Takeout Lawyer

Meet the New Job

2005-12-08T22:12:00.000-05:00

A lot like the old job.

Sorta.

Apparently they think I merited a corner office. It's pretty huge and has two (two!) windows. On the downside, the windows look out onto a brick wall on one side, and a dumpster on the other side. When the job was new, I would watch as afternoon wore on and the rats would come out and poke around the dumpster. One afternoon I had some epiphany about the rat race, but I stopped giggling about that shortly after I came up with it.

It's apparently the former ping pong room. At least, that's what everyone calls it when I describe where my office is. That history seems to help explain the presence of footprints on the walls, in addition to the many divots in the drywall.

Another thing I love about my office is that it's so environmentally sound. The light switch is motion-sensitive, so when I leave, the light turns off. My only complaint is that my office is located right next to the printer station. This means that others in the office come by frequently to pick up documents they've printed out, and, although I don't think it's happened yet, it's only a matter of time before someone sees me gesticulating wildly sitting at my desk in the dark, trying to get my light to turn back on after I've been sitting relatively still for a few minutes. I once tried moving the light switch to the position marked "off," which kept the lights on, but the cleaning staff are apparently under orders to keep the switch on the "on" setting, which makes it turn off. Go figure.

One of my favorite things about working in an office is the water. Within my brief professional career, I've seen the evolution from tap water to filtered water in the workplace, and I love it. My office has a water filter, and I used it happily for a while. Then I found out that the filter hasn't been changed in over two years. Now I take my chances with the city's finest.

What else? Oh, yeah - Maura. I worked with Maura on my first project. She's been on the job longer, and actually knows what she's doing, so I was paired up with her. She's more or less my age (I know, I flatter myself) and pretty. Suffering from that inevitable bit of awkwardness when meeting a workmate of the opposite sex, when she first comes into my office and sits in one spot that seems like it might be less comfy than the other spot, I offer her another place to sit (like I said, big office). She (suffering from the same inevitability) demures: That's ok, I'm easy! (My eyebrows exclaim shock.)...uhm...to...errr...get along with!

I see.

Anyway, I don't watch the rats much anymore (though I do check out the contents of the dumpster as well as I can from my perch to see if anything good's being chucked), Maura and I successfully completed our project, the footprints on the wall were washed off, and I got an officemate.

Hmph.

Oops

2005-09-05T02:45:00.000-04:00

Thanks, FPC, for pointing out that I managed to misspell Mr./Ms. Playfair's first name. It's Packy, not Pachy. And so, here's the link:

http://www.packyplayfair.com/

Enjoy.

Takeout Lawyer is happily ensconced in his new position, wearing a tie to impress the higher-ups (and, surely, the comely members of the opposite sex).

Sweating Elephants

2005-08-05T17:33:00.000-04:00

"Does it strike anyone but me," I asked the volunteers around me while walking along P____ St. towards the corner at N____ St.,"as somewhat ironic that the national mascot developed to get children involved in sports activities as a way of improving their health and fitness is . . . an elephant?"

I kid you not, faithful and long-suffering readers. An elephant.

It's name?

Pachy Playfair.

Yes, Pachy Playfair.

Pachy as in Pachyderm. From the Greek word pachy, meaning thick or fat. [I choose not to address here the fact that, when pronounced, his name becomes a racial slur.] Whose brainchild was this? And how much was s/he paid to come up with it? Did this person get a success bonus? Or is this person laughing hysterically from behind a thick shroud of funny smoke?

I am telling you the absolute truth, but I'm afraid that, having just googled Mr. Playfair with total lack of success, you'll have to trust me on this one. He's a guy dressed in a yellow warm-up suit, red P on the front and red Pachy on the back, big clowny shoes, and a huge gray elephant head, complete with long protruding trunk.

When called upon to serve, he bounds up onto the stage (ok, he doesn't bound, because he can't see his own feet in that suit - he is guided like an elderly woman taking very ginger steps as if the next one will send him off a precipice) and, well, stands there. He waves sometimes, and then he sticks out his right hand (he's also wearing elephant gloves, of course), and makes what is presumably a thumbs-up sign. You can't tell, though, because of the glove.

Plus, I think his gloves were on the wrong hands, which can't help.

Oh, and fair (Pachy PlayFAIR) is not just a word, kids - it's letters stand for something like Follow the rules . . . and . . . Include everyone who wants to play. Try as I might, I just can't remember the A and the R. I'm so sorry. They were so catchy, too. Dammit.

Anyway, Takeoutlawyer got a job. It starts on Monday. Today is Friday, and I thought I'd spend my last day of sweet sweet weekday freedom helping to create some community in the neighborhood next to mine. I'm sure my hood could use some community too, but this one needs it even more. So I went to this volunteery thing in S____.

