Note to Diners II.

Verbal tipping is where, in lieu of a 20% or better tip, you decide to tell me how happy you were and then leave less than 15%. Don't get me wrong, tip what you will, but these are some of the rules I live by when I eat out:

1. Credit card companies authorize restaurant transactions with a twenty percent window, assuming that you might tip that amount. Do the same for yourselves when you go out and plan on using cash. If you can't, I mean can't, tip 20%, then you can't afford to eat out. Make yourself a nice meal at home and save up. If the server deserves less, by all means, tip less, but if he or she is spot on, be able to pay them appropriately.

2. I have tipped less than 15% twice in the past 5 years. I made the decision I would never return to the restaurants where this happened as I laid my money down. If service is that bad, don't go back. 15% is the server's wage that you provide, keeping overhead down for the owners and making your meal less expensive. If the service sucks blame the restaurant as well, and make a point of clearly and politely explaining how to a manager before you leave. We really do want to know.

3. Never, ever, tip 8%, say nothing, or worse, rant and rave to anyone who will listen, and then come back two days later. You either do not know how to handle your alcohol or you are a moron. Or both. I'm betting both.

Note to Diners.

That thing you do with the pen across the Visa slip, you know, the one where you try to hide the tip amount until you have left? It pisses me off. Be a strong person, turn the slip over. I don't care what you tipped until after you have left, and then I only care for the sake of assessing my perfromance as a professional. The pen thing makes me look, something I wouldn't do unless you did the pen thing. I am trying to stop the cycle. Enough with the pen.

Can I have my Qi back?

Props to Nostrana . Sometimes I work with a Samurai in a tea shop. I practice Aikido. A dull, 500 degree titanium blade past my eye?I blink away lost eyelashes, make pizza and ride the scooter away. Today my resume will say: "I made pizza when I wanted to find someone a meal and a place to sleep." At the least this job gave me those comforts, I just wish I could do more.

back again.

So, today began with the intention of writing about fire and heat. I thought I would go and become sweaty on a basketball court, bring in the warmth of lapping myself a slow, quick dribble up and down the court. Instead, I reflect on the same ideas, but find myself in the Mall’s optical shop hearing the slow lilt of a more recent Baltic trying to buy contact lenses.

So, I am good at picking my brethren out of a crowd. This one wears high heels and a shake your head bangs doo that only needs a green and yellow backpack to fully sell her origin. She talks with heavy Ds. Do I come here to pick it up? Doo aye calm heer two peek id op? Her voice is ice, her voice is less than one cry in the wilderness. She is part of the shattered, the less than human from the center of Europe who come here with the promise of acclimation. The xenophobe American in me sees her newfound lenses as a way of looking more anglo, a marketing attempt on a nearby corner an hour or two from now. The mutt in me, the human, the voice less national, wonders how she’ll do here, what fires she will face and what those flames might take from her.

So, then there is me, the temporarily scooter riding, glorified dishwashing, may I help you please anonymous face with scorch marks on my arms boy who could, given the right day, make you a pizza for lunch and serve you a really very good burger for dinner, stopping your heart and wishing you’d die. Is there anything else you would like with that?

So, standing by an oven for a day has second degree burns on my back and a mark on my arm that represents an inability to learn what it feels like to be hurt. In this business you have to ignore what is obviously detrimental to your well-being. They call this chops. They call this burn it to earn it. They call this smiling when you have molten tomato sauce on your forearm that is actively handing someone something they are paying to eat. What they don’t call it is alcoholism and pain medication. Distance from loved ones near and far. They don’t mention chronic dehydration and insomnia that rivals combat veterans, the days sucking the life out of nights, the time where rest is supposed to happen. Shoes you can’t afford curving your toes, toes you can’t afford asking for calories to thicken the blood.

So, I stand by a 700 degree beast on some days, dreading the word “So…” So means instruction from the back of the kitchen. I have learned how to do my job, and frankly, I do it well. The only times I burn pizzas are when I’m not allowed to do my job, and when I do my job I am not burning pizzas. That’s why I quit today. “So…”

So, standing by a 700 degree beast has been an honor, and I would never dare imagine that I mastered the craft. What I did do was get a chance to work with people who could offer that on their resumé. They make good food from a vehicle not often driven.

So, what is it like to reach your arm into a place that starts your shirt a-smoldering and makes your arms look like you shave them regularly? A good lesson in forgiveness. The vagaries of the oven are built on wood type, moisture content and outside breezes. Affecting these is the condition of the dough. It could be wet, it could be dry. It could be perfect but it might have been so long since you have seen perfection that it comes as a surprise. This is why, as a customer, I have been so amazed by the calm of the kitchen, the quickness, but ultimately languid air, of the women who do this job so well. When I started I never thought I would find this place, that sort of ease. But, hanging out with the oven for two months, its heat on my back, its force waking me in the night thinking that I might have burned something, anything, I have come to a place where I might dare say I am comfortable with it. The secret is that you have to prepare yourself for failure, but do everything in your powers to shore yourself against that. You have to be able to look your coworker in the eye and know that he is ready for whatever fire will throw at you, and that you might have to do the same job over again.

So, the women I have worked with have taught me a lot in the short time I spent with them. Their patience with me, the menu and the customers are things that every restaurant, new or old, should strive to find. I sincerely hope that the positive aspects of the restaurant are able to overcome whatever slight negative aspects there might be.

So, if you’ve got a place for me to wash dishes, I swear I will say nice things when I leave.