My son does a fair amount of writing of his own, so I thought I’d share his take on a recent visit to the land of all things “southernmost.”

The Southernmost Tourist Line
by RG Son

I took a little trip down to South Florida a few weeks ago to visit my mom who resides on “The Rock,” aka somewhere along Route 1 in the Keys. I flew into Lauderdale, and having never been all the way south, she suggested we start our trip in Key West. A short four-hour journey down was a great time to catch up on all things life, and by the time we got to KW we were both excited to take in some relaxing warmth via beaches and booze.

Like traveling anywhere in the Keys, you have to drive over a number of bridges to hop from rock to rock. Going to Key West, however, means you get to travel over the 7 Mile Bridge. Supposedly there is a 7 Mile Bridge run every year…it’s now on my bucket list…

Southernmost Life

Key West, of course, is located in Monroe County, the southernmost county in the United States. Thus, everything down there is the southernmost of its kind.

The Southernmost Queen Anne windows

The truly Southernmost House

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The southernmost bar

The southernmost slot machine on a porch

The southernmost fresh squeezed OJ

The southernmost delicious eggs benny

The southernmost mile marker…and likely the southernmost Bockfest t-shirt

My favorite though, is the southernmost point. A mere 90 miles from Castro’s cigars, people stand in what I have dubbed the southernmost tourist line to take a picture at the southernmost monument.

Or they do what I did, sit on the wall in front and get a picture with someone else’s family behind you…southernmost jackass? Maybe….

The southernmost little boy with his mama! Love You!

I have an aunt. She’s that aunt who never married and doesn’t shave her legs anymore. She likes to wear long dresses with white socks. I think she fought in some kind of guerilla war at one point, but it’s never discussed. She has hands that are so rough, they can be used to smooth wood.

Her name is Carmen and she asks that I call her by her first name. She’s not old enough to be an aunt, she says. She says a lot of things.

Today she told me that she wasn’t going to vote anymore.

“It’s just not worth it anymore.”

Turns out that it’s not worth it anymore.

“I’m not voting for George Bush next year. He’s never getting my vote again.”

Carmen thinks that George Bush is running for something next year. It’s best to not question Carmen. Her hands, her hands, ay her hands.

Carmen, why aren’t you going to vote for George Bush? You have a picture of him.

“Not anymore. George Bush hates children. Republicans hate children. I can’t vote for him anymore.”

I think that somewhere Carmen votes for George Bush daily. It’s best to not ask questions. If you ask questions, that means you care. In this case, however, I care a little bit.

Why does George Bush hate children, Carmen?

“He doesn’t want to give the children health insurance. They’re all going to die. Every single one of them. Democrats kill the children, but if the Republicans aren’t going to keep them alive, then it’s not even worth it. They’re all murderers.”

That makes complete sense. I’m not voting for George Bush, either. He’s never getting my vote again.

“That’s why it’s important for young people to know about the issues. If you don’t read the news and watch the television, you’ll never know what’s going on. You’re very lucky to have me El Guapo. Very lucky.”

Lucky like stepping on a nail, Carmen. Lucky like stepping on a nail.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

I have no idea what happened, but I am more than a little sad about it.

When times were good and not so good, I could always check in with El Guapo in D.C. to see how his crazy life was faring. His stories made me smile, even laugh aloud. Sometimes his stories made my heart ache, in their poignancy.

I am often asked to link to other sites. Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not. I am often asked why I link to the sites I do. Simply put: I link to good writers who share great stories. Some are serious, some are hilarious. Some of my linked bloggers post infrequently. That’s okay. It’s the writing that counts.

El Guapo may have stopped writing for his blog, but I do hope he continues to write. He is a rare talent, and I urge any of my readers who have not visited his site, to do so while you can. Peruse the archives, read it from the beginning. Read only a few posts. How ever much or little you read, you will be very glad you did.

El Guapo, best of luck to you. Take care of your friend Miguel, hug your wonderful mom, and most of all, keep writing.

Best, and mucho amor to you, my friend,

The Gal

I will be offline until later in the week. As I hit the highway south, enjoy this post from someone to whom I am most beholden, and who is almost ready to admit he is as addicted to the restaurant biz as I am–if he would only give up that pesky day job!

My thanks to you, my friend.

A Walk in Their Shoes

Picture yourself thrust into someone else’s job—one you’ve seen others do hundreds of times before. It looks easy enough. In fact, you think that anyone could do that job. Until it is unexpectedly thrust upon you, and you quickly realize that job is more like the “highly skilled” professions with which you are familiar—requiring finley honed skills, plenty of training and thinking-on-your-feet experience.

