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Diary of a Restaurant on the North Coast
Diary of a Restaurant on the North Coast
November 2nd.
Today, while Rocky and I were out, Melky called and said the police were there.
“What police?” I asked.
“You know…the police.”
“Which kind of police, Melky?”
“The kind with guns.”
“Hmm, big guns or small guns?”
“Both.”
“Ok. How many are there?”
“A lot.”
“What do they want?”
“Money.”
We immediately made a few phone calls, someone eventually called them, and they left. Another reminder of why we’re not in Kansas anymore.
The motoconcho guy came in to clean again. He was wearing his white leather shoes. I got to give him credit...he was cleaning while standing in a 45-degree stance with his legs spread as far apart as they would go in order to try and prevent water from splashing on his white leather shoes. He was nearly doing the splits. This was quite remarkable for a guy who is 5’6, 250lbs, and out of shape. Apparently, these shoes meant a lot to him, and he was making quite a valiant effort to prevent any water from reaching them. And by all accounts, he was doing a damn good job at it. His feet were so far apart that his spread eagle stance was a “10” on the Olympic gymnastics scale. One look at him, and you just knew he had done this before.
Everyone was laughing and teasing him, but of course, every Dominican could also relate to him. Here in the DR, when it rains, everyone does their utmost to keep their clothes and shoes dry. No one can afford to ruin their only good pair of white leather dress shoes.
Later this afternoon, a group of Cabarete/Sosua/Puerto Plata city workers came by and wanted to make an exclusive contract with us for all trash removal. They brought a contract for us to sign. They showed me the contract; it had all kinds of official rubber stamps all over it. I asked them to leave me and copy and that I would talk it over with the new owner. They looked through everything and then told me that they had no copies.
“Ok, leave me your business card and I’ll call you after I speak to the owner.”
Them: “We have no business cards.”
Me: “Hmm, ok, take my telephone number down and call me tomorrow.”
All three men looked around for a pen. No one had a pen.
Them: “We don’t have a pen, sir. Don’t you have a pen?” they asked me, surprised I didn’t have one.
I had a pen, but I didn’t want to tell them. I was trying to make a point here. What point exactly? I don’t even know myself. But how was I going to sign their contract if they did not own a pen?
I started looking at their ID’s hanging from around their neck. I noticed that all three of them had the plastic holder for inserting their identifications, but none of them had their identifications inserted into the ID slots. In other words, they were just wearing a plastic ID holder around their necks without any identifications inside them.
Surreal.
After the garbage men left, three different police showed up. Again, no identifications. But they did possess guns. They asked to speak to the boss. One of the concrete guys sent them over to me. When they approached me, guns on their sides, they said,
“Eres gerente aqui?”
“No speaky de Spanish,” I answered, smiling.
“You boss man?”
“Me? Oh no! I no boss man. He boss man!” I said pointing over at Rocky.
Rocky looked over at me and smiled. In English, I told Rocky who they were. He nodded his head and made a phone call as they approached him. Then he handed the phone to them. There was a lot "Si," "No," "Si," and then "No, no, no!"
They handed the phone back to Rocky and left. Sometimes, it’s not what you know, but who you know. They’ll be back. They always come back. They want money. Next time, however, they’ll send someone different. I know the game. I’ve played it many times before. It’s no different than playing poker. Sometimes they hold all of the cards and you need to fold your hand. Other times, they don’t hold any good cards, and you have to call their bluff. Today, we called their bluff. We won this round. Next time we might not.
This morning, before coffee, the concrete guy asked for a rather large advance. He made this and that excuse. Then he smoked a cigarette and thought of some more excuses of why he needed such and such amount of money. I sat there staring at him. I didn’t say a word. The longer the silence continued, the more excuses he came up with. In the end, he came up with every known excuse in the known universe.
We gave him a specific amount, but not before I asked him to write and sign a letter expressing the amount we were advancing to him. I wanted the letter of advance to be in his writing. I read it when he was finished. He spelled so many words wrong that it rivaled Donald Trump trying to write an acceptance speech. But that’s ok. I asked him to sign it at the bottom. He said, “I don’t know how to sign my name in cursive, but I can print it.”
“Ok, print your full name and put your cedula number below it.” I told him.
He struggled. No big deal. Hell, I can barely write my name in cursive anymore. I haven’t had to sign my name in cursive ever since computers were invented. No one really uses cursive anymore.
We needed supplies this morning. Lots of supplies. There was no way I was going to hand someone a bunch of money and say go get the supplies on your scooter. No one owns a car. Although, a scooter is fine for small things, but not rebar and concrete blocks. Ok, maybe for some people.
Rocky and I headed to the hardware store with Melky, the electrician, and Enrique suave, cement man. They ordered a large amount of concrete blocks, rebar, sand, and gravel. Then they picked out the tools they needed for the job. In the end, we had quite a lot of supplies that were going to be delivered by Linares hardware store, but first we needed to head up front and pay for everything while 25 employees stood around and did nothing more then pick their nose and inspect their buggers, and then tug at their underwear and panties. It was hot and muggy today. Can you blame them?
It's a Crotch-Tugging type of day.
At the checkout counter, the girl rang up everything at a register which did not exist the last time I was in this hardware store. Years earlier, a girl would sit inside a wooden box--behind bee-bee gun proof plexi-glass, and take your money as if she was working inside a porn booth in an adult bookstore. Not anymore. She was out in the open like a check-out girl at a supermarket. She was surrounded by a lot of men who mostly stood around scratching their balls and then smelling their fingers…and then they shifted their penis from one side to the next while trying to look serious. After she rang everything up, a rather large man looked at each individual item and then checked it off one by one on the receipt. Its a sort of a third world check and balance system...to keep everyone honest.
As he checked off each individual item, I noticed a couple unusual things. One was a screwdriver. Apparently, that was for our electrician…because, apparently, our electrician doesn’t own a screwdriver. The other thing I noticed was a carpenter’s level…you know…the normal 36-inch level that normal construction people carry around with them when they’re pouring concrete and trying to keep things even and level. Apparently, the level was for Enrique Suave, the cement guy…because, apparently, cement people down here do not own a level and simply do everything by squinting.
Great. This was a really shaping up to be a confidence inspiring morning. It was also a good sign that we hired the best-of-the-best...one guy doesn’t own a screwdriver; the other one doesn’t own a level.
Moving on…
We had three guys working on, and scrubbing the remainder of the stainless steel equipment with bleach, acid, detergent, Jameson Irish whiskey and windex glass cleaner. If they had any skin left on their hands, it would not only be a miracle, it would mean that they are not ****ing human. They scrubbed for 8-hours straight. Their hands were fully immersed inside a nuclear recipe that could strip make-up off a Sosua hooker. This detergent mixture they were working with was actually boiling. It was highly combustive. You could not light a match around it. It was impossible to breath in. Just standing next to it made me light headed. It was more lethal than the strongest paint thinner…and I know what strong paint thinner smells like…I have a PHD in sniffing weird stuff...including farts and bar stools where beautiful women have recently sat.
For the past couple of days, someone has been drinking beer. A lot of beer. Every morning I come in and find empty beer bottles. And not just any empty beer bottles either, but like Stella, Budweiser, Corona, etc. For the first few days, I thought it a little weird, but I really didn’t give it much thought. But then, after the third day, I started getting suspicious, because, this wasn’t exactly the Budweiser/Corona type crowd…if you know what I mean.
These beers are imported and expensive. I decided to investigate. I started going from beer cooler to beer cooler and opening them up one by one. As I was going from beer cooler to beer cooler, opening each one up and being nearly knocked down by the smell of mildew and fungus, I finally hit the jackpot. I said, “Bingo!” I yelled it out so that everyone could hear me. Inside one of the beer coolers was a case of Duval, 12-pack of Heineken, Presidente, Budweiser, Corona, and an assortment of German and other imported beers. I couldn't believe it. I looked down and noticed that the lock was unlocked. I locked it back again and then I told our handy man, Melky, about what I just found. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. And then he told me there was more beer in the walk-in freezer.
“Really?”
“Why is it in the freezer?”
“I don’t know?”
“Well, someone is drinking our beer every evening because I keep finding empty bottles everywhere, Melky.”
“Uh-huh?” he answered, smiling.
“They’re probably throwing quite a party at night, Melky.”
He just shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Then he went off to play with his new screwdriver we just bought him.
November 2nd.
Today, while Rocky and I were out, Melky called and said the police were there.
“What police?” I asked.
“You know…the police.”
“Which kind of police, Melky?”
“The kind with guns.”
“Hmm, big guns or small guns?”
“Both.”
“Ok. How many are there?”
“A lot.”
“What do they want?”
“Money.”
We immediately made a few phone calls, someone eventually called them, and they left. Another reminder of why we’re not in Kansas anymore.
The motoconcho guy came in to clean again. He was wearing his white leather shoes. I got to give him credit...he was cleaning while standing in a 45-degree stance with his legs spread as far apart as they would go in order to try and prevent water from splashing on his white leather shoes. He was nearly doing the splits. This was quite remarkable for a guy who is 5’6, 250lbs, and out of shape. Apparently, these shoes meant a lot to him, and he was making quite a valiant effort to prevent any water from reaching them. And by all accounts, he was doing a damn good job at it. His feet were so far apart that his spread eagle stance was a “10” on the Olympic gymnastics scale. One look at him, and you just knew he had done this before.
Everyone was laughing and teasing him, but of course, every Dominican could also relate to him. Here in the DR, when it rains, everyone does their utmost to keep their clothes and shoes dry. No one can afford to ruin their only good pair of white leather dress shoes.
Later this afternoon, a group of Cabarete/Sosua/Puerto Plata city workers came by and wanted to make an exclusive contract with us for all trash removal. They brought a contract for us to sign. They showed me the contract; it had all kinds of official rubber stamps all over it. I asked them to leave me and copy and that I would talk it over with the new owner. They looked through everything and then told me that they had no copies.
“Ok, leave me your business card and I’ll call you after I speak to the owner.”
Them: “We have no business cards.”
Me: “Hmm, ok, take my telephone number down and call me tomorrow.”
All three men looked around for a pen. No one had a pen.
Them: “We don’t have a pen, sir. Don’t you have a pen?” they asked me, surprised I didn’t have one.
I had a pen, but I didn’t want to tell them. I was trying to make a point here. What point exactly? I don’t even know myself. But how was I going to sign their contract if they did not own a pen?
I started looking at their ID’s hanging from around their neck. I noticed that all three of them had the plastic holder for inserting their identifications, but none of them had their identifications inserted into the ID slots. In other words, they were just wearing a plastic ID holder around their necks without any identifications inside them.
Surreal.
After the garbage men left, three different police showed up. Again, no identifications. But they did possess guns. They asked to speak to the boss. One of the concrete guys sent them over to me. When they approached me, guns on their sides, they said,
“Eres gerente aqui?”
“No speaky de Spanish,” I answered, smiling.
“You boss man?”
“Me? Oh no! I no boss man. He boss man!” I said pointing over at Rocky.
Rocky looked over at me and smiled. In English, I told Rocky who they were. He nodded his head and made a phone call as they approached him. Then he handed the phone to them. There was a lot "Si," "No," "Si," and then "No, no, no!"
They handed the phone back to Rocky and left. Sometimes, it’s not what you know, but who you know. They’ll be back. They always come back. They want money. Next time, however, they’ll send someone different. I know the game. I’ve played it many times before. It’s no different than playing poker. Sometimes they hold all of the cards and you need to fold your hand. Other times, they don’t hold any good cards, and you have to call their bluff. Today, we called their bluff. We won this round. Next time we might not.
This morning, before coffee, the concrete guy asked for a rather large advance. He made this and that excuse. Then he smoked a cigarette and thought of some more excuses of why he needed such and such amount of money. I sat there staring at him. I didn’t say a word. The longer the silence continued, the more excuses he came up with. In the end, he came up with every known excuse in the known universe.
We gave him a specific amount, but not before I asked him to write and sign a letter expressing the amount we were advancing to him. I wanted the letter of advance to be in his writing. I read it when he was finished. He spelled so many words wrong that it rivaled Donald Trump trying to write an acceptance speech. But that’s ok. I asked him to sign it at the bottom. He said, “I don’t know how to sign my name in cursive, but I can print it.”
“Ok, print your full name and put your cedula number below it.” I told him.
He struggled. No big deal. Hell, I can barely write my name in cursive anymore. I haven’t had to sign my name in cursive ever since computers were invented. No one really uses cursive anymore.
We needed supplies this morning. Lots of supplies. There was no way I was going to hand someone a bunch of money and say go get the supplies on your scooter. No one owns a car. Although, a scooter is fine for small things, but not rebar and concrete blocks. Ok, maybe for some people.
Rocky and I headed to the hardware store with Melky, the electrician, and Enrique suave, cement man. They ordered a large amount of concrete blocks, rebar, sand, and gravel. Then they picked out the tools they needed for the job. In the end, we had quite a lot of supplies that were going to be delivered by Linares hardware store, but first we needed to head up front and pay for everything while 25 employees stood around and did nothing more then pick their nose and inspect their buggers, and then tug at their underwear and panties. It was hot and muggy today. Can you blame them?
It's a Crotch-Tugging type of day.
At the checkout counter, the girl rang up everything at a register which did not exist the last time I was in this hardware store. Years earlier, a girl would sit inside a wooden box--behind bee-bee gun proof plexi-glass, and take your money as if she was working inside a porn booth in an adult bookstore. Not anymore. She was out in the open like a check-out girl at a supermarket. She was surrounded by a lot of men who mostly stood around scratching their balls and then smelling their fingers…and then they shifted their penis from one side to the next while trying to look serious. After she rang everything up, a rather large man looked at each individual item and then checked it off one by one on the receipt. Its a sort of a third world check and balance system...to keep everyone honest.
As he checked off each individual item, I noticed a couple unusual things. One was a screwdriver. Apparently, that was for our electrician…because, apparently, our electrician doesn’t own a screwdriver. The other thing I noticed was a carpenter’s level…you know…the normal 36-inch level that normal construction people carry around with them when they’re pouring concrete and trying to keep things even and level. Apparently, the level was for Enrique Suave, the cement guy…because, apparently, cement people down here do not own a level and simply do everything by squinting.
Great. This was a really shaping up to be a confidence inspiring morning. It was also a good sign that we hired the best-of-the-best...one guy doesn’t own a screwdriver; the other one doesn’t own a level.
Moving on…
We had three guys working on, and scrubbing the remainder of the stainless steel equipment with bleach, acid, detergent, Jameson Irish whiskey and windex glass cleaner. If they had any skin left on their hands, it would not only be a miracle, it would mean that they are not ****ing human. They scrubbed for 8-hours straight. Their hands were fully immersed inside a nuclear recipe that could strip make-up off a Sosua hooker. This detergent mixture they were working with was actually boiling. It was highly combustive. You could not light a match around it. It was impossible to breath in. Just standing next to it made me light headed. It was more lethal than the strongest paint thinner…and I know what strong paint thinner smells like…I have a PHD in sniffing weird stuff...including farts and bar stools where beautiful women have recently sat.
For the past couple of days, someone has been drinking beer. A lot of beer. Every morning I come in and find empty beer bottles. And not just any empty beer bottles either, but like Stella, Budweiser, Corona, etc. For the first few days, I thought it a little weird, but I really didn’t give it much thought. But then, after the third day, I started getting suspicious, because, this wasn’t exactly the Budweiser/Corona type crowd…if you know what I mean.
These beers are imported and expensive. I decided to investigate. I started going from beer cooler to beer cooler and opening them up one by one. As I was going from beer cooler to beer cooler, opening each one up and being nearly knocked down by the smell of mildew and fungus, I finally hit the jackpot. I said, “Bingo!” I yelled it out so that everyone could hear me. Inside one of the beer coolers was a case of Duval, 12-pack of Heineken, Presidente, Budweiser, Corona, and an assortment of German and other imported beers. I couldn't believe it. I looked down and noticed that the lock was unlocked. I locked it back again and then I told our handy man, Melky, about what I just found. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. And then he told me there was more beer in the walk-in freezer.
“Really?”
“Why is it in the freezer?”
“I don’t know?”
“Well, someone is drinking our beer every evening because I keep finding empty bottles everywhere, Melky.”
“Uh-huh?” he answered, smiling.
“They’re probably throwing quite a party at night, Melky.”
He just shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Then he went off to play with his new screwdriver we just bought him.
Nice job. I think I have bought tools for every guy that ever worked on my house. *Now I just wonder how they did their jobs before they found me. Well done Frank, you make the insanity of it all very normal. Maybe that is the secret for happily adjusting to living in the DR. You got it down, dude. *Nothing is a surprise.*
These blogs by Frank, Meemselle and others are a very nice break from the usual banter. And honestly quite entertaining. Look forward to many more...thanks to those who do write these blogs/diaries.
I sympathize Frank ..I had two a/c units imstalled it was friggin hilarious ..they basically just brought unit had no tools used mine and 5 trips to hardware store because they didnt have wire either and bunch of other things to finish job...just as they were charging units up main guy comes to me senior negro tape...and my blood is about to boil his partner comes running with electrical tape in hand....best part they were gonna use drywall compound on outside to fill piping holes...*
"This will be totally unedited and full of mistakes and blemishes. I simply do not have the time to go back and re-write everything. I'll do that later."
Just like the DR. *Perfect.
(I can't read all of this - but it is good. *Really good. *I have other headaches, no where near like this - but the same on a smaller scale.)
Just like the DR. *Perfect.
(I can't read all of this - but it is good. *Really good. *I have other headaches, no where near like this - but the same on a smaller scale.)
Diary of a Restaurant on the North Coast
November 3rd.
Today, we had a lot things going on. Way too many things to mention, but I’ll try to briefly cover and highlight some of them.
This morning started out with a meeting with Enrique Suave, the cement guy. Rocky and Enrique went over the dimensions of the bar, the lip/overhang of the bar, and the width of the inner canal—or what’s also known as a speed rail. After we ironed out the measurements—which usually involves a game of Pictionary so that everyone is on the same page—Enrique went back to building blocks on top of each other and pouring and mixing concrete right in the middle of the restaurant. Did it matter that O’Shay’s menus were laying all over the floor? No, not a bit, they just acted as temporary plastic shovels for when Enrique needed to scoop up the last bit of concrete off our cement floor.
Later, Melky, the electrician without a screwdriver, took us to Islabon to visit a tile/concrete/ceramic/mosaic/brick mortician who specializes in all things rock related. It was as fascinating as it was educational. There was a lot of stuff going on, and the guy working with ceramic and brick really knew his stuff. He was very humble and polite, and walked barefoot around a workshop covered with rusty nails.
Paul, Rocky’s chef from the USA (originally from Ecuador) turns out to be a really fascinating—Jack-of-all-trades—type of man. Rocky told me that I was going to like him when I met him. He was wrong. I love him. He’s humble, polite, personable, educated, interesting, soft spoken, and polite. To say that he knows a lot about food would be an understatement.
Paul is trained in the US, and carries with an immense amount of kitchen experience from lots of different restaurants. Rocky flew him into town two days ago to help get the kitchen together and start training the Dominican staff in how they do things back in the US with food & hygiene, etc. Paul’s food knowledge is vast, and his social skills are beyond professional. He’s an excellent communicator, and being Ecuadorian, he can communicate with the staff in their language. I could tell that the kitchen staff liked him, a lot. As I mentioned, he’s personable, kind, soft spoken, and friendly. He speaks both English and Spanish fluently and is a real treat to be around. I’ve already learned a lot from the guy and I haven’t even kissed him yet.
Now it’s time to start looking for equipment for the kitchen. This entailed jumping into the car and driving to Puerto Plata and just looking for any, and all, restaurant supply stores. Of course, we went to the big one---the one that is well known to carry restaurant supplies and large commercial equipment—its sits down the street from the Fiscal court house. We found a lot of stuff there that we liked. Everyone took notes, and at least we now know where to come for essential equipment and restaurant supplies.
Since we were in Puerto Plata, we decided to check out another store that supposedly carried commercial grade restaurant supplies. He turned out to be down a side street, near the Puerto Plata public hospital. From the outside, it looked like a mom and pop store, and essentially, that’s exactly what it was. About 99% of everything they had inside was for home use, not commercial use. We took a quick glance around the store and then decided there was nothing of interest here and headed back to the car. Walking down the sidewalk towards the car, I noticed some equipment on the sidewalk covered with dirty plastic tarp—to keep it dry from the rain. Walking past it, I decided to lift up the plastic to see what was hidden underneath. It turned out to be a three-burner commercial gas stove. Too small for our needs, but someone across the street seemed notice me lifting up the plastic tarp and came sprinting across the street. It turned out to be a man that specializes in commercial restaurant equipment.
Him: I have lots more where that came from!”
“Really? What else you got?” we asked.
“Follow me,” he said, taking us down a long winding back street that eventually lead down an Alice in Wonderland Rabbit Hole…eventually to a garage with a corrugated tin roof and big heavy metal door. From the outside, it looked just like your everyday Dominican garage. But inside, it was anything but. He had commercial grade, used, restaurant equipment inside—Including a 6-burner & 10-burner gas stove.
When he slid open the steel door of the garage and the sunlight hit the inside, we were all standing there in shock and awe. It was a shock & awe campaign. There were stainless steel sinks, refrigerators, and stoves…and other commercial equipment. Sure, it was used, but all of it had been restored to its glory days. It really was an Alice in Wonderland type of experience. He didn’t have everything we were looking for, but he certainly had some of it—including a 10-burner commercial grade gas stove about the size of a small house. It would probably require something like the Space Shuttle or a Monster Truck just too move it.
After we left Puerto Plata, we headed back home to Cabarete. Back at the restaurant, we found Enrique Suave and his crew building the form for the table top that is going to wrap around our open kitchen. The wood was cut and put into place, and now it was just a matter of getting it ready to pour the concrete into what essentially is a mold (see photos).
Meanwhile, several people started stopping by. Out front, an on-duty policeman, Juan, stopped me and asked to speak to me alone, in private. I said, “Sure,” and followed him.
He took three steps to the left of the sidewalk, and, apparently feeling comfortable in this spot, began telling me that he needed a job. He emphasized that he spoke English several times. He was quite emphatic about his mastery of the English language; he kept repeating that he spoke English. I was like, Ok, great!” And then I waited for him to say something in English. The English never came, but a cute girl walked past with a rather large butt and curvy hips, and his concentration and full attention went directly to her and he forgot about why he called me over to the edge of sidewalk.
Lesson 1: Never underestimate the power of a large butt and curvy hips.
After the policeman, Juan, walked back across the street, another man I recognized from the beach stopped me and asked me for a job. This was followed by his friend asking me for a job as well, and also for his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s sister, his mother-in-law, and their neighbors. No bull****!
Back in the restaurant, we waited for the Coco-Cola Rep to stop by. The Rep was supposed to meet us back at the restaurant at 4:30, but this being the DR, that meant 6 pm or 7pm. As we were standing around waiting, the Haitian Voodoo Cabarete Witch Doctor (VCWD)—the small Haitian man who canvasses Cabarete beach day and night selling handmade wooden boats and anything he picks out of people’s trash, came by and stole one of our art pieces we took off the wall while we cleaned. He took off and was walking rather briskly down the sidewalk—high stepping it barefoot in a quite dramatic, but impressive fashion. This quickly turned into a full-on Carl Lewis Sprint down the sidewalk. Our security guard—a rather skinny, well-tuned Carl Lewis sprinter himself—took off after him with his 9mm handgun jumping up and down on his waist. He caught the Voodoo Witch Doctor about 50-meters down the sidewalk. I wasn’t just impressed; I was both shocked and completely out of breath. I needed an oxygen tank to keep me from having a coronary. True, I only ran about 20 meters, but it was first time I had run since 1979 when I last stole someone’s bicycle out of their back yard during a birthday party for dwarfs (small people).
It turns out that the Haitian Witch Doctor has been coming by our restaurant day and night stealing everything not bolted down, chained to something, or welded to something solid. I found out later that he’s been walking up and down the beach for the last two weeks selling our stuff. He’s been trying to sell every piece of memorabilia that he’s managed to steal out of our hallway. Crafty critter he is. He even tried to sell the Jose O’Shay sign to Rocky the other day on the beach while he sat eating dinner at Papi’s.
It’s another day, another crazy roller coaster ride….and I haven’t even covered half of what transpired.
November 3rd.
Today, we had a lot things going on. Way too many things to mention, but I’ll try to briefly cover and highlight some of them.
This morning started out with a meeting with Enrique Suave, the cement guy. Rocky and Enrique went over the dimensions of the bar, the lip/overhang of the bar, and the width of the inner canal—or what’s also known as a speed rail. After we ironed out the measurements—which usually involves a game of Pictionary so that everyone is on the same page—Enrique went back to building blocks on top of each other and pouring and mixing concrete right in the middle of the restaurant. Did it matter that O’Shay’s menus were laying all over the floor? No, not a bit, they just acted as temporary plastic shovels for when Enrique needed to scoop up the last bit of concrete off our cement floor.
Later, Melky, the electrician without a screwdriver, took us to Islabon to visit a tile/concrete/ceramic/mosaic/brick mortician who specializes in all things rock related. It was as fascinating as it was educational. There was a lot of stuff going on, and the guy working with ceramic and brick really knew his stuff. He was very humble and polite, and walked barefoot around a workshop covered with rusty nails.
Paul, Rocky’s chef from the USA (originally from Ecuador) turns out to be a really fascinating—Jack-of-all-trades—type of man. Rocky told me that I was going to like him when I met him. He was wrong. I love him. He’s humble, polite, personable, educated, interesting, soft spoken, and polite. To say that he knows a lot about food would be an understatement.
Paul is trained in the US, and carries with an immense amount of kitchen experience from lots of different restaurants. Rocky flew him into town two days ago to help get the kitchen together and start training the Dominican staff in how they do things back in the US with food & hygiene, etc. Paul’s food knowledge is vast, and his social skills are beyond professional. He’s an excellent communicator, and being Ecuadorian, he can communicate with the staff in their language. I could tell that the kitchen staff liked him, a lot. As I mentioned, he’s personable, kind, soft spoken, and friendly. He speaks both English and Spanish fluently and is a real treat to be around. I’ve already learned a lot from the guy and I haven’t even kissed him yet.
Now it’s time to start looking for equipment for the kitchen. This entailed jumping into the car and driving to Puerto Plata and just looking for any, and all, restaurant supply stores. Of course, we went to the big one---the one that is well known to carry restaurant supplies and large commercial equipment—its sits down the street from the Fiscal court house. We found a lot of stuff there that we liked. Everyone took notes, and at least we now know where to come for essential equipment and restaurant supplies.
Since we were in Puerto Plata, we decided to check out another store that supposedly carried commercial grade restaurant supplies. He turned out to be down a side street, near the Puerto Plata public hospital. From the outside, it looked like a mom and pop store, and essentially, that’s exactly what it was. About 99% of everything they had inside was for home use, not commercial use. We took a quick glance around the store and then decided there was nothing of interest here and headed back to the car. Walking down the sidewalk towards the car, I noticed some equipment on the sidewalk covered with dirty plastic tarp—to keep it dry from the rain. Walking past it, I decided to lift up the plastic to see what was hidden underneath. It turned out to be a three-burner commercial gas stove. Too small for our needs, but someone across the street seemed notice me lifting up the plastic tarp and came sprinting across the street. It turned out to be a man that specializes in commercial restaurant equipment.
Him: I have lots more where that came from!”
“Really? What else you got?” we asked.
“Follow me,” he said, taking us down a long winding back street that eventually lead down an Alice in Wonderland Rabbit Hole…eventually to a garage with a corrugated tin roof and big heavy metal door. From the outside, it looked just like your everyday Dominican garage. But inside, it was anything but. He had commercial grade, used, restaurant equipment inside—Including a 6-burner & 10-burner gas stove.
When he slid open the steel door of the garage and the sunlight hit the inside, we were all standing there in shock and awe. It was a shock & awe campaign. There were stainless steel sinks, refrigerators, and stoves…and other commercial equipment. Sure, it was used, but all of it had been restored to its glory days. It really was an Alice in Wonderland type of experience. He didn’t have everything we were looking for, but he certainly had some of it—including a 10-burner commercial grade gas stove about the size of a small house. It would probably require something like the Space Shuttle or a Monster Truck just too move it.
After we left Puerto Plata, we headed back home to Cabarete. Back at the restaurant, we found Enrique Suave and his crew building the form for the table top that is going to wrap around our open kitchen. The wood was cut and put into place, and now it was just a matter of getting it ready to pour the concrete into what essentially is a mold (see photos).
Meanwhile, several people started stopping by. Out front, an on-duty policeman, Juan, stopped me and asked to speak to me alone, in private. I said, “Sure,” and followed him.
He took three steps to the left of the sidewalk, and, apparently feeling comfortable in this spot, began telling me that he needed a job. He emphasized that he spoke English several times. He was quite emphatic about his mastery of the English language; he kept repeating that he spoke English. I was like, Ok, great!” And then I waited for him to say something in English. The English never came, but a cute girl walked past with a rather large butt and curvy hips, and his concentration and full attention went directly to her and he forgot about why he called me over to the edge of sidewalk.
Lesson 1: Never underestimate the power of a large butt and curvy hips.
After the policeman, Juan, walked back across the street, another man I recognized from the beach stopped me and asked me for a job. This was followed by his friend asking me for a job as well, and also for his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s sister, his mother-in-law, and their neighbors. No bull****!
Back in the restaurant, we waited for the Coco-Cola Rep to stop by. The Rep was supposed to meet us back at the restaurant at 4:30, but this being the DR, that meant 6 pm or 7pm. As we were standing around waiting, the Haitian Voodoo Cabarete Witch Doctor (VCWD)—the small Haitian man who canvasses Cabarete beach day and night selling handmade wooden boats and anything he picks out of people’s trash, came by and stole one of our art pieces we took off the wall while we cleaned. He took off and was walking rather briskly down the sidewalk—high stepping it barefoot in a quite dramatic, but impressive fashion. This quickly turned into a full-on Carl Lewis Sprint down the sidewalk. Our security guard—a rather skinny, well-tuned Carl Lewis sprinter himself—took off after him with his 9mm handgun jumping up and down on his waist. He caught the Voodoo Witch Doctor about 50-meters down the sidewalk. I wasn’t just impressed; I was both shocked and completely out of breath. I needed an oxygen tank to keep me from having a coronary. True, I only ran about 20 meters, but it was first time I had run since 1979 when I last stole someone’s bicycle out of their back yard during a birthday party for dwarfs (small people).
It turns out that the Haitian Witch Doctor has been coming by our restaurant day and night stealing everything not bolted down, chained to something, or welded to something solid. I found out later that he’s been walking up and down the beach for the last two weeks selling our stuff. He’s been trying to sell every piece of memorabilia that he’s managed to steal out of our hallway. Crafty critter he is. He even tried to sell the Jose O’Shay sign to Rocky the other day on the beach while he sat eating dinner at Papi’s.
It’s another day, another crazy roller coaster ride….and I haven’t even covered half of what transpired.
And some say our likes of your posts are just an echo chamber....
I was in Cabawretched today at the hairdresser. If I knew about the curvy hips thing, I could have paid for my hair to be returned to its natural red color without having to invade the Meemselle millions.
I was in Cabawretched today at the hairdresser. If I knew about the curvy hips thing, I could have paid for my hair to be returned to its natural red color without having to invade the Meemselle millions.
Love the post. I like part of about the zombie swarm for jobs. I think the main reason so many churches are in session is so that people can pray for work.
PS - aluminum wire is great for attaching decorations to the wall. At least, it makes it harder than a quick snatch.
PS - aluminum wire is great for attaching decorations to the wall. At least, it makes it harder than a quick snatch.
"Never underestimate the power of a large butt and curvy hips"
True, so true Sir, guilty as charged.*
True, so true Sir, guilty as charged.*
Verdad
If it hadn't have been for Cabarete Diaries Pt. 2 (or DAIRIES, which just makes me quiver all over and I will spare you the details of why) I never would have had the guts to post "And Now A Few Words From Meemselle."
And I know that there is a growing coterie that wishes that had never happened.
But you know what? You're all blocked.
Frank: don't stop. I only wish the Jose O'Shay's sign hadn't been turned into costume jewelry when I was at the hair place. I have a spare screwdriver that I would gladly have donated to the cause.
If it hadn't have been for Cabarete Diaries Pt. 2 (or DAIRIES, which just makes me quiver all over and I will spare you the details of why) I never would have had the guts to post "And Now A Few Words From Meemselle."
And I know that there is a growing coterie that wishes that had never happened.
But you know what? You're all blocked.
Frank: don't stop. I only wish the Jose O'Shay's sign hadn't been turned into costume jewelry when I was at the hair place. I have a spare screwdriver that I would gladly have donated to the cause.
Diary of a Restaurant on the North Coast
November 4th
Another day, another crazy ride.
A beautiful kid with a crooked nose selling handmade animals made from palm leaves came by looking for a job. He told me that he really needed a job. Like badly. He said he would do any kind of work. Nothing was below him. He really wanted to work. My heart fell out from underneath me. He made direct eye-contact with me and said, “I just want to work.” He was ready to start right now! He also wanted sell me a beautiful handmade animal. He walked up and down the beach all day and night, canvassing the businesses. He was still on the beach this evening when I left.
He was followed by another police officer showing up and looking for work. He came by and told me his work hours and said he could work anytime after 6pm. He said, “I can also work on my one day off, Saturday.” He was willing do anything, but felt he would make a good security guard while he pointed to his gun. I nodded and agreed with him.
When I glanced up at the new business banner hanging over the old Jose O’Shay’s sign. It looked good. I thought, “Wow, it looks really good. i love the colors. The new banner said, “Openning Soon, Rocky’s Aqua.”
Wait. What? What the hell did i just see!? Did they misspell “Opening?” No way! I walked up to the banner to get a closer look.
****ing A they did! Big time! Damn! Hmm, l better go check the sign on the beach. I walked down to the beach. Surely, they got at least one sign right. Nope. Misspelled that one too. It said, “Openning Soon, Rocky’s Aqua.” You got to be ****ing kidding me. Is there no spellcheck in this country? Does no one double check anything anymore? No one asked Rocky or I about the spelling before they put it up.
I called over the sign guy, Julio. He was on the beach making some last minute adjustments. I said, “look at the sign, Julio, it’s misspelled!”
“No its not.”
“What?” I looked up at it again and said, “The **** it ain’t. You misspelled “Openning.” It should only have one “N,” not two!"
“No its not.”
“Huh? What? What do mean?” I was confused. I looked back up at the banner again. Maybe I missed something. Nope. It was wrong. I said, “You misspelled Openning, Julio!”
“No I didn’t. that’s the way its spelled!” and then he walked away whistling as if everything was perfect.
There must be some way out of here, said the Joker to the Thief…
There is a thief in the house. We’re missing the top of our old stove. It’s a flat piece of iron, used for cooking. One of the motoconcho driver’s took it home. We called him up and asked for the top of our stove back. He said, “Sure, come and get it. It’s way too heavy to bring to you on my motorcycle.”
That got me thinking…how exactly did he get it home? He doesn’t own a car. He doesn’t own a helicopter. How exactly did he get it down the Callejon de la Loma? Space shuttle? Time Machine? Maybe a Time Portal? He somehow got it home, but now has no way of bringing it back to us. Hmm, Ok. Then he got very offended that someone questioned his integrity. The audacity.
Another day, and other trip to the hardware store. Rocky, Paul, and I waited inside the Hardware store while Melky went on a shopping spree. He ordered more concrete blocks, sand, gravel, electrical wiring, tubing, and…wait…what’s this…another screwdriver? Really? How many screwdrivers can these guys go through in one week? If this keeps up, we’re going to have enough screwdrivers to start our own hardware store.
Two days ago, we went to Santiago and ordered thick mosaic tiles for the kitchen. We need to get the kitchen floor done as soon as possible so that we can start organizing the kitchen. Paul and Rocky are perfectionists. Both are organized and eager jump into the fire and get everything up and running as soon as possible. Paul is a well-known chef, and Rocky is a well-known restaurateur. They eager to start cooking.
So, we sat around all day and eagerly awaited our kitchen tiles to be delivered from Santiago. Ochao said they would be here in the morning. Great. We needed them to be here in the morning in order to lay the tile and have it dry over night. We waited all morning. Nothing. The morning came and went. and now it was afternoon. I called them and asked, “When can we expect our tiles?”
“Any minute now…they’re on their way!” they answered.
“Ok, perfect. Thanks a million!” I hung up the phone and told everyone the good news.
We waited. And then we waited some more. The sun was going down, so I called them again.
“Where are our kitchen tiles?”
“On their way…should be there any second now?”
“Ok, cool. Thanks a million!” i turned to everyone and told them the good news.
And then we waited. We waited some more.
Meanwhile Paul had a meeting with Cache to go over the new menu. Paul needed to know if all the ingredients he needed for his dishes we’re available here in the DR.
Back at Rocky’s U.S restaurant, they’re known for their homemade salad dressings, homemade horseradish/mayonnaise, homemade dill sauces, homemade Anchovies Caesar Salad dressings, homemade Blackened fish dishes and special seasonings and seared Tuna. They have special recipes for every single dish. Even their French fries are prepared a certain way and are hand cut. Nothing is frozen or pre-made.
While Cache and Paul went over every single minute detail of the new menu, I got hungry. Then I got more hungry. Then I started salivating. Then I started hallucinating. The more they spoke about food and different ingredients and sauces, the more I started salivating. I salivated until I had a large puddle of saliva sitting on the table in front of me. This was torture. This was inhumane punishment. This violated every Geneva Convention Law known. I was starving. I started seeing double. I started chewing on bar napkins, then my sleeve, and finally my arm. I couldn’t take it anymore. I cannot sit and listen to people talk about food for hours while I have nothing in front of me to eat.
After the food recipe meeting, I took Paul to Gorditos. He was starving and I was starving. We both ordered fantastic dishes from Gorditos. I finished mine before he picked up his fork. I’m not kidding. I’m a fast eater. Insanely fast. I cannot be beaten. It’s not pretty. I’m not proud of myself. It’s not something you want to take home and show your mother. But it can be impressive under the right lighting.
My appetite knows no boundaries. I can eat more than a horse. I can eat more than Mamma Cass. As a result, I can no longer see my penis.
We went back to the bar and the kitchen tile still had not arrived. This was not looking good. Not looking good at all. I called Ochoa again. Everyone was gone for the evening. Who am I kidding? It’s Friday night! No answer. Hmm, maybe the tile truck got hijacked. Maybe the truck got into an accident. Or maybe they lied to us. I looked around the bar, I said, “Paul, let’s go to Mojitos and have a road soda.
At Mojitos, I had a glass of wine and forgot all about the floor tiles. I had a second glass of wine and forgot about my headache. I had another glass of wine and forgot where I left my shoes. I had another glass of wine and wondered where and hell I was at? Was I even in the DR? No, I was on the Space Station somewhere far above the planet. I was floating around space...I was the Rocketman.
Seriously, I was ****ing flying. I’m a light weight. I was at around 40,000ft and cruising. I didn’t want to climb any higher on my space ship because I didn’t want to encounter any turbulence with the Redhead later on. So, I did what any good pilot does, I leveled off and waited. I just waited for my buzz to come back down to earth. I was on auto-pilot now.
November 4th
Another day, another crazy ride.
A beautiful kid with a crooked nose selling handmade animals made from palm leaves came by looking for a job. He told me that he really needed a job. Like badly. He said he would do any kind of work. Nothing was below him. He really wanted to work. My heart fell out from underneath me. He made direct eye-contact with me and said, “I just want to work.” He was ready to start right now! He also wanted sell me a beautiful handmade animal. He walked up and down the beach all day and night, canvassing the businesses. He was still on the beach this evening when I left.
He was followed by another police officer showing up and looking for work. He came by and told me his work hours and said he could work anytime after 6pm. He said, “I can also work on my one day off, Saturday.” He was willing do anything, but felt he would make a good security guard while he pointed to his gun. I nodded and agreed with him.
When I glanced up at the new business banner hanging over the old Jose O’Shay’s sign. It looked good. I thought, “Wow, it looks really good. i love the colors. The new banner said, “Openning Soon, Rocky’s Aqua.”
Wait. What? What the hell did i just see!? Did they misspell “Opening?” No way! I walked up to the banner to get a closer look.
****ing A they did! Big time! Damn! Hmm, l better go check the sign on the beach. I walked down to the beach. Surely, they got at least one sign right. Nope. Misspelled that one too. It said, “Openning Soon, Rocky’s Aqua.” You got to be ****ing kidding me. Is there no spellcheck in this country? Does no one double check anything anymore? No one asked Rocky or I about the spelling before they put it up.
I called over the sign guy, Julio. He was on the beach making some last minute adjustments. I said, “look at the sign, Julio, it’s misspelled!”
“No its not.”
“What?” I looked up at it again and said, “The **** it ain’t. You misspelled “Openning.” It should only have one “N,” not two!"
“No its not.”
“Huh? What? What do mean?” I was confused. I looked back up at the banner again. Maybe I missed something. Nope. It was wrong. I said, “You misspelled Openning, Julio!”
“No I didn’t. that’s the way its spelled!” and then he walked away whistling as if everything was perfect.
There must be some way out of here, said the Joker to the Thief…
There is a thief in the house. We’re missing the top of our old stove. It’s a flat piece of iron, used for cooking. One of the motoconcho driver’s took it home. We called him up and asked for the top of our stove back. He said, “Sure, come and get it. It’s way too heavy to bring to you on my motorcycle.”
That got me thinking…how exactly did he get it home? He doesn’t own a car. He doesn’t own a helicopter. How exactly did he get it down the Callejon de la Loma? Space shuttle? Time Machine? Maybe a Time Portal? He somehow got it home, but now has no way of bringing it back to us. Hmm, Ok. Then he got very offended that someone questioned his integrity. The audacity.
Another day, and other trip to the hardware store. Rocky, Paul, and I waited inside the Hardware store while Melky went on a shopping spree. He ordered more concrete blocks, sand, gravel, electrical wiring, tubing, and…wait…what’s this…another screwdriver? Really? How many screwdrivers can these guys go through in one week? If this keeps up, we’re going to have enough screwdrivers to start our own hardware store.
Two days ago, we went to Santiago and ordered thick mosaic tiles for the kitchen. We need to get the kitchen floor done as soon as possible so that we can start organizing the kitchen. Paul and Rocky are perfectionists. Both are organized and eager jump into the fire and get everything up and running as soon as possible. Paul is a well-known chef, and Rocky is a well-known restaurateur. They eager to start cooking.
So, we sat around all day and eagerly awaited our kitchen tiles to be delivered from Santiago. Ochao said they would be here in the morning. Great. We needed them to be here in the morning in order to lay the tile and have it dry over night. We waited all morning. Nothing. The morning came and went. and now it was afternoon. I called them and asked, “When can we expect our tiles?”
“Any minute now…they’re on their way!” they answered.
“Ok, perfect. Thanks a million!” I hung up the phone and told everyone the good news.
We waited. And then we waited some more. The sun was going down, so I called them again.
“Where are our kitchen tiles?”
“On their way…should be there any second now?”
“Ok, cool. Thanks a million!” i turned to everyone and told them the good news.
And then we waited. We waited some more.
Meanwhile Paul had a meeting with Cache to go over the new menu. Paul needed to know if all the ingredients he needed for his dishes we’re available here in the DR.
Back at Rocky’s U.S restaurant, they’re known for their homemade salad dressings, homemade horseradish/mayonnaise, homemade dill sauces, homemade Anchovies Caesar Salad dressings, homemade Blackened fish dishes and special seasonings and seared Tuna. They have special recipes for every single dish. Even their French fries are prepared a certain way and are hand cut. Nothing is frozen or pre-made.
While Cache and Paul went over every single minute detail of the new menu, I got hungry. Then I got more hungry. Then I started salivating. Then I started hallucinating. The more they spoke about food and different ingredients and sauces, the more I started salivating. I salivated until I had a large puddle of saliva sitting on the table in front of me. This was torture. This was inhumane punishment. This violated every Geneva Convention Law known. I was starving. I started seeing double. I started chewing on bar napkins, then my sleeve, and finally my arm. I couldn’t take it anymore. I cannot sit and listen to people talk about food for hours while I have nothing in front of me to eat.
After the food recipe meeting, I took Paul to Gorditos. He was starving and I was starving. We both ordered fantastic dishes from Gorditos. I finished mine before he picked up his fork. I’m not kidding. I’m a fast eater. Insanely fast. I cannot be beaten. It’s not pretty. I’m not proud of myself. It’s not something you want to take home and show your mother. But it can be impressive under the right lighting.
My appetite knows no boundaries. I can eat more than a horse. I can eat more than Mamma Cass. As a result, I can no longer see my penis.
We went back to the bar and the kitchen tile still had not arrived. This was not looking good. Not looking good at all. I called Ochoa again. Everyone was gone for the evening. Who am I kidding? It’s Friday night! No answer. Hmm, maybe the tile truck got hijacked. Maybe the truck got into an accident. Or maybe they lied to us. I looked around the bar, I said, “Paul, let’s go to Mojitos and have a road soda.
At Mojitos, I had a glass of wine and forgot all about the floor tiles. I had a second glass of wine and forgot about my headache. I had another glass of wine and forgot where I left my shoes. I had another glass of wine and wondered where and hell I was at? Was I even in the DR? No, I was on the Space Station somewhere far above the planet. I was floating around space...I was the Rocketman.
Seriously, I was ****ing flying. I’m a light weight. I was at around 40,000ft and cruising. I didn’t want to climb any higher on my space ship because I didn’t want to encounter any turbulence with the Redhead later on. So, I did what any good pilot does, I leveled off and waited. I just waited for my buzz to come back down to earth. I was on auto-pilot now.
frank12......awesome work......where do you find the patience? You should be transferring this over to a book soon. Oh wait, does transferring have 1 r or 2 r's? Great stuff.