Now, I've been to other things like this, and there's always a kick-off set of speeches by various people. This one had LOTS of speeches. I had no idea it was going to be full of such luminaries as the US Surgeon General, the head of the President's Council on Physical Fitness, and the head of the President's Council on, uh, Volunteering, or something like that. There was also a very famous former football player, which, even with my almost complete apathy towards spectator sports, I thought was kinda cool. I know he was very famous, and not merely famous, because I recognized his name. At one point, one of the speech-givers threw a t-shirt to the Surgeon General, who was sitting next to the football player, and the football player intercepted it. It was funny. You see, the football player was a, well, he played a position that involved making interceptions. Cornerback, maybe? See why it was funny?

And during all of this, we're out in the hot sun. Very hot sun, very humid air.

Did someone say hot? Humid?! It must be time for ANTOINE!!!

One of the ten (counted 'em, ten) luminaries seated on the makeshift stage was this dude who, if he needed a bra, would probably wear a C cup. No, he didn't have man-boobs, just really, really big chest muscles. In fact, he had big everything muscles, that I could see. And he wasn't hiding any of it. In fact, he had a really tight red shirt on, and what looked like "active" pants. (I don't know what active pants are, but that word seems to fit.) Long curly hair, celebrity sunglasses, and a French accent completed his image.

I hadn't thought too hard about who he was or why he was up there, but his presence (not to mention his countenance) disquieted me for some reason.

After the speeching was done, the MC called on Antoine to step up to the mic.

"I'm sure you all know our next guest, physical fitness star ANTOINE!!!"

The roar of the crowd around me was deafening and, thinking back, this might have been the moment when, without changing my position, I somehow found myself much closer to the front of the crowd, instead of in the middle-rear, where I much prefer to hang.

Antoine did some of those call-response things that I can't stand and in which I absolutely refuse to participate. [House everyone doink?! (Hooray!) What deed you say - I can't hear you! (Fuck off, mutant!)]

Then he said he was going to wake us up a bit and teach us how to exercise AND have fun at the same time, and he turned on the music.

By this point, I was basically front row among the crowd. Nowhere to run. ABBA started playing (Dancing Queen, I think), but apparently that's not what Antoine wanted. He finally got the right song going, and led us in a fun physical fitness exercise in the 100-degree heat.

As it began, I saw my choices as three:

1) play along like a good, game volunteer (yah, not likely);
2) make some show of participating, like by clapping or doing some simple movement with the music (now, the danger here is getting sucked in once you start); and
3) stand stock-still, watch, smile, and put out vibes that say "yeah, this is nice for the kids. Get them kids dancing and moving. Not me, though, dude. No freakin way."

First choice was, obviously, out of the question. Number two got the ding as soon as I saw that his first move involved the hips. I'm not about to start moving my hips at the front of this - or any other - crowd without good music swirling around me and a few beers swirling inside me. So I just stood there and thought, hey, this, in addition to Pachy Playfair, is great fodder for Takeoutlawyer. Excellent. I just took it all in from that point on.

Ignored the repeated calls to participate, was relieved when the song ended, dismayed when Antoine ignored the crowd's silence as he asked if we wanted to do another song, and, finally, thrilled when it was time to move on and actually break into teams to plant flowers in the tree boxes and get rid of graffiti.

Met up with my team and its leader, Alice, who ended up being a very cool Americorps volunteer from Colorado, and broke the ice with a question about pachyderms.

Hot Cars

2005-06-16T13:48:00.000-04:00

Twice a year, D city collects hazardous and electronic waste for proper disposal. This year, I had an old monitor and an old printer to get rid of. And my buddy asked if I could get rid of some tiki torch fuel for him as well, no questions asked. Sure, why not?

So I pile my stuff into the car, pick up his thing of fuel, and head out to the parking lot of CB Amphitheater where collection is to take place.

As I'm sitting in the line of cars waiting for happy volunteers to take my stuff, I see a guy sitting on a grass median next to my car. He's gleefully playing with a laptop computer. Looks up at me. "Hey! I don't s'pose you have a laptop you're getting rid of, do you?"

Sorry.

"That's ok. I just picked this one up. Looks like it works!" A friend had told me about the computer scavengers. I love that. Reuse is even better than recycle.

I also notice two young ladies, volunteers, spraying each other with water from water bottles (it's a hot, sunny day). Attractive young lady volunteers. Wow. I'm hoping I'll be put into their line, but fate puts me into another. As I'm sitting waiting for my turn. Suddenly someone rushes up to my driver-side window, practically sticks her head in the car, and exclaims, "WOW! What year is this car??!!"

It's one of the two young ladies, and I now can see that she's gorgeous. Mediterranean-looking. Yowzah. I'm stunned.

Unhhh, it's an 87. Brain not quite in gear.

"Where did you GET it???!!!"

Wl, unh, I, um, bought it from a buddy of mine a few years back!

"I used to have one of these, and I LOVED it!!! These are AWESOME cars!" And before I can think of anything to say to continue the conversation, to ask her out, to ask her hand in holy, holy matrimony (for she clearly is likeminded and appreciates my exquisite (and exquisitely unique) taste in vehicles), she runs off. Presumably back to her water-squirting friend to tickle the fantasies of others.

The other volunteers take my electronics and fuel, and I drive off, wondering if there was anything I really could have done differently (you know, for the next time a beautiful woman runs up to me and tells me how much she LOVES my 87 Honda Accord). I haven't yet come up with anything. If you have any ideas, lemme know.

