Upper crust
To get the obvious out of the way from the get-go, the upper crust is always the flakiest. [Take that as you will, you upper crusters!]
Reginald Armbruster is no exception. Though silver-spooned at birth, spoiled from the outset and privately schooled, he didn't make the most of his cushy start. I guess if one never has to really work for anything there's no need to tuck in one's shirt, pull up one's trousers, zip one's fly, pull down one's hat brim, tie one's shoes, look in the mirror and face the music.
The trouble with being a flaky playboy is that most people figure you out pretty quickly and then don't much want to play.
[This reminds me, for no apparent reason, of Mason Williams'® prince who was eaten by his panties.1]
Reggie is flaky in several ways. I'm sure you can imagine.
His few friends simply shake their heads and say to themselves, “That Reggie.” To the extent that he has any amigos at all it is largely due to the fact that he generally picks up the tab, which says as much about them as him, or so I infer.
Are you for sale? I thought not.
Nor am I.
Anyway, yes, he's a flat earther for one thing, though at the same time be believes the globe is hollow and inhabited by aliens. He also believes in Ikea®. If he was a reader [and he is not, even declining the proofing of this story] and had perused the first tale herein he would likely start talking to mattresses. [Referring to first tale in the print edition.]
I suppose that means that Terry (pg. 13, et. al.) might be considered “flaky” as well, and—given his work situation [fire tower]—“upper” applies, if not “crust” but there is a fundamental difference between believing something one reads and theorizing.
Terry theorizes.
In any event, non-readers are ipso facto2 flakes.3 IMHO.
[Did you notice how I slipped in a Latin phrase? Classy, eh?]
Also, and this may be the worst … Reggie doesn't listen.
But that's not what this story is about. It involves dinner(s) at a fairly posh restaurant. Redge, as some of us call him, invited five friends to dine at La Bamba®—on him, as usual—to celebrate the introduction of purple M&Ms®, a candy brand of which he is inordinately fond.
La Bamba® had been hiring of late, which was helpful to Mitch Evans and Larry Trout who had recently been relieved of their duty on the local police force due to budget cuts. The age old labor policy of last-in/first-out had, sadly, been applied, although when they were recruited to the La Bamba® waitstaff they were pleasantly surprised by the pay increase.
Evans and Trout had trained under Detective Jason Newsome and Officer Bill Pronke, the duo made famous for their good cop/bad cop interrogations.4 They got more beans spilled than any other team on the force and the trainees brought their acquired skillset to the new job. (Though with a somewhat different approach to the spilling of beans.)
On the night in question the servers chatted at the start of their shift.
Trout: “I want to be the first bad waiter tonight. I'm in the mood.
Evans: “Fine with me!. I'll go second”
When Redge and company had been seated and given priceless menus (i.e. no price listings, high end or what?) by the maître du restaurant5 the new waiters stepped to tableside.
“Good evening, I'm Mitchell and this is Lawrence.”
The other added, “We'll be your servers this evening.” He then added, “Could you get out of my way?” He gave one of the diners a bit of a shove. “I think I left my gum here.” He reached under the table, felt around, and then appeared to put something in his mouth.
Mitch proceeded to take drink orders while Larry chewed.
“Not mine,” with which he again nudged and returned the “gum” to its place of origin, then headed toward the kitchen.
“Nice choice,” or “Excellent,” or “My favorite,” was the waiter's response to each beverage choice except the last which was to stick with water. “Of course.” After taking the orders to the bar, Mitch quickly returned with a pitcher and filled the crystal water goblets all around while the guests continued their animated conversation.
“That gum trick!”
“Couldn't be real.”
“But if if was?”
“Hilarious!”
“Gross.”
Etc.
*Then back to the usual uplifting discussions of upper- crusters everywhere—divorces, stock splits, homes in the Hamptons, private jets, yachts, Beemers6 and Rolexes®.
Before long Larry returned with the drinks on a tray. As he set a tumbler of Johnny Walker® in front of the first diner he commented, “Sticking with the cheap stuff, huh? That say's a lot about a man.” He made similarly disparaging remarks regarding two house-gin martinis, and a house-brand Manhattan, but reserved a more cutting remark for Jeremy Bonners who had ordered Sangria. “Can't drink with the grownups, can we?”
Finally he addressed Norm Clayton. “Water, huh? Guess you're fighting that drinking problem.” As he stepped away he knocked Clayton's spoon to the floor, picked it up and set it back beside the man's plate before departing.
“I never!”
“Who does he think he is?”
“What a jerk.”
“The rudeness!”
Etc.
Fifteen minutes passed as the conversation settled into the usual. (*See the 8th paragraph upslope.)
Mitch returned.. “Have you good gentlemen made decisions regarding appetizers? I particularly recommend the Citrus-Pickled Oysters on Toast. It's our chef's specialty.”
Again as he took orders his comments were upbeat. “Ah the oysters, good choice. Ah, the bacon and date, can't go wrong there. Another oyster, you'll be glad you chose that.” On and on around the table. Finally Clayton ordered the Crab Rangoon and the waiter said, “Ah sir, you clearly have refined taste. Excellent decision! Oh, a clean spoon? Certainly.” He returned quickly with the replacement, then, off to the kitchen.7
“Polar opposite.”
“Can't wait to taste the oysters.”
“Top notch!”
Etc.
(*See the previously referenced paragraph.)
Meanwhile, in an adjoining dining area, Larry stepped up to an 8-top. “Good evening. I'm Lawrence and this is my partner Mitchell.”
Mitch added. “We'll be your serving team this evening.” Then he gave a nearby diner a nudge, reached for his “gum” under the table top and popped “it” in his mouth.
Larry continued, “I see we're celebrating a birthday this evening! Congratulations Ms. Ratner! Mitch and I will make sure it is a happy one! To start off I'll be pleased to take your drink orders.” He went around the table, jotting notes on an iPad®. “Good choice! Ah, Sam Adams®, that's patriotic! A Gibson, of course!” And so forth.
“Not mine,” Mitch offered, gave the patron another nudge and stuck the “gum” back beneath the table.
“I never!” was the only response from the nudgee, one Paul Landry. After both waiters left there was some amused chatter before the conversation returned to the usual banter of used car salespersons everywhere.
“I absolutely scalped a woman on a 2016 Tacoma®! She paid at least $500 over book.”
“That's pretty good, but I took a guy for a major ride this morning. Almost $1K over book on a Beemer.”
“My way is to low-ball the trade-ins instead of bumping the sticker. Then I clean up on the next sale.”
Etc. (We'll designate this convo with ** instead of *.)
Soon enough Mitch showed up with the beverages. “I see we're all sticking with the cheap stuff tonight. Well, it's your livers, not mine.” He proceeded to set tumblers and high balls around the table. As he reached to deliver the last of these to Landry he said, “Oh, a Manhattan! Love me a Manhattan!” He took a long gulp from the stemware before setting it down and heading back toward the kitchen.
“Do you believe that?”
“I'd ask for a replacement if I were you.”
[When Larry returned—see the eighth graf downslope—he handled the request with aplomb.]
A bit later Larry returned to Reggie's table with a large tray which he set on the adjacent stand.
“Let's see, you wanted the oyster mess, right? Do you know what those things eat? Disgusting.” Next came “Bacon? Seriously? Breakfast food at dinner time? Where did you grow up?” Then “I warned your buddy over there about the oysters.” And so forth until he served Clayton. “Ordering Burmese in a Latino themed restaurant seems like a really, really stupid move. Maybe you need a drink.” He walked away, guffawing.
“What hole did he crawl out of?”
“Can you believe?
“No tip for that one. I feel sorry for his partner.”
Etc.
(*See the previously referenced paragraph.)