For reference, I am a baby-boomer professional who has never garnered one paycheck from the hospitality industry. I got my teenage pay toting golf bags over hill and across dale. I have a dear friend, however, who is a highly successful restaurateur in my city, and he has infected me with a bit of his passion for the business.

Several years ago, the promoters of a regional festival approached him about providing food service. I am convinced they were thinking of a kiosk of some kind. My friend, however, submitted a proposal for a full-service, sit-down restaurant. A restaurant to be open for just two weeks, with 150 seats, a bar, and a temporary kitchen with no running water. The promoters loved it.

So, every year for the past few years, a team of designers, architects, contractors, investors, restaurant managers and my restaurateur build a restaurant from scratch, serve 500 or so three-course lunches each day for a couple of weeks, and tear it all down.

This year happened to be the first year that I could be in town for this “Brigadoon” restaurant’s opening, and I stopped by to wish my friend well. The back of the house staff seemed relatively calm, but the front of the house clearly was on edge. The restaurant, on the other hand, was stunning; there was no way you could tell construction had been completed only hours before, at 2:00 a.m. No soft openings for his place; not even any chance for staff training beyond a 10-minute pre-service meeting. In racing parlance, this was a Formula One standing start – zero to 300 kph in just a few seconds.

At 10:45 a.m., the entrance to the restaurant was packed with guests. At 11:00 a.m., the maitre d’ began seating guests. At 11:02 a.m., I saw that no one was taking care of bread service. I told the kitchen manager working the pass that I would take care of it.

Tray of bread in the oven, check. More ready to go in; check. Butter ready, check. Cutting board and bread knife, check. Baskets, um….

“Anyone know what he wants to serve bread in?”

“Yeah, there are baskets here somewhere.”

Several frantic moments later, I found the stash of baskets. Bread tongs, check. Remove UPC code stickers from tongs, check. For the next several minutes, I was happily doing simple work. Slice bread, line basket with napkin, load basket, cover, give to servers, fire more bread, repeat.

At 11:15 a.m., every restaurant seat was taken — by 150 hungry guests with high expectations. The front of the house was already so far in the weeds they could not see where the thicket stopped and the rest of the service began. Absolutely no one knew how to use the POS system. Sure, tickets were printing in the kitchen as fast as the printer would run, but that wasn’t a good thing. Appetizers and main courses were being fired all on the same ticket. Two, three or four tickets were printing out for the same table. Sometimes it was multiple copies of the same ticket; sometimes it was one guest per ticket.

Each server somehow figured out his or her individual way to make the POS accept an order. The trouble was, not one of those ways was consistent, or was presented in a way the kitchen could deal with the order.

And the kitchen manager wants to scream, “STOP!”

But he can’t. Because this suddenly-sprouted restaurant is open, filled to capacity, and guests need to served. So, my restaurateur friend and the manager from his permanent restaurant ventured forth to conduct one-on-one, on-the-job, real-time POS training. Timing is everything.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, sense was starting to be made of the first crush of tickets; some awere discarded, some were taped together, others were torn in two. It was creative, anyway you look at it.

Food began hitting the pass but there were no servers to be found in the kitchen. They were all hacking away at the weeds and simply could not find the kitchen door. The kitchen manager working the pass looked a look at me. Me? So I shrugged and slipped on an apron.

And I was suddenly terrified.

I am very comfortable in kitchens, even restaurant kitchens, even one as crazy as this one. But I have never, not once, ever, served food to a guest in a restaurant setting. Oh, I know how to be a guest, and I know what I expect of a server down to the smallest detail, but I have no real idea how to DO any of those things.

So, appetizers, table 5, party of three. Do I know how to carry three plates without getting my fingerprints all over them? Maybe. But can I? Without dropping one or more of them? Without bumping into another server? Without sloshing the sauce all over the plate–or a guest?

And just where the heck is table 5? This ticket is rung with seat numbers, but where is seat 1? A little voice tells me that I won’t find seat 1 until after I have managed to find table 5. Off I went, through the swinging door, into a world I have experienced only from the other side.

“Psst, where is table 5?” I asked one of the other servers. He was clueless. “What do you mean you don’t know?” I asked him. “ It’s your table; your name is on the ticket.” Never mind.

But then I realized something else — the table numbers have been camouflaged to look like part of the beautiful centerpieces. Brilliant! They are so beautiful, in fact, that the guests love them. They love them so much, they have been passing them around between the tables. Some of the centerpieces have lost one or more table-number digits. Most have been turned so you cannot see the hidden numbers from the aisle. As for seat numbers? What seat numbers?

