Dick the Cook
When I sit down to write a post, the first thing I usually ask myself is, “Do I even have anything intelligent to say, today?” More often than not, the answer is “No.” The coffee usually hasn’t kicked in yet, you see. Be that as it may, I soldier on.
At the Restaurant, I have this cook, whom we’ll call Dick. Dick is 20-something, invulnerable, and a super-genius. He’s clearly the best thing that ever happened to us, and far superior to we mere mortals, whom he has graced with his presence.
Anyone who’s ever worked in a restaurant, has worked with this guy. He’s useless. He can’t cook, he won’t clean, he doesn’t stock. He’s an asshole to everyone, and he’s constantly stirring up trouble, and cannot conceive of why he’s being punished for that behavior, since he is clearly so damn awesome.
Our particular version of Dick is complicated somewhat by the fact that his dad, St. Don the Dishwashing Savior, works for us, too. St. Don is godlike is his dish washing abilities. There is no rush so mighty that he cannot keep up by himself, single-handedly. All that he does is perfect. When he cleans, lo, the sparkling of his cleaning is blinding. His dishtank even smells decent, and that takes some serious effort. His floors are spotless. His bathrooms could be used by the Queen of England, and she would be most pleased. He’s helpful and friendly and never causes problems. He rarely calls off. He comes in early, he stays late, he comes in on his days off. We would cheerfully sacrifice virgins in St. Don’s honor, if he but asked it.
So Dick, the son, gets away with quite a lot, simply because we don’t want to piss his dad off. Now, for that matter, even though a father can’t really admit it, I think St. Don realizes that Dick is digging himself quite a hole, and is likely to get himself fired any minute now. Frankly, Dick is hanging himself faster than I can reel the rope out to him.
Back a couple of weeks ago, I had to throw out something like $600 worth of steak. That stuff was foul beyond words. I mean — damn. Dick was there that night, and I’d also had another cook, who’s worked for us about forever, Bryan, and who was there as a customer, check the nasty steak as well. (Because, you know, I have tits, and therefore can’t recognize rotten steak on my own. So I had the men confirm that the steak was rotten, because my poor little female brain can’t handle such chores.)
The week after that, the opening cook called out, and after much juggling of shifts, got the shift covered with Dick. Dick wanted extra hours for doing the favor, which he was getting. He was trading an eight-hour shift for a ten or twelve hour shift. All good. Well, Dick proceeded to throw a baby-fit temper tantrum, because he wanted to open and close that night (an 18-hour day, which there is no way in hell he could have made it through; he’s too lazy and whiny). So, the lil’ fucktard called out on the opening shift, leaving us totally screwed, and thought he would just pick up the closing shift he’d originally been scheduled for. Well, I’d covered that with another cook, so Dick could open. I decreed that if Dick couldn’t open, he damn well wouldn’t work at all that day. He purposefully called out to screw me, because he didn’t get his own way. You fuck me over, I fuck you over. That’s how it works.
Now, Dick is going around telling everyone that I did not, in fact, throw away that $600 worth of steak, but instead, stole it. Me, and the cook who covered his night shift, whom, I might add, wasn’t even at the restaurant the night we threw the steak away. Now, my ass is covered six ways to Sunday on this, as is the other cook’s. For one thing, I’ve got Bryan to say that yes, indeed, the steak was rotten and thrown out, and another morning cook who saw all the steak in the garbage dumpster the next day.
I’m going in today to chat with the Boss about this crap, because regardless of whether St. Don gets mad or not, Dick has got to go. He’s been useless for ages, and now he’s trying to get me in trouble. If the Boss were dumb enough to believe this sort of thing, I could lose my job, and then, I’d be screwed. There are no other jobs, at least not that pay the kind of money I make.
Restaurants. Like soap operas, only with uglier people and crappier scripts.