Leaving that table Larry rounded the corner, assured Landry that a fresh drink would be promptly provided and requested hors d'oeuvres8 orders. “I would point out that the Crab Rangoon is one of our chef's specialties.” With orders accepted he headed kitchen-ward.
Snickering and car talk (**) ensued.
In a few minutes Mitch appeared with the replacement drink. “Not much for sharing, are we?” He swapped out cocktail glasses and took another long gulp from the first, shook his head and left, returning to Reggie's table.
“How is everything? I'm sure you're enjoying things. More drinks? And are you ready to order entrees?”
Soon he had lists of both and headed to the bar and kitchen.
Larry returned with the second round and collected empties. “Oh,” he said to Clayton. “I saw your dinner order. Really? Really? Fellow, you definitely need a drink. Maybe a jello shot? I see you ordered the machaca. At least you're off of the Burmese crap, but have you ever seen that stuff? Looks like vomit to me.” He snickered as he left.
“I think we need to speak to management.”
“Maybe bring it up with his partner?”
“No tip for that jerk. I bet Mitchell loses out.”
Etc.
(*See the previously referenced paragraph.)
Mitch came back to “see how everyone is doing.”
Ted Armour spoke up. “Mitchell, your teammate is unbelievably rude. How do you put up with him?”
“And disgusting,” added Ben Willis. “Really disgusting.”
“Ah, I wasn't aware. I don't know him that well, but I thought him a hard worker. I'll have a word with him, and please, please accept my apology for whatever he's done. Now, your entrees will be out in just a bit, but is there anything you need right now?”
Redge ordered two bottles of Faustino®, a Spanish red.
“Scotch, neat. Make it a double.” Clayton paused. “Glen Morangie®9.”
“Certainly, sir,” then with a little bow he added, “The best of the single malts!”
In short order Mitch returned with the drink, the wine bottles and six crystal copas de vino. He uncorked one bottle and handed the stopper to Redge who squeezed it approvingly, then poured a dash into the host's goblet. Redge tasted and nodded and the waiter, noting patrons' affirmations, poured wine into four of the copas.“Enjoy!” Then off to the kitchen.
“Night and day.”
“A credit to his upbringing.”
“Or training.”
“Every waiter should be so good.”
(*See the previously referenced paragraph.)
Next Mitch picked up the birthday appetizers and delivered them to the salespeople. “So, you all fell for that Rangoon pitch? Our chef never made that crap before tonight. Hadda bunch of fake crab meat, you know, made from some kinda junk fish? Going bad. Hadda do something with it.” He strode off shaking his head.
Larry arrived with the Reggie meals. “Bunch of damn tattle-tales, huh? Can't stand a little honest criticism, huh? Look, you high and mighties. I need this job and you're trying to get me fired?” He slammed down plates. Chilorio scattered, onions flew from atop pork enchiladas, a splash of pozole verde splatted into Armour's lap, a chunk of carne asada fell into Willis' martini, and a piece of pollo mole landed on the floor. The waiter snatched it up and returned it to Reggie's plate. “Ten second rule.” Finally he delivered Clayton's machaca.10 “Off the wagon so soon? You'll need it. See, it does look like vomit.” He spilled the side dish of refried beans on the table, picked up the tray, stomped off, then gracefully approached Ratner's group.
“How are we doing? I see you haven't touched your hors d'oeuvres!” Informed of Mitch's disparagement he replied, “Oh, Mitch. What a sense of humor. Nothing wrong with the crabmeat at all. And I assure you it is real crab. I ate a couple myself when I came on duty. Delish!”
One and then another of the auto merchants gingerly nibbled, then dove in. “Now, are you ready to order entrees?” They did, along with more drinks, and chit chat returned to the biz. (**)
At the first table Reggie was laughing. “What a character!” He cut off a piece of chicken and forked it toward his mouth.
“Redge! You're not going to eat that!”
“Ten second rule,” and he popped it in, chewed, then down the chute. [He evidently listened in this case.]
Armour wiped a few drops of soup off his trousers then sampled a spoonful. “Mmm. Quite tasty.”
Willis fished the beef out of his drink, tasted it, and proceeded to dip more of the asada in the martini. “Really good,” he affirmed.
Clayton was pushing his machaca around on the plate, but not eating, clearly uncomfortable with Larry's characterization of the meal. Finally he waved to get Mitch's attention. “I need another double,” he implored.
“Certainly my good man. It's my favorite too.”
Following a big gulp of his second drink Clayton tasted a small bite of the shredded beef. “Actually pretty good, no matter what that asshat had to say about it.” He proceeded toward what my folks always called the Clean Plate Club®.
(Conversation soon settled into what we heard in the *previously referenced paragraph.)
Mitch delivered the next round for the birthday celebrants. “Sticking with the rot-gut, are we?” Then to Landry, “I see you ordered the machaca.” He sighed. “Don't say I didn't warn you, but that crap looks like vomit to me.”11
I don't think we need to further belabor this as I'm sure you can imagine dessert orders and so forth based on what has transpired so far, including flan in a wine glass and a chunk of pastel de tres leches on a shirt front, Mitch knocking over a wine bottle at the Ratner table and Larry loudly farting at the other.
When Mitch delivered the check to Reggie the host placed his plastic card on the tray and pressed cash into the waiter's palm. “This is for you, sir. Please don't share it with your rude partner.”
“Whatever you say, good fellow. Whatever you say.”
The bill was crisp and Mitch knew from his police work that the crisp ones hadn't much circulated, meaning it was almost certainly a Big Ben. As he slipped the money into his pocket he found he felt at least two notes. (!) He smiled.
Back in the kitchen the waiters split the 200 bucks and Mitch told Larry, “Worked as usual. That's like a 30 percent tip! Good job, bro. Good job!”
The tip at Ratner's table was less generous, used car folks being notorious tightwads.12 But 15 percent is 15 percent and it was a big tab. I don't think Mitch was any less bad, nor Larry less good, but they are still learning the ropes. Their future's so bright … dark glasses fer sure.
********
NOTE PER FOOTNOTES: Substack starts off with new numbering each time I post a story. But Footnotes in the original book are continuous and often refer back to previous super important stuff. So original Footnote #s are included below in [#]s.
1 [226] The prince had 100 cocker spaniels. The only thing he loved about them was their panting, hence he called them “panties.” To make them pant he “ran them ragged,” and their reaction was to consume him. The Mason Williams Phonograph Record, Warner Bros., 1968. On the first printing of the record the track title was misspelled as “Princess Panties,” making that version more valuable to collectors.
2 [227] Latin!
3 [228] I can get away with this kind of broad-brush characterization because I know that if you've gotten to page 98, you are not one of the above. Also, I bet you're excited! Only two more pages until we start the downhill run!
4 [229]See footnote 97. [See, this is the kind of place where original numbering comes into play.]
5 [230] You can tell it's a classy joint when this is written en français!
6 [231] No ® because this is not a registered trademark.
7 [232] Note that we have reached the midpoint. Only 100 pages to go and you'll be out of this morass. All downhill from here!
8 [233] It's clear that the French appellation is more impressive than the prosaic “appetizer.”
9 [234] Does Scots count as a new language?
10 [235] Note how many words in this paragraph are en Español!
11 [236] We see here how these teammates have shared ideas.
12 [237] True fact, and you know how fond I am of such. My brother (RIP) did a stint as a used car agent and sold me a vehicle, assuring me that he'd gotten me the best possible deal and that he'd even declined his commission in the process to save me money. I learned from one of his co-workers somewhat later … he had not. Also, it was a serious lemon. That was in the mid-90s and I soon traded it in at a different dealership for an excellent 1994 truck I still own. [In 2024.]
Copyright 2023, Cecil Bothwell, All rights reserved.