Sassy Giraffe

I worked a wake at the restaurant yesterday afternoon. The mother of the very first chef Tom ever hired had passed away. Her friends and family explained throughout the afternoon that she was very proud to be half Cherokee and back in the day, she had been a Vegas entertainer who maintained a reputation for being the mother hen over all the cocktail waitress showgirls. She allegedly once slapped Sammy Davis Jr. for grabbing one of the girls asses.

Anyway, this woman left a lot of stories and a lot of porcelain dolls behind. Her ashes were "displayed" in a black box, within a glass box, surrounded by a bunch of candles and dolls dressed up like Native Americans and biker chicks. There were also various dreamcatchers and other woven Native American things draped around the Blue Room.

Anyway, her son Dirk, was terribly nice and wonderously composed in light of the situation. Actually everyone was very composed. Most of the friends and relatives were very kind as well, even if they really took advantage of the "open" bar. (Tom, who owns Saffire as well as TomKats Catering, paid for everything.) But, like every family (I mean I think they were family?), there were a few who were just a bit... off. Just enough to keep the afternoon interesting.

For example… yes, wear black to a wake. But a plunging black v-neck dress with a GIANT blingy rhinestone brooch set just below the Girls, who appear to be one sudden movement away from making an inglorious guest appearance? Not so much.

One group in particular was very... colorful. At first glance, I guessed they were Hispanic, but when one of the women (she looked around 20) asked me what pico de gallo was, and utterly butchered the pronunciation, I was inclined to think otherwise.

I also think kids are pretty awesome, so when this one little 12 year old girl went ambling through the restaurant like a baby giraffe in giant heeled, suede boots that were clearly not her usual choice of footwear, I kind of smiled adoringly and looked at her like she was—well, a baby giraffe.

But when I got to the table and the baby giraffe copped an attitude with me because she hated the buffet we'd provided and wanted instead another Sprite and steak well done with some French fries? I may have accidentally looked at her like she was a baby cockroach running across my kitchen counter.

I really don't have a problem with customer service OR the restaurant business. In fact, I'm largely fascinated by people and their quirks. But I cannot suffer bitchy children. That is just WRONG. And her mother was sitting right next to her, trying to be her friend instead of telling her, "No! This restaurant is not your own personal kebab van and Juliette is NOT the kebab van genie, indentured to grant your every wretched culinary wish."

OOOO. Not. Right. (sigh)

I mean, I got them some Coke and some French fries. But I made 'em wait. I served all the grown ups first. Don't try to get saucy with me, giraffe, you will make the crazy come OUT.