant. Well, maybe that's an overstatement - an exaggeration of sorts. But things, they are a changin'.
Last night, for instance, after walking into work after only being gone for 5 short days (love those 2-day work weeks! Especially on Sundays when the work "week" is over...), I learn that the award-winning, much-beloved chef is no longer running Brady's. Hmm, odd - wasn't I just dancing with him at the Club next door not 5 nights ago, blowing off after-work steam, and NOT TALKING about how it was his last night? Hmmph. I guess he didn't want to ruin the celebratory mood or our late-night buzzes, happy to finally enjoy them after a crazy night of relentless service. We were enjoying being the ones to say "Blah blah blah, in a tall glass, with crushed - not cubed - ice, 4 olives, cryogenically cold, and really strong". (Oh, right - that was snobby, bum-hip, elbow-patched navy blue blazer... not US).
Anyway, Chef Jacques was gone. But the lines were still forming, people still clamoring to get seats at the bar before the people ahead of them who lingered just a second too long at the hostess stand did. (Oh, and these seat-stealers always come prepared to defend their brazenness to those whose seats they "stole". "It's a free country" they say. I always hate that reasoning. And it's always met with "Well, we were ahead of you." Another equally compelling defense. And then it always moves along to "As long as you buy us a drink, we'll LET you have our seats." I try to mediate, wanting everyone to sit, to enjoy, to tip... So I interject when I should, stay quiet when I can, and use my bartender ESP to solve everything, like "Hey, these people are leaving soon; you can have their seats - they're a better angle to the TV and basketball scores anyway," I manage with a side-nod and a wide-eye connection to the offended party. Usually works.)
But, back to the missing chef. It doesn't really affect my night, because bar-sitters come first for the atmosphere (okay, "Bartender"), second for the drinks, and a distant third for the chef's reputation. As long as one and two on their priority list are covered, I am sure they will overlook the fact that the sous-chef has quietly assumed the top duties. And yes, the kitchen is open, so it is really their fault for not noticing themselves that the celebrity is no longer back there concocting their orders with his notorious flair.
No matter, really, because their backs are to the kitchen; their attention being paid to the Celtics, the bartender, and sometimes even their date. So crisis averted. LAST NIGHT.
But will tonight be different, I wonder. Will the word spread as it does in the close-knit fine-dining environment, enough by tonight that people will actually ask, interested in the imagined (or not) drama that surrounded this surprising exit??
Or will tonight simply be a retrodden version of LAST night? Where people worry more about the obnoxious drunk in the corner, who called the classy bartender "the girl with the pipes" who he would want on his side if there were ever a fight in the bar (wishful thinking on his part on both counts); or that Chris, the Bar Back is so dejected over the sudden break-up of his still-in-college sweetheart that he wanted to punch the guy because he referred to him as the "kid" he would "forget about", not wanting him on his side in the fight.
Or maybe the mysterious "banana" will reappear again tonight (which can only mean that Jason the owner is trying to increase his late-night stamina later before he goes to visit his rumored ex-mistress, whom he recently hired back to the restaurant.) The Banana was back last night, a silent and sudden fixture on his office desk, that hadn't been there for over 6 months -- the same amount of time as Leslie's hiatus from Brady's. And, as a coincidence, wife Sarah was absent. Had she taken off with Jacques to make a fresh start in this gossip-riddled, tawdry food industry?
Time will tell. Tonight the bartender will be just as interested in the interworkings of the staff and management as she will be in the blind dates, drunken shenanigans and embarrassing moments usually reserved for just the patrons. Can't wait to go in: T minus 2 hours!
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