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Posted by on Jul 25, 2018 in Blog, Essays, Restaurant Reviews | 0 comments

Dear Waiter: Thanks for Delivering My Meal, Now Please….



Dear Waiter:

Thanks for delivering my meal, which is basically your whole job.

Bravo!  Nice going!  Well done!

Now, please do me a favor.  Go away and leave me the fuck alone.

I dine out to eat, not talk.  Once I’m engaged in the act of consuming the food, your presence becomes annoying.  If I need something, I’ll summon you.  Or, if subtle eye contact doesn’t grab your attention, I’ll scream across the dining room.  That always tends to always get a reaction.

So long as my glass is full, my guests are happy, and there’s at least half a stick of real butter on my table, consider the first phase of your duty accomplished.  Now please, go back into the kitchen and wrap some silverware while I’m eating.  Smoke a cigarette out on the loading dock.  Talk to someone else.  Frankly, I don’t care what you do the next 15 minutes.  Just don’t blabber at me while I’m trying to eat my meal.  I came here to enjoy my dinner, not listen to you prattle on with your life story.

Talky waiters drive me bonkers.  At casual places.  With fine dining.  After waiting 45 minutes for my main course to arrive, the savory dish finally comes.  A hot platter is placed in front of me.  With a knife and fork in hand, I’m ready to attack.

Then comes — the interruption.  Just as I prepare myself for that much-anticipated first bite, the waiter drags on with his story or worse, starts another.  While he’s gabbing like a methed-up teenager, every ten seconds or so the temperature on my food drops one degree.  Two minutes of extended conversation means my once hot meal is now lukewarm.  I hate lukewarm food!

Here’s some advice.

Once I lift my fork, that’s your cue.  Quit talking.  Zip it.  Scram.  I’m not paying $115 plus a 20 percent tip to listen to who you think should start at running back for the Oakland Raiders.  I don’t care.  Now get lost!  Roll that silverware.  Go smoke a cigarette.  Just don’t interrupt me or my guests.  We’ll let you know when your services are needed.  Believe me, you’ll know.

I know what you’re thinking.  A few of you are fist-pumping every word because it’s happened to you, also.  But most of you think I’m a total prick.  That’s fine.  Excuse me for wanting to enjoy my dinner in peace.

It might shock readers to learn that I used to wait tables.  Two times I worked as a waiter.  The first place, I worked at an Italian restaurant.  After I got fired, next I took a job at a steakhouse.  But I got let go from that waiter job too, for bitching about my customers, sometimes in front of them.

So yeah, I realize that serving the public sucks.  Digging a ditch in the summer heat is less stressful.  Waiters have to put up with lots of shit.  Still, the fact is, I dine out for one reason — the food.  End of story.  I rarely even drink alcohol with food.  And I won’t order wine in restaurants because I’ve got plenty of bottles of wine at home, and besides, American restaurants markup bottles at 4X.  Don’t even get me started on wine by the glass, which is stale leftovers from a bottle opened two weeks ago with a $13 price tag for a 5-ounce pour.  Screw that.

It’s the food I want and once it’s placed within my reach to my satisfaction I don’t care if Lady Gaga runs through the restaurant naked — I’m laser-focused on my plate and thinking about my palate ready to take my next bite.  These 15 minutes at dinner represents the highlight of my day, unless I somehow win a sports bet.

Attention all waiter:  Let’s make a deal, okay?  If you really want to share your long, boring story, do it once I’m finished with every course.  Preferably whilst I’m getting up from the table and exiting the restaurant in mid-sentence.  Please, go ahead and finish your story.  I’ll be out in the parking lot.  Oh, and thanks for not bothering me while I was eating my main course.  The food was delicious!


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Posted by on Mar 14, 2017 in Blog, Essays, Rants and Raves, Travel | 2 comments

So, It Snowed Today in New York: Hello? It’s Still Winter!



So, it snowed today in Buffalo, New York.

Big fucking deal.

I suspect that it always snows in Buffalo, New York.  I think it snows in Buffalo, New York during the Fourth of July.

That’s what you get for living in Buffalo fucking New York.

Today, it also snowed in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington.

Big fucking deal.

That’s what you get for living in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington.

Hey, listen up.  You chose to live in the Northeast.  That’s the decision you made, a choice which encompasses all the repercussions of dealing with occasional bad weather.  And, according to my calendar, today is March 12th.  That date places us squarely in the season known as Winter.  W-I-N-T-E-R.  Spring is still more than one week away.

Okay, so let’s say it snowed 12 inches a month from now, sometime during April.  Then perhaps you can make a case for acting all surprised and going full ape mode.  But right now, it’s still wintertime.  News Flash:  It snows during the wintertime.

I just don’t get what’s the big deal about the weather.  I don’t.  Unless there’s a hurricane brewing off the Gulf Coast or a tornado has touched down in Oklahoma and people need to evacuate, I see no purpose whatsoever in covering nor discussing the weather.  Ever.  It’s a total waste of time.  There’s nothing we can do about it anyway.  So, just deal with it.  Live with it.  And if you must talk about it, do so among yourselves because of the rest of us living in other parts of the country really don’t give a shit.

This is not news.

I live in Las Vegas.  You don’t hear those of us who live in Las Vegas crowing about the scorching temperatures during the summertime, now do you?  We don’t say, “Hey, look at us — it’s 110 degrees today!”  That’s because we know it’s going to be 110 degrees in July, just about every single day.  It’s also going to be 110 every day in August.  That’s because we live in the fucking desert!  It gets hot here.  Just like it snows in the Northeast, sometimes even in mid-March.


You think people living in Seattle bitch about it raining 364 days a year?  Hell no!  Well, maybe they complain just a little.  But it’s never a national news story.  Same with bone-chilling temperatures in North Dakota.  You know what they call 32 degrees in Fargo in the middle of January?  A heat wave.

Nobody in North Dakota complains about cold and snow in the Winter.  That’s what bars and fireplaces were made for.  They man up.  They toughen it out.  They go on with their lives and don’t give a rat’s ass about the weather.

But all of you so-called “tough guys” living in the Northeast get a few inches of snow and all the sudden milk and bread flies off the shelves like you’re stocking a nuclear fallout shelter.  Wanna’ know something?  Tough guys don’t bitch about snow.  Tough guys don’t even notice it.

I just thought of a better use for the pejorative insult-of-all-insults during this post-election season:  Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here are way too many snowflakes.


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Posted by on Apr 16, 2016 in Blog, Essays, Personal | 18 comments

Why Does My House Smell Like Marijuana?


hunter s. thompson


Why does my house smell like marijuana?

You probably suspect I’m a pot smoker.  That’s a reasonable assumption.  Smoking pot inside my house would certainly explain the smell of marijuana lingering in my living room.

However, I do not smoke marijuana.  I do not like marijuana.  Nor do I like green eggs and ham.  I do not like them, Nolan I am.

See, marijuana just isn’t my thing.  It’s not for me.  Mind you, I’m not at all opposed to marijuana for others.  To me, marijuana is kinda’ like green eggs and ham.  I’m not going try eating green eggs and ham.  And, I’m sure as shit not going to smoke them.  But if someone else out there wants to indulge in green eggs and ham, then — be my guest.  Who am I to deny you that which you deem pleasurable?

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Posted by on Jan 29, 2016 in Blog, Essays, Personal, Rants and Raves, Restaurant Reviews, Travel | 7 comments

Travel Advisory! Stay Away from the Barbecue in Bakersfield!




Tasty barbecue shouldn’t be slathered beneath a pool of barbecue sauce.  That is, unless it’s a tasty sauce.

When the barbecue sauce is shitty, wanna’ know what happens?  The barbecue turns shitty, too — that’s what happens.

When you slather shitty barbecue sauce atop barbecue of undetermined quality, we’ll never discover if the barbecue was any good or not.  That’s because it’s slathered beneath a puddle of shitty barbecue sauce, turning the whole fucking plate into an unsolved mystery.

One would expect Bakersfield to be a terrific barbecue town.  The city’s outskirts are ringed with giant cattle farms in California’s Central Valley.  Cattle roam in green fields eating their way a bite of grass at a time to warm waiting plates of carnivores who are passionate about their barbecue.  If those poor beasts only knew of the horror that eventually awaits them, to be humiliated beneath a slathering of shitty barbecue sauce, they’d probably chose something different.  Then again, they can’t make choices for themselves.  Because, after all, they’re cows and besides — there’s no such thing as free will.

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Posted by on Jan 13, 2016 in Blog, Essays, Las Vegas, Personal, Rants and Raves, Restaurant Reviews | 5 comments

Since When Did Restaurants Start Rationing Butter?


IMAG0645 (3) - Edited


I’m a butter fanatic.  Call it a fetish.  I know.  I’m freaky.

When I die, in lieu of cremation followed by scattering my ashes off a cliff somewhere — instead, baste me in melted butter.  Then, deep fry me like a beignet until golden crisp and deep brown.  Next sprinkle me with gobs of powdered sugar.  Finally, toss me off a cliff.  That way a hungry seagull can clutch, swallow and ultimately shit the last final vestiges of my earthy existence.  At least my life will have had some meaning.

The great chef and culinary icon Julia Child also had a thing for butter.  It was an obsession, really.  She didn’t take any short-cuts inside her kitchen, which became an extension of our own homes.  Child’s recipes made their way into our dining rooms and transformed how we looked upon food, not simply as a bodily requirement but as an experience.  Accordingly, she didn’t resort to cooking with cheap imitations, nor resort of the use artificial ingredients.  Convenience, my ass.  Fuck that.  Julia Child never used “low-calorie” this, nor “lite” that.  Ever.  And so according to that most hallowed of gospels, there was nor is no replacement for butter.  Authenticity has no substitute.  As they say, you can’t fake sincerity.

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