New Book coming out...
I have a new book coming out in a few days. I'll share a couple of chapters to give people an idea of the insanity of the restaurant & bar business in the Caribbean. The new book will be called "Cabarete Diaires, part 2" (or something to that effect). The book is the last in a series about life in the restaurant & bar business in the Caribbean. Warning! The book is full of drinking, sex, orgies, vibrators, porn, prostitution, a donkey, a dog, cheap people, and a John Deere riding lawn mower.
Chapter 5 (Our Coffee Machine and Restaurant Business Dynamics)
I came into work the next day and made a bee line for our coffee machine. Our coffee machine is where our staff meets. It’s our Command Center and our sanctuary, and it’s the only place where we can congregate to escape the chaos of our restaurant and bar. We also use the area around the coffee machine to get away from our customers, itch our crotches, pick our noses, fart, vent our anger, argue and pull our underwear out of our crotches.
This is the Caribbean. The heat and humidity are always insane. And absolutely everything works differently down here. Time has stopped. In some places, time has actually even reversed and gone backwards. People here are simple, relaxed and laid back. Sex jokes in the workplace are the norm. They’re not seen as sexual harassment. The joking and teasing are what make the craziness of our restaurant business and the expat community bearable.
We joke a lot with each other and the jokes can get pretty vulgar, but they’re rooted in camaraderie and friendship more than anything else. At the end of our work shifts, each of us returns to our respective families and lives. There are boundaries here. Everyone knows which lines not to cross. No one touches anyone in a sexual manner. Ever. Everyone treats everyone else with respect.
Of course, with this being the restaurant business, we’re always under intense pressure. Tempers flare often. Really flare. But fifteen minutes later we’re all hanging around the coffee machine again, laughing and joking. Everyone has the maturity and capacity to put their irritations and grudges behind them and move on. That’s called maturity. We’re a wonderful work-family here.
Still, being in the service industry means being on an emotional roller coaster. Even when we’re mature, there’s still intense pressure inside the restaurant, kitchen and behind the bar. There’s always the ebb and flow of emotions, with negativity constantly flaring up and being kept in check. The wait and bar staff’s limits are constantly tested by drunk customers, emotionally unstable customers, divorcees, cougars, fighting rednecks, Sankies working girls and street hustlers. When we get to the end of our work shifts everyone forgets about the bad, the nasty, and the pathetic and we go home to our regular families, happy to have survived another day in paradise. That’s the restaurant business in a nutshell. There’s good and bad, laughter and crying, hair pulling and joking, eye gouging and hugs.
Mary calls me over to the bar. I look out from the area behind our kitchen where we have our employee coffee machine. I can hear an irate customer complaining about his bar check.
“No, not again. Please, not now!” I say to myself aloud. The kitchen crew around me starts laughing. I only have a half-hour left on the clock before I can go home. I don’t want to deal with crazy people right now.
I take another look at the bar. The situation doesn’t look pretty. In fact, it looks terrible. I turn around, walk into our walk-in freezer and lie down. There’s nothing worse than dealing with an irate customer who is drunk and complaining about prices. I take a deep breath and then walk back out of the freezer. I go up to the bar. Mary has her arms folded over her chest. She does not look happy. I know this look. Whenever she has had this look, things have gone from bad to worse.
The irate customer is a young man in his late twenties. He’s muscular and very drunk, and surrounded by his shirtless, drunk and male friends. He’s ripping up his check into tiny pieces and sprinkling them along the mahogany bar as though they were paper confetti.
“Hi, I’m Frank, the manager,” I say, extending my hand to this very inebriated young man (the most dangerous type).
“What the **** is up with this check, mate?” he says. “What the **** is this tax bull****? Since when is there tax on this island?”
“Believe it or not, there is tax on this island,” I answer, smiling.
“Bull****! This, mate, is a ****ing third world country. I’ve been coming here ten years. Since when is there a ****ing tax? I’ve never paid tax before, ever.”
Oh my god. He’s Scottish. I can hear his Scottish accent. This is not going to be pretty. I take another deep breath and smile. I sit down at the bar in order to try and diffuse the situation. His other friends — all Scottish, all drunk, all still shirtless — are getting aggressive. They’re starting to bombard me with accusations of cheating, lying and everything else they can think of to insult us with.
“This place is a ****ing rip-off, mate,” a big redheaded man shouts.
“We’re not paying this!” his friend adds.
“You guys can go **** yourself!” another guy yells.
“This is bull****. You’re trying to steal from us, mate. They’re trying to steal from us, aren’t they?” yet another one says, looking around the bar for support from the other bar patrons and his friends.