I now know there is a special place in heaven for those guests who cleared tables while I cleaned golf balls, who remembered enough from those days to realize what was hidden in the centerpieces. “Table 5,” whispered one such guest, as I stopped and stared at his table’s decoration.

Oh, Table 5! Hey, I found it!

I smiled at the guests, and they smiled in return. I tried not to auction the food; really I did. But when the big man with the red wine has the cold soup, and the lady with the white wine has the salad with meat, and the diners are not seated in seat 1, 2, 3 order, it is almost impossible to get the food down correctly. And I didn’t.

On the way back to the kitchen, I noticed diners at two tables who had eaten their bread. I made a quick trip to a basket and served them. Back in the kitchen, there was ever more food to be run. Over on a makeshift prep table, my restaurateur friend was hand drawing a table map.

And so it went for three hours (for me at least). Run plates, serve bread, buss tables, smile, engage guests, smile some more. Service got smoother, eventually. One server needed further POS training because he somehow sent a fire ticket for main courses to the kitchen each time he attempted to close a check. And so it went, on and on.

The weather was glorious that day. The guests were all in festive moods. The food met everyone’s expectations. A few people waited a bit longer than they should have, but they didn’t care. They were in a fantasy land, after all, just few minutes from home.

Of course, not one guest had a clue of the sweat and tears that went into his or her lunch that day–or how close that quick-start restaurant skated to the edge those opening few hours.

I left with renewed respect for my friend and his team of professionals. And I conquered two fears that day–one, working the front of the house, and two, that the nightmare will recur.

Not on this server’s watch!

“What in the name of Goya…?” That one phrase, from a single post more than a year ago, hooked me for good to El Guapo in DC. Along with some very fine writing. Hilarious, poignant, to the point, heartfelt–I adore this glorious Guatemalan’s stories about his neighborhood, his quest for love, his job, his family, and especially his friend Miguel. I am so glad he suggested a guest post on my site, because I was too shy to suggest it to him. That’s what phenomenal writing does to this Gal–it renders her speechless with admiration.

Gracias, El Guapo, por compartir tu historia. Los mojitos van por me cuenta. Solo dime la fecha hora y lugar!

Food Fight for One, Please

“El Guapo, look at me. No! That’s enough.”

Mi madre always made me look at her when she wanted me to stop doing something. I’m not sure what it was, but her look was often paralyzing. Given her refusal to admit that her baby was anything but perfect, my body never had the benefit of drugs for hyperactivity. Her two brown eyes were the only Ritalin I ever needed.

“Stop it, right now! Stop it!”

The dining room was full of smells that, for some reason, made the decor that included rust-cream velour drapes make a little more sense. But the background music, the metallic clangy tones and sounds, made me more nervous than I cared to be.

“Look at how Mama does it. See? You use your hands with the pancake. It’s fun! See? Do it like I do!”

Listen lady, I know that we’ve been through a lot together. The whole birth thing, that, well, that was something, let me tell you. Allowing some guy with really hairy arms tilt me back and pour water on my head, well, I didn’t care for that, but I liked the attention (but just know that guy had wandering hands). And I can’t sit here and say that I don’t appreciate your handling my soiled undergarments.

But this, no. Not this. I’m getting bigger now and I don’t care for this.

“Just do it how I do. See?”

No. What kind of back woods place did you bring me to? You want me to eat with my hands? No. I don’t get it. You’ve been ‘El Guapo please’ here and ‘El Guapo please’ there wishing for me to use these shiny things to put food in my mouth. And I’m finally getting the hang of it.

Now, now you want me to use my hands? No. Do you know what I think about that? Look over there. That meteor of multi-colored food that just landed on the other side of the room? Yeah, there’s a lot more where that came from, lady.

“El Guapo, please stop throwing food. Por favor, baby. Stop doing this.”

Did you see how far I just threw that yellow stuff? I totally hit that lady wearing the white drapes. Did you see that? Do you realize how amazing my aim is? I wasn’t even aiming for her, but I hit her dress-thing. That was absolutely incredible. Seriously, why aren’t you amazed by this? Why am I the only one who is impressed with this?

Why is the woman with the yellow stuff on her dress-thing not happy right now? What is she saying to you? What are you saying to her? Wow, that’s a lot of yelling.