Zero For Two

2005-06-07T23:13:00.000-04:00

Takeout Lawyer is trying to have a social life.

Scratch that. Takeout Lawyer has a social life. A very full social life, thank you very much, but is trying to get some romance into it.

Yes, Takeout Lawyer is looking for love.

I’ve been on Match. A friend summed up Match women (if I may be so crass as to stereotype): Sassy Single Lady Looking for Mr. Right! I would add that she has a username like 1QTin[cityofD]4U!!! I shouldn’t knock it, though. Met a great woman whom I dated for like eight months on Match. And, I’ll add, I’m sure I’m not quite the catch my mother thinks I am.

Regardless, at some point Match started to depress me, so I tried The Onion. Spring Street Networks, actually. They’re on The Onion, Nerve, and I think Salon.

It was a whole new world.

The pictures were cute – at least, they seemed cute, but it was hard to tell b/c they’re mostly taken from these odd angles, with most of an arm outstretched towards the camera (self-portraits). The profiles were intriguing, with questions like "What are five things you’ll find in my bedroom?" (To which one woman hilariously – and compellingly – answered "more skill than you’ll find in my kitchen." Ooh la la!) There were questions about drug use (heavens!) and [sharp intake of breath that does not seem to have been given a name in English] self-love.

In short, I thought I’d stumbled across the D’s repository of edgy single women. Edgy. Finally!

Long story short, I went out with an Onion woman tonight. Just got back.

I was worried when, even before we met, I was thinking of how I’d tell her, after the date, that I wasn’t really interested in seeing her again. I just get a feeling very early on and, like it or not, that seems to be the make-or-break. Yes, self-defeating. I know. I wish I could get the rational, logical side of my head to convince the emotional side of my head that I should like such-and-such a woman who has all these great attributes. But I can’t. Nor can I get that side of my head to convince the other side that I should NOT like such-and-such a woman who has a bunch of great attributes but who dumped me four years ago and is now (probably blissfully, dammit) married.

Therapy hasn’t really helped.

Sure, there’s the idea out there that even if things don’t work out romantically, you can make good friends on the dating sites. But that idea is just wrong, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, I have lots and lots of great, great friends, and honestly don’t feel the need to expand my social circle to include more. I want one more friend, and that’s all. Basically, a woman who has her shit together and is unwilling to take shit from me. I’d like her to be physically attractive, as well, of course. But I don’t mean magazine attractive. I mean Takeout Lawyer attractive. No tall blondes for me. Give me a short Jewish girl with short dark hair and glasses. And not too skinny, either.

Ok, I’m getting off track.

So I’m walking with my date back homeward. We’re chatting amiably. I’m recalling that, when I insisted that I pay, she said she’d pick up the tab the next time. "Ok; I’ll pick it up next time."

I’ve used that line, too. And I wonder if the women I’ve used it on felt the same way that I did tonight.

Sure, sure! [No eye contact. There won’t be a next time.]

I usually walk a date all the way to her home, but just really didn’t want to tonight. So I bid her farewell at Circle D. Don’t worry – it’s a safe neighborhood. Didn’t know what to say to her, but it was a fairly quick goodbye, so I really didn’t have to say much. I have a guilt problem, and I’m feeling lower than a worm’s belly. I’m thinking she’s going to want to go out again (conceited of me, perhaps, sure), and I’m not, and I’m going to have to tell her that I’m not interested. And that really sucks. But she’s a good woman, smart, educated, attractive. We just don’t click. No chemistry, no repartee. Sorry.

I get to the bus stop, and want to check how long the bus’ll be. There’s a fellow standing there waiting for the bus, and I ask him the time. He doesn’t answer. Deaf, maybe. I get his attention and make the universal sign for "what time is it." He shows me, very, very awkwardly, his watch. 9.30. He’s got these enormous coke-bottle glasses that make his eyes look like those of a praying mantis or something. He’s leaning all angly on a cane, and doesn’t seem to be able to speak. The fellow’s got some serious problems.

9.30! Thanks!

I check the schedule, 9.30 is the next bus, actually.

Should be here soon!

He seems to acknowledge what I say, but I can’t really tell. I smile.

The bus comes, I get on, sit. (Fortunately for me, the driver took my transfer even though it was over an hour expired. Come to think of it, I think I was supposed to pay a quarter anyway, but didn’t. Gotta love government workers. Sometimes.)

A few stops later, there’s a very attractive woman sitting across from me. An older lady embarks with a rolly cart and some groceries. She sits near the both of us, and seems to be fiddling with her cart. I’m not really paying that much attention, but she seems to be trying to get the cart out of the aisle. Takeout Lawyer immediately deems this task to be impossible and assumes that she’ll take the only logical course of action and give it up. I turn to stare out the window.

She keeps struggling. The attractive woman leans over and tries to help. I start to think that I should do something, but I’m not really sure what to do. I get anxious. I reach over and try to steady the cart, which is moving with the bus. Suddenly the guy with the watch, the one at the bus stop, taps me on the shoulder and makