Edubabble and other Blither

Dios mio! An authentic Mexican restaurant here in Dogpatch! I am in heaven...and currently eating Tripper's nachos. (He doesn't know the takeout meal included them.) I'll try to save him a few. Can I pass it off as my payment for being such a kind wife as to thoughtfully bring him home a delicious meal???

Now, I know that to people from Scenic Town my restaurant doesn't sound so bueno. You're probably right. To us, however, it's a blessing. It's not Taco Bell. It's not a chain. It's run by real Mexicans! Maybe there are some illegals! At any rate, suffice it to say it's a big deal here in a town where people order qwasadillows from Perkins and think they've eaten Mexican.

Here in Dogpatch I've always been somewhat of a food snob. I've never liked the sauce here when I've gotten pasta. Phooey! Marinara. (Insert condescending food snob face.) Real Italians (translation: those I grew up with in Professor Girl's Rust Belt Town) make traditional meatless sauce that simmers for hours. One time I ordered wedding soup, and it had a cream base. I was quietly disgusted. Tripper says that all Italians think their own wedding soup is the only soup. I tell him he's wrong. My Italians have the right soup: escarole, not spinach; chicken; pastina, not rice; meatballs.

I remember that turbulent time in Rust Belt Town (Professor Girl, may I use that name?) known as the Sauce Wars. My step-father had taken over running his late brother's restaurant. It served the regular Rust Belt Town fare: sauce, lamb dinners, lamb burgers, lamb salad. No mint jelly, thank you. He was thrilled when old Mary Italiano came to work for him. She, you see, had been stolen from another restaurant in town. It was as if he had won the lottery or had gotten the buddy price on a top-of-the-line cell phone. Mary's former employers were not pleased; it was rumored a price had been put on my stepfather's head.

I helped out once or twice at that restaurant, after having gotten experience at the Sgt. London during college. I've also filled in from time to time over the past 13 years at O'Malley's Pub, so I've done my share of waitressing. It's good for me. Waitressing allows me to appreciate the fact that I don't have to rely on tips to pay my bills anymore-- and to remain sympathetic to those who do. It's nice to work a job that you can leave at work when the day is finished. I also get a kick out of waiting on the families of my students. They experience cognitive dissonance, I'm sure, when I appear, hair in a ponytail, apron-clad, and say, "Hello, my name is Chrissy, and I'll be your server today."

Women, I've learned, and I'm no exception, want to be left alone when dining together, and keep the drinks coming. Men, on the other hand, especially older men, want to flirt and joke. Of course, none of these men are funny. Sometimes they know this, sometimes not. Good customers try to clean up the area where their toddler has hurled food and opened packet upon packet of sugar. Bad customers smirk as they leave and half apologetically say, "Oh, we're so sorry, but kids will be kids." Teenagers order burgers and sandwiches, even for the prom, and don't have money to tip. (When I was 22 and paying my rent with my tip money, this bothered me. Now it doesn't. They're kids.)

I had never worked fast food, however, until recently, for a McDonald's school fundraiser-- McTeacher's Night. A school can gather, threaten, or bribe up several teachers to work two-hour shifts on a slow weekday night. The payoff? 20% of the sales. When we arrived, we got presents: a cool one-size-fits-all smock that boasted McTeacher's Night, and a commemorative McDonald's coffee mug to boot. Never mind that upon donning the smock some of my fellow McTeachers resembled Baby Huey in a bib.

At any rate, let me say I worked my ass off. I didn't expect it to be a cake walk, but it was hard. Thankfully, the teenaged workers were kind to us, as I'm sure we were nothing but a big old inconvenience. I started off as a cashier. I demanded this job since I had been a cashier for a few years a the local downtown Rust Belt Town grocery store. That was back before automation, back when you had know what was taxable food, taxable non-food, non-taxable food, and non-taxable non-food. It was hard, man.

So was the McDonald's cash register. Because we were, um, celebrities, the place was packed with cheering and jeering students and their brow-beaten parents, other teachers who were smart enough to say no, and school board and community members. I worked that register for the first hour and stopped when I had had enough of Loud-Mouthed-Gym-Teacher working the crowd (she had given up on the cash register). I couldn't hear the orders over her impromtu orchestration of a cheering section. Perhaps she WAS only trying to smooth things over for the hungry crowd waiting for Extra Value Meals, but I had had enough. I moved, then, to the shake and McFlurry station for awhile, then finally gave up after a half-hour on the condiment apparati-- pretty nifty ketchup and mustard dispensers. I know this may be hard to believe, but I did indeed purchase some McFood when I finished. It tasted pretty good.

I think I'll stick, however, at least for awhile, to my brand new Mexicanesque restaurant.

Yes, there's a respectable number of nachos left.