- Thread starter frank12
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Diary of a Restaurant on the North Coast
Frank,
Just getting up to speed on your restaraunt reconstruction posts. Amazing stuff. You must have the patience of Jobe to manage this drawn out, aggravating, peril ridden process. There is definitely a book somewhere in this or at least a full chapter in a broader book detailing life in the DR. Keep the posts coming. Can't wait to see the new bar when I arrive in late December.*
Just getting up to speed on your restaraunt reconstruction posts. Amazing stuff. You must have the patience of Jobe to manage this drawn out, aggravating, peril ridden process. There is definitely a book somewhere in this or at least a full chapter in a broader book detailing life in the DR. Keep the posts coming. Can't wait to see the new bar when I arrive in late December.*
Funny as h*ll man, please keep going, thanks for taking the time from your busy day ? I'm a fan and you are definitely one of the reasons I sign on, as is Meemselle, God bless both of you. Some of my favorite lines, and this just from the last post! ?No its not No I didn?t Any minute now?they?re on their way! I couldn?t take it anymore I?m not proud of myself. My appetite knows no boundaries. I was floating around space...I was the Rocketman. I was on auto-pilot now.? Pure genius! You should be selling scripts to Hollywood, God knows they need new ideas.
Diary of a Restaurant on the North Coast
November 5th
Another day, and another twist and turn on the Dominican Roller Coaster ride. Will the ride come off the rails today? Who knows.
The Kitchen tile finally showed up last night at 9:30pm. I was almost asleep. A motconcho drove to a nearby business in town with Wifi and sent me a Whatsapp message. Did it matter that the security guards at the restaurant were supposed to call me as soon as the Ochoa tile truck showed up? No, because, they explained to me that they had no more minutes left on their phone.
“Neither one of you guys have any minutes?” I asked.
“Nope. Not a single one,” they answered.
“When exactly was the last time you guys had any minutes on your cell phones?” I asked.
They looked at each other and began talking rapidly. They were scratching their heads.
“Maybe 6-months ago,” the one guy answered.
“And you?” I asked.
“I can’t remember.”
“Really? You can’t remember the last time you bought a phone card?” I asked shocked.
“We use Whatsapp. We don’t buy minutes any more. We call each other for free. Who buys minutes these days?” they asked me, tilting their heads sideways like dogs do when they're confused. They looked at me like I was crazy.
“How about the twenty motoconchos standing outside in front of the restaurant? Couldn’t you have used one of their phones to send me a simple “Text” message?” I asked.
“We tried, but none of the motoconchos have any minutes on their phones either,” they pleaded.
It was Flakko who finally found enough gas for his motorcycle to drive down the street to LAX restaurant and use their Wifi to send me a message on Whatsapp.
This is no bull****. Poor people in third world countries use Whatsapp for everything.
Whatsapp has totally transformed the way people communicate in third world countries. It’s revolutionary. Poor people who have no more minutes left on their phone, simply look for the nearest business with Wifi to connect too. Once connected, they talk to their entire extended families in Europe and North America. They even message people standing across the street. It’s a phenomenon. I’ve never seen anything like it before.
The innovation of smart phones with the ability to connect to the internet has so many possibilities. With a good Wifi connection and fast speed, people are able to share their homemade porn videos among each other.
There is a revolution taking place right now.
People stand around all day long watching so and so screw so and so. Everyone has seen everyone’s vagina. Everyone has seen everyone’s penis. Everyone has seen each others secret mating dance and rhythm method. Dominicans share everything with each other. Everything!! There are no more secrets here. None. Zero. I now know what everyone’s cock size is. I know the curvature in everyone’s penis. You should see some of the young men, they walk right over to me while I’m trying to talk business with the Coco-Cola representative and hold their phones up in front of my face and show me our dishwasher screwing this or that person. They have no shame. They have no modesty. I must have seen the inside of the birth canal of every street girl working on the north coast.
This morning, we needed to run to Linares hardware store again. This would be the first of many visits. I can now drive to the hardware store with my eyes closed. I know the location of every single item in the store. No bull****. I am in this store 50 times a day. I almost live here. I’m thinking about subletting one of their mattresses out so that I can take a nap each time I visit.
Linares is a decent hardware store, but the system they use--although strange—is typical Dominican. How it works is like this: Melky goes into the back of the store where there is a counter with 25-young men standing behind the counter doing absolutely nothing. Two out of 25 are working, and working hard. The rest are mostly standing around trying to look busy while shifting their balls from one side of their pants to the next in a ritual that goes back thousands of years.
Meanwhile, the customers standing on the other side of the counter, are butting in line and pushing themselves to the front of the line. It’s chaos, its mayhem. It’s a ****ing mess. If this happened anywhere in the USA—particularly in Texas—there would be mass murder. It wouldn’t be pretty. Rednecks would be pulling out their handguns and shooting people in line.
There is no system here. Trying to figure out who was second, third, and in sixth or seventh place is impossible. Complete impossible. No one respects each other’s position in line. People do not recognize any line whatsoever. It doesn’t exist. They do not see it, nor would they recognize it if they did.
People simply walk past everyone and push themselves directly to the front of the line. The men are bad. The women are worse. The young men are horrendous. It’s a save yourself mentality because no one gives a ****. The system is broken, and it ain’t going to get better anytime soon.
People stand in line and drink coffee, orange juice, and sugar cane juice. All sold outside on the street. People stand in line and eat muffins, plantains, eggs, and whatever the kids outside are selling on the street, from the baskets of their bicycles and scooters. Complete strangers pass food in-between each other in line. It’s a Swedish smorgasbord. It’s a food frenzy. It’s an orgy. It’s a crazy melting pot of unbelievable acts of kindness because everyone shares.
After everyone finishes eating and drinking, they throw the wrappers and Styrofoam cups on the floor or in the parking lot outside. There are no trashcans near the entrance. There are no trashcans outside in the parking lot. There are no trashcans inside the store either. There are no ****ing trashcans anywhere on this island. And where there are trashcans, they are overflowing with trash.
I went back home and laid down.
No, not really, but I wanted to. Instead, I took Chef Paul to Playero and Superpolo and we looked for all of the necessary ingredients he needs for some of our signature dishes. We found wasabi, horseradish sauce (not the strong stuff though), Dill, Anchovies, Heavy Cream, and some other secret stuff that I don’t want to delve into right now.
Meanwhile, Linares made one of their many trips to our restaurant and dumped the sand right on the sidewalk where we immediately started hauling it inside the restaurant where it broke our brand new wheel barrel’s rim and axle. So it looks like we will be buying another wheel barrel on Monday.
We found the Fat Motoconcho guy and told him that we wanted our steel oven top back. He said, “Sure, let’s go to my mother’s house and get it.”
We all jumped into an SUV and drove down Callejon de La Loma and took a left on Calle 6 and drove about halfway down a narrow street filed with pot holes, mines, mortars, and angry mother’s. when we pulled up to his small, tin shack, my heart dropped onto the floor. When his 80yrs old mother came out to see who was on her dirt floor porch. She reminded me of my mother, and all of the sudden, the theft didn’t seem important anymore. Suddenly, I got a hard slap from my inner conscious telling me to look around their little shack and wake the **** up. There is no more humbling of an experience then having deep seated poverty slap the **** right out of your subjective reality.
I looked over at Paul. Then I looked over at the fat motoconcho driver. Then I looked at the 80yrs old mother. Everyone was standing their looking at the oven. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right at all. Paul was very nice to the mother and treated her with the utmost respect (I like this guy more and more each day) and so did her thieving motoconcho of a son. He treated his mother with the utmost respect and dignity as well. my eyes teared up and my heart fell to the floor where even a passing stray dog stopped to wipe his feet on it.
I said, “There's nothing we need here, let’s go.”
November 5th
Another day, and another twist and turn on the Dominican Roller Coaster ride. Will the ride come off the rails today? Who knows.
The Kitchen tile finally showed up last night at 9:30pm. I was almost asleep. A motconcho drove to a nearby business in town with Wifi and sent me a Whatsapp message. Did it matter that the security guards at the restaurant were supposed to call me as soon as the Ochoa tile truck showed up? No, because, they explained to me that they had no more minutes left on their phone.
“Neither one of you guys have any minutes?” I asked.
“Nope. Not a single one,” they answered.
“When exactly was the last time you guys had any minutes on your cell phones?” I asked.
They looked at each other and began talking rapidly. They were scratching their heads.
“Maybe 6-months ago,” the one guy answered.
“And you?” I asked.
“I can’t remember.”
“Really? You can’t remember the last time you bought a phone card?” I asked shocked.
“We use Whatsapp. We don’t buy minutes any more. We call each other for free. Who buys minutes these days?” they asked me, tilting their heads sideways like dogs do when they're confused. They looked at me like I was crazy.
“How about the twenty motoconchos standing outside in front of the restaurant? Couldn’t you have used one of their phones to send me a simple “Text” message?” I asked.
“We tried, but none of the motoconchos have any minutes on their phones either,” they pleaded.
It was Flakko who finally found enough gas for his motorcycle to drive down the street to LAX restaurant and use their Wifi to send me a message on Whatsapp.
This is no bull****. Poor people in third world countries use Whatsapp for everything.
Whatsapp has totally transformed the way people communicate in third world countries. It’s revolutionary. Poor people who have no more minutes left on their phone, simply look for the nearest business with Wifi to connect too. Once connected, they talk to their entire extended families in Europe and North America. They even message people standing across the street. It’s a phenomenon. I’ve never seen anything like it before.
The innovation of smart phones with the ability to connect to the internet has so many possibilities. With a good Wifi connection and fast speed, people are able to share their homemade porn videos among each other.
There is a revolution taking place right now.
People stand around all day long watching so and so screw so and so. Everyone has seen everyone’s vagina. Everyone has seen everyone’s penis. Everyone has seen each others secret mating dance and rhythm method. Dominicans share everything with each other. Everything!! There are no more secrets here. None. Zero. I now know what everyone’s cock size is. I know the curvature in everyone’s penis. You should see some of the young men, they walk right over to me while I’m trying to talk business with the Coco-Cola representative and hold their phones up in front of my face and show me our dishwasher screwing this or that person. They have no shame. They have no modesty. I must have seen the inside of the birth canal of every street girl working on the north coast.
This morning, we needed to run to Linares hardware store again. This would be the first of many visits. I can now drive to the hardware store with my eyes closed. I know the location of every single item in the store. No bull****. I am in this store 50 times a day. I almost live here. I’m thinking about subletting one of their mattresses out so that I can take a nap each time I visit.
Linares is a decent hardware store, but the system they use--although strange—is typical Dominican. How it works is like this: Melky goes into the back of the store where there is a counter with 25-young men standing behind the counter doing absolutely nothing. Two out of 25 are working, and working hard. The rest are mostly standing around trying to look busy while shifting their balls from one side of their pants to the next in a ritual that goes back thousands of years.
Meanwhile, the customers standing on the other side of the counter, are butting in line and pushing themselves to the front of the line. It’s chaos, its mayhem. It’s a ****ing mess. If this happened anywhere in the USA—particularly in Texas—there would be mass murder. It wouldn’t be pretty. Rednecks would be pulling out their handguns and shooting people in line.
There is no system here. Trying to figure out who was second, third, and in sixth or seventh place is impossible. Complete impossible. No one respects each other’s position in line. People do not recognize any line whatsoever. It doesn’t exist. They do not see it, nor would they recognize it if they did.
People simply walk past everyone and push themselves directly to the front of the line. The men are bad. The women are worse. The young men are horrendous. It’s a save yourself mentality because no one gives a ****. The system is broken, and it ain’t going to get better anytime soon.
People stand in line and drink coffee, orange juice, and sugar cane juice. All sold outside on the street. People stand in line and eat muffins, plantains, eggs, and whatever the kids outside are selling on the street, from the baskets of their bicycles and scooters. Complete strangers pass food in-between each other in line. It’s a Swedish smorgasbord. It’s a food frenzy. It’s an orgy. It’s a crazy melting pot of unbelievable acts of kindness because everyone shares.
After everyone finishes eating and drinking, they throw the wrappers and Styrofoam cups on the floor or in the parking lot outside. There are no trashcans near the entrance. There are no trashcans outside in the parking lot. There are no trashcans inside the store either. There are no ****ing trashcans anywhere on this island. And where there are trashcans, they are overflowing with trash.
I went back home and laid down.
No, not really, but I wanted to. Instead, I took Chef Paul to Playero and Superpolo and we looked for all of the necessary ingredients he needs for some of our signature dishes. We found wasabi, horseradish sauce (not the strong stuff though), Dill, Anchovies, Heavy Cream, and some other secret stuff that I don’t want to delve into right now.
Meanwhile, Linares made one of their many trips to our restaurant and dumped the sand right on the sidewalk where we immediately started hauling it inside the restaurant where it broke our brand new wheel barrel’s rim and axle. So it looks like we will be buying another wheel barrel on Monday.
We found the Fat Motoconcho guy and told him that we wanted our steel oven top back. He said, “Sure, let’s go to my mother’s house and get it.”
We all jumped into an SUV and drove down Callejon de La Loma and took a left on Calle 6 and drove about halfway down a narrow street filed with pot holes, mines, mortars, and angry mother’s. when we pulled up to his small, tin shack, my heart dropped onto the floor. When his 80yrs old mother came out to see who was on her dirt floor porch. She reminded me of my mother, and all of the sudden, the theft didn’t seem important anymore. Suddenly, I got a hard slap from my inner conscious telling me to look around their little shack and wake the **** up. There is no more humbling of an experience then having deep seated poverty slap the **** right out of your subjective reality.
I looked over at Paul. Then I looked over at the fat motoconcho driver. Then I looked at the 80yrs old mother. Everyone was standing their looking at the oven. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right at all. Paul was very nice to the mother and treated her with the utmost respect (I like this guy more and more each day) and so did her thieving motoconcho of a son. He treated his mother with the utmost respect and dignity as well. my eyes teared up and my heart fell to the floor where even a passing stray dog stopped to wipe his feet on it.
I said, “There's nothing we need here, let’s go.”
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Thanks Frank.
btw, it doesn't matter if you can see it anymore. the question is can anyone see it?
btw, it doesn't matter if you can see it anymore. the question is can anyone see it?
Good one, as usual.
I highlighted various segments intending to copy them here with comments. In the end this one trumped all . . .
There is no more humbling an experience then having deep-seated poverty slap the **** right out of your subjective reality.
. . . and it doesn't need comments.
wbr
I highlighted various segments intending to copy them here with comments. In the end this one trumped all . . .
There is no more humbling an experience then having deep-seated poverty slap the **** right out of your subjective reality.
. . . and it doesn't need comments.
wbr
Whatsapp ? I know of several people without smartphones because whatsapp seems to be an app for unemployed or underemployed. People with jobs complain that they are be constantly harassed by the unemployed via whatsapp and sending mostly junk messages. My girlfriend started using my phone and I had to block her family for similar reasons. I had to block all my friends from Nicaragua as well. I occasionally unblock them to say hi, but it's hopeless and I reblock them.
Litter - I like a good storm and last night was a perfect one. I had a view of the street from my rooftop and I watched the street empty of litter on the first downpour as it rushed for the ocean. It reminds me of my morning walks in Florida where I'd pick up the litter from the previous high tide and wonder where this endless stream of litter came from. After several years, another minor mystery solved.
80 year old woman - That was extremely nice, but I'd toss the granny a mil and take your stove. Poverty here knows no bottom.
Litter - I like a good storm and last night was a perfect one. I had a view of the street from my rooftop and I watched the street empty of litter on the first downpour as it rushed for the ocean. It reminds me of my morning walks in Florida where I'd pick up the litter from the previous high tide and wonder where this endless stream of litter came from. After several years, another minor mystery solved.
80 year old woman - That was extremely nice, but I'd toss the granny a mil and take your stove. Poverty here knows no bottom.
Diary of a Restaurant on the North Coast
November 6th
Another day, another trip down the Alice in Wonderland’s Rabbit Hole.
Came into work this morning. Everyone was already there working. They’d been here since 5am. Long story. They’re pouring concrete right now—extending a patio slightly, leveling the previous patio, and raising it slightly.
The plan is simple, raise the patio off the beach about 6-inches and put in a couple of 30-degree ramps so that wheel chairs, baby strollers, and high heels from divorced cougars can simply stroll down the ramp onto the beach without having to fight with steps. How people manage to push wheel chairs, strollers, and high heels down the beach, I’ll never know, but they do it, and more power to them. Everyone, handicap and divorced cougars alike, deserve the freedom to stroll down the beach unimpeded. And now with two ramps connecting the beach with the restaurant, it will be easier.
Rocky came in and immediately noticed that the ramp was too short and at way too steep of an angle. I examined it again closer…he was right. It was pitched at about 90-degrees. You’d need a 4x4 Winch attached to a Jeep to pull a wheel chair up the ramp. It looked more like a boat ramp that you’d launch a ship from.
Later, some officials and police came in. They asked to speak to the management. The cement guys pointed over at me. I was standing on the beach, they were inside near the hallway. They had dress shoes, long dress slacks, and dress shirts on. I could tell instantly that they didn’t want to navigate through the cement, dirty water, and sand to get to me for fear of dirtying their shoes. No bull****.
Dominicans take better care of their dress shoes then they do their animals. I know, because my father was the same way.
There are times when you know that you are in a third world country, and right here was the perfect example to both illustrate and drive home the point. They waved for me to come to them. I waved for them to come to me. This went back and forth like a Three Stooges film. They looked down at the floor, and then they started talking rapidly in Spanish amongst each other. There was no way in hell they were going to get their dress shoes dirty. No ****ing way. They waited and waved for me to come to them again. I put my hand up and moved my lips in ballet movement that only true Dominicans can appreciate, and told them to wait. And then I pretended I was busy measuring something. I don’t even know how to use a measuring tape. I feigned like I was busy doing something and grabbed the Level. I pretended like I was leveling the concrete. Again, I had no idea what the **** I was doing.
One thing you got to give to Dominican officials, they have the patience of a ****ing surgeon when it comes to the smell of money. I eventually gave up my Academy Award performance and strolled into the restaurant with the Level in one hand, and the measuring tape in the other. I acted like I was busy. I wasn’t. I was thinking of bacon. They gave me a firm handshake and then started with their formal presentations of Mr. so and so, and who they were, and what they represented. They all had their plastic ID badges hanging from their neck. One looked like a Pricesmart membership card from Santiago. The other looked like a Banco Popular ATM card. I kept staring at them as they spoke. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ID’s.
“For ****’s sake! That’s a ****ing ATM card he has around his neck,” I said to myself, laughing. I examined the other ID, the other official had a Pricesmart membership card around his neck. I know it well. I have one. It’s white and has a picture in the top right hand corner just like mine and says Pricesmart on the bottom. Unfortunately, mine is now expired. Before they could finish with a long drawn out speech about this regulation and that regulation, I made a phone call and handed them the phone. There was a lot of Si, No, Si, No, and Tabien!” they handed me my phone back and left without another word.
Melky and Enrique Suave called Rocky and I over to look at the newly poured concrete. It looked like wet concrete to me. Rocky asked them if they couldn’t put a little color in it. They said, “No, not now.” It’s already poured and its Sunday.”
Rocky and I looked at each other. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“Today is God’s day; it’s church day! All the hardware stores are closed.”
“Half the country or in short-time motels (Cabanas) right now, Melky,” I told him.
“Yes, true, but first they go to church,” he answered as serious as I’ve ever seen him respond to a question.
“Unfortunately, we cannot buy the colored powder that you want today.”
“Surely, there must be something out their that’s open, Melky?” I asked.
He thought about it and said, “Well, there might be a small hardware store down La Cienega.”
“Perfect, here, take this money, Melky, and go and see if the Cienega hardware store is open and whether or not they have colored concrete powder,” and then I added, “Hurry, before concrete dries. And call me if they’re open and I will come and pick it up with Rocky’s tank.
Let me back up here…
Rocky is driving the largest SUV I have ever seen in my life. It’s a Lexus LX 570. You need a step ladder just to climb into its cockpit. It’s like climbing into a 747 airplane.
20-minutes later, Melky called and said, “I’m in Sosua, at the hardware store next to Superpolo. Hurry, come now before the concrete dries.”
I jumped into the tank and drove down highway 5 as fast as a tank can navigate through pot holes the size of moon craters. I don’t like this SUV. It’s too big. You turn a corner, and the back end doesn’t come around until an hour later. The rear end and front end are in different time zones. The footprint of this SUV must rival the Space Shuttle. There’s also a lot of play in the steering wheel… which makes driving it similar to driving a John Deere combine or tractor. A Caterpillar Backhoe has less play in its steering wheel then this vehicle.
Who exactly purchases these monstrosity SUV’s? Oh, wait, I know who buys them…Mormons and Catholic families who have never heard of contraception, and do not know how to read the instructions on a condom package. Who am I kidding? I went to school with these people. The Richardson’s, Moorman’s, Finks at my school had 13, 15, and 16 children respectively. They’re the market for enormous SUV’s and Greyhound buses.
I’m sorry, I digress.
Back at the restaurant. The kitchen tile is laid, and tomorrow we will start moving in the kitchen equipment. We have Baymari’s, stoves, deep fryers, stainless steel shelves, refrigerators, sinks, and a host of other equipment to organize all day tomorrow.
November 6th
Another day, another trip down the Alice in Wonderland’s Rabbit Hole.
Came into work this morning. Everyone was already there working. They’d been here since 5am. Long story. They’re pouring concrete right now—extending a patio slightly, leveling the previous patio, and raising it slightly.
The plan is simple, raise the patio off the beach about 6-inches and put in a couple of 30-degree ramps so that wheel chairs, baby strollers, and high heels from divorced cougars can simply stroll down the ramp onto the beach without having to fight with steps. How people manage to push wheel chairs, strollers, and high heels down the beach, I’ll never know, but they do it, and more power to them. Everyone, handicap and divorced cougars alike, deserve the freedom to stroll down the beach unimpeded. And now with two ramps connecting the beach with the restaurant, it will be easier.
Rocky came in and immediately noticed that the ramp was too short and at way too steep of an angle. I examined it again closer…he was right. It was pitched at about 90-degrees. You’d need a 4x4 Winch attached to a Jeep to pull a wheel chair up the ramp. It looked more like a boat ramp that you’d launch a ship from.
Later, some officials and police came in. They asked to speak to the management. The cement guys pointed over at me. I was standing on the beach, they were inside near the hallway. They had dress shoes, long dress slacks, and dress shirts on. I could tell instantly that they didn’t want to navigate through the cement, dirty water, and sand to get to me for fear of dirtying their shoes. No bull****.
Dominicans take better care of their dress shoes then they do their animals. I know, because my father was the same way.
There are times when you know that you are in a third world country, and right here was the perfect example to both illustrate and drive home the point. They waved for me to come to them. I waved for them to come to me. This went back and forth like a Three Stooges film. They looked down at the floor, and then they started talking rapidly in Spanish amongst each other. There was no way in hell they were going to get their dress shoes dirty. No ****ing way. They waited and waved for me to come to them again. I put my hand up and moved my lips in ballet movement that only true Dominicans can appreciate, and told them to wait. And then I pretended I was busy measuring something. I don’t even know how to use a measuring tape. I feigned like I was busy doing something and grabbed the Level. I pretended like I was leveling the concrete. Again, I had no idea what the **** I was doing.
One thing you got to give to Dominican officials, they have the patience of a ****ing surgeon when it comes to the smell of money. I eventually gave up my Academy Award performance and strolled into the restaurant with the Level in one hand, and the measuring tape in the other. I acted like I was busy. I wasn’t. I was thinking of bacon. They gave me a firm handshake and then started with their formal presentations of Mr. so and so, and who they were, and what they represented. They all had their plastic ID badges hanging from their neck. One looked like a Pricesmart membership card from Santiago. The other looked like a Banco Popular ATM card. I kept staring at them as they spoke. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ID’s.
“For ****’s sake! That’s a ****ing ATM card he has around his neck,” I said to myself, laughing. I examined the other ID, the other official had a Pricesmart membership card around his neck. I know it well. I have one. It’s white and has a picture in the top right hand corner just like mine and says Pricesmart on the bottom. Unfortunately, mine is now expired. Before they could finish with a long drawn out speech about this regulation and that regulation, I made a phone call and handed them the phone. There was a lot of Si, No, Si, No, and Tabien!” they handed me my phone back and left without another word.
Melky and Enrique Suave called Rocky and I over to look at the newly poured concrete. It looked like wet concrete to me. Rocky asked them if they couldn’t put a little color in it. They said, “No, not now.” It’s already poured and its Sunday.”
Rocky and I looked at each other. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“Today is God’s day; it’s church day! All the hardware stores are closed.”
“Half the country or in short-time motels (Cabanas) right now, Melky,” I told him.
“Yes, true, but first they go to church,” he answered as serious as I’ve ever seen him respond to a question.
“Unfortunately, we cannot buy the colored powder that you want today.”
“Surely, there must be something out their that’s open, Melky?” I asked.
He thought about it and said, “Well, there might be a small hardware store down La Cienega.”
“Perfect, here, take this money, Melky, and go and see if the Cienega hardware store is open and whether or not they have colored concrete powder,” and then I added, “Hurry, before concrete dries. And call me if they’re open and I will come and pick it up with Rocky’s tank.
Let me back up here…
Rocky is driving the largest SUV I have ever seen in my life. It’s a Lexus LX 570. You need a step ladder just to climb into its cockpit. It’s like climbing into a 747 airplane.
20-minutes later, Melky called and said, “I’m in Sosua, at the hardware store next to Superpolo. Hurry, come now before the concrete dries.”
I jumped into the tank and drove down highway 5 as fast as a tank can navigate through pot holes the size of moon craters. I don’t like this SUV. It’s too big. You turn a corner, and the back end doesn’t come around until an hour later. The rear end and front end are in different time zones. The footprint of this SUV must rival the Space Shuttle. There’s also a lot of play in the steering wheel… which makes driving it similar to driving a John Deere combine or tractor. A Caterpillar Backhoe has less play in its steering wheel then this vehicle.
Who exactly purchases these monstrosity SUV’s? Oh, wait, I know who buys them…Mormons and Catholic families who have never heard of contraception, and do not know how to read the instructions on a condom package. Who am I kidding? I went to school with these people. The Richardson’s, Moorman’s, Finks at my school had 13, 15, and 16 children respectively. They’re the market for enormous SUV’s and Greyhound buses.
I’m sorry, I digress.
Back at the restaurant. The kitchen tile is laid, and tomorrow we will start moving in the kitchen equipment. We have Baymari’s, stoves, deep fryers, stainless steel shelves, refrigerators, sinks, and a host of other equipment to organize all day tomorrow.
Ah, two ramps, now you can have clowns with unicycles nip in for a quick drink at the bar. Good thinking.
What Frank is failing to tell everyone is, back in 2012, Frank, after a long day of watching topless French Canadian women on the beach and having gone through so much Catnip that he was farting rainbows (at least thats what they looked like to him in his stupor), had a trist with Chupa.
That brutal combination of sunstroke, "flavored" coffee's, and Catnip, made him weak, vulnerable, and more verile than an overdosed rabbit on Viagra. After 3 and a half hours of ferocious woopie, Chupa crawled away from the bar, unable to walk properly anymore, and to this day, walk's like John Wayne.
9 months later, Chupa arrived with a new trophy of the escapades she undertook with Frank. Frank, undoubtedly in shock, (but not too much as he had a fair bit of Catnip that day) decided he needed to take care of this. His first thought was, what if the Redhead finds out?? Worse yet, what if her and the child started hanging out at O'Shays, Big Frank would put his genitals in a meat grinder, he had to act FAST!!
Since that day, Frank has Chupa put up in a little place just outside Gaspar Hernandez, where once every so often, you can see his KTM 950 parked, and a little shack rocking like a magnitude 8 earthquake is happening.
Remember when you go chasing rabbits, and you know you have gone to far!!!!!!......Grace slick............