“They think that, because we’re tourists, that we’re twats. Let me tell you something mate, the only twat here is you!” one says, pointing at me and nearly spitting.
“They think that they can add anything to the check they want. They want to steal from us tourists. They think we’re stupid. They probably have another menu around here with different prices that are lower for the locals.”
“Yeah, we want the other menu, mate. You know which one, mate, the lower priced one you give to the locals. We don’t want these bull**** prices anymore.” The customer holds up the last few pieces of his bar bill and throws them into my hair… that I’ve just combed and fixed.
“You think we’re stupid?” his girlfriend chimes in.
I don’t say anything back to them. I just sip my coffee. I look over at Mary every few verbal assaults to see the expression on her face. It’s priceless. She’s standing behind the bar, all 5’2” 110 pounds of her, smiling and giggling. She’s almost laughing, actually. She’s enjoying herself. She’s having a great time because she likes to see me get abused. This is entertainment for her and the rest of the staff. I look around the restaurant. Yeah, they’re all smiling. They all love to see me get abused.
I look back and I make eye contact with all six or seven Scots. And then I smile at them. They’re not smiling back. They’re ready to throw down and fight over this check. I look down at my watch. I only have another ten minutes to go and then I’m off work. And this is bull****. This is just one huge and heaping mound of bull****. I wonder why this sort of thing always happens to me. Why couldn’t this problem have come up in twenty minutes? Then the next shift would have been here and they could have dealt with this bull**** while feeling fresh and rested.
I just wanted to go home. We all just wanted to go home. I imagined that I was home, curled up next to my redhead and sipping wine, watching her watch Judge Judy and shout profanities at Judge Judy’s jurors.
The Scot was picking up the torn pieces of his bar bill and tearing them up even smaller. His friends were laughing. They seemed to be feeling especially cocky.
“What the **** you smiling at mate?” they asked me.
“Nothing,” I answered, giggling.
“You taking the **** on us?”
“Look at him! He’s a cheeky monkey; he’s taking the **** on us!” his friends cried. They surrounded me. They were like a pack of wolves getting ready to pounce on their prey. It was critical I choose the right words if I want to keep all of my teeth.
I looked at them and said, “No, boys, I’m not taking the **** right now. You’re right, there is a problem. It’s bigger than you or me. It’s bigger than anyone here at this bar.”
“What the **** is that?” demanded the big redheaded man.
“What the **** you smiling at?” his friend asked again, scowling with his big blue eyes.
“Look around you,” I said, sweeping my arms around the beach and the restaurant area. “What country is this?”
“We don’t give a ****,” the one closest to me answered.
“Gentlemen, please, just look around. This is a third world country. Do you know what that means?”
“No and we don’t give a ****.”
“You guys are intelligent. So allow me to explain something to you.”
“What’s that, mate?”
“If the local police show up — and they’re probably on their way right now — all of you guys’ worst nightmares are going to come true. Trust me, you do not want the Dominican police to show up here.”
“Why’s that, mate?”
“Because that will cost you guys money, a lot of money. The police here are corrupt, very corrupt. They’re not going to ask any questions. They don’t give a **** about who is right or wrong. They’re only interested in taking your money. They’re going to take one quick look at you guys and see new lawn furniture. They’re going to throw you in jail where you’ll sit for days before a judge decides what kind of new living room furniture he wants. They don’t give a **** about you or me. You have no rights here. I have no rights here, either. We’re just guests, you understand? You won’t get out of jail until everyone in that police station has had their way with you. You’ll be begging your friends and family for money transfers. You won’t see freedom again until the judge, the prosecutor, the lawyers and every member of the police force has gotten their new patio furniture and color TV’s. Do you understand how things work in a third world country? Do you have any idea how things work here?”
The Scots get very quiet. I look over at Mary. She’s still standing behind the bar with her arms folded. We smile at each other. We’ve been in this same situation many times. Mary knows what I’m going to say before I even open my mouth. One of the men turns and asks Mary, “How much is the ****ing check?”
Mary goes back into the computer and re-prints the check for them. I know they’re going to pay their check and so does Mary. We all know that. Only a complete idiot would invite the police down here to try and resolve this situation. The Scots would have to be mentally ill or unconscious to not understand the logic. Fortunately, although these Scots are drunk, they’re not stupid. They’re neither sufficiently drunk, nor sufficiently stupid, to miss the logic. They throw their money down on the bar and they leave.
Mary and I are still smiling at each other. She turns and counts the money before waiting on our other customers. I go back to the liquor room with my coffee and I lock the door behind me. I pour sambuca into my coffee and drink it all down in one swallow. Then I lay down on one of the liquor shelves. Another day nearly done, another dollar earned. I survived with all my teeth still intact. That’s a good day right there.