Fine, look at me. I’m eating with my stupid hands. See this? Mmmmmm good. Look, see? Actually no, I don’t like this. Give me water. This is really spicy. No, there. Now, look. I threw the red stuff over there. I don’t care for this at all.

Good, I’m glad we’re going. Seriously, did you see how far I threw the red stuff? Did you see this Guatemalan arm? Priceless.

“El Guapo, nino, you, ay, you…”

Mi madre never finished that sentence, and it was many years before she even dared take her beloved son into another restaurant. It is a fact that after this incident, she never took any of us into a restaurant that didn’t offer a fork and a knife.

I was lucky to have a mother who liked eating out so much, because, through her, I fell in love with the magic of dining in restaurants. Savoring the sensuality of sharing delicious food has, to this day, never lost its appeal–and it all started with a well placed side arm of Ethiopian cuisine.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

I happened upon Kim Ayres’ site a few months ago when I was poking around some links on El Gaupo in DC. I loved Kim’s “About Me” description: “Over the past 2 years I have changed my car, changed my career, moved to a different area, lost nearly 100 pounds in weight and turned 40. I’m wondering how far my mid-life crisis will take me.”

What I discovered was a site rich in texture and many, many layers, with stories at once compelling, sometimes humorous, and always interesting. Ramblings of the Bearded One has since become a site I return to again and again. Kim has kindly agreed to be my first guest blogger. His writing covers a broad spectrum, and when I asked if he had a restaurant tale to tell, he readily complied.

Enjoy his story about “first times” in restaurants. And thank you, Kim.

I was in my late teens the first time I went to a proper restaurant. An art dealer who sold some of my father’s paintings was paying for me and my parents and, terrified by the prices on the menu, I ended up ordering steak & kidney pie because it was the cheapest thing I could find. Frankly, I’d have been happier with a bag of fish & chips (fries) from around the corner and was mortified when my father chose the salmon starter and venison main course.

The excuse given by my parents for this lack of childhood restaurant experience was that there wasn’t a decent eatery in the village we lived in. But I suspect the truth is, they just couldn’t face taking us to one. My brother, sister, and I used to fight like cat and dog whenever we went out anywhere, and I don’t think our table manners were up to much, either. In fact, now that I come to think about it, my parents very often engineered it so that they would have their dinner separately, later in the evening, thus avoiding the need to watch us eat. The idea of paying money to waste good food while simultaneously embarrassing them in public must have seemed a completely pointless exercise.

I was 24 before I went to a restaurant, where I was paying. I was with my future wife, and I took her to an Italian restaurant in Dumfries. I was feeling so far out of my comfort zone, I was desperately hoping the place would catch fire before we reached the door. I had no idea what to do, what the etiquette or rules were, and this was following a nightmare of a time trying to decide what I was supposed to wear.

Do we sit or wait to be seated? Do we order courses as and when we’re ready to eat them, or order everything in advance? Do I go up to the bar to order, or will a waitress come over? I don’t speak Italian, so what if I order the wrong thing?

Wine? You mean there are more than just two types? What do you mean they have grape varieties, too? Will they let us have a jug of water, or will that make us look like cheapskates? What if they charge us for the water? How do I catch the waitress’s attention to let her know we’re ready for the next course? Do I pay up at the bar, or will they take the money from the table?

WHAT THE HELL DO I LEAVE FOR A TIP???

I was pretty much in my 30s by the time I started visiting restaurants with any kind of regularity. My wife and I have never been big drinkers, so on the rare occasions when we could get a babysitter, rather than go to a pub (bar) or club, we would opt for a meal out.

But where I felt I really struck lucky was with a hotel in Central Scotland. Back when I ran my Web design business, I met the new owners of a small country hotel who had inherited a dire Web site when they took over. They knew how important it was to make improvements, but had a very limited budget. At the end of each month they would look at the small amount of money left over after the expenses and have to decide whether they should repaint the front door or fix the shower in Room 4. A complete Web revamp was out of the question.

So I struck a deal. I would sort out their Web site and, in return, they would give me a tab at their restaurant for an equivalent amount. Over the past 3½ years, I have made various updates and changes to their site, and I have treated many clients, suppliers, and business colleagues to lunch.

Some 18 months ago, we moved 120 miles away, but we still have family up in that area. Every time we go and visit, I’ll meet up there with a friend for lunch and we’ll have a family meal there in the evening. The food is always good and the service is excellent.

As a child, being constantly nagged about the importance of saving money and not spending needlessly, restaurants seemed like an unnecessary expense for those with more money than sense. But as an adult, I love the intimacy, I love the sense of occasion, and I love the indulgence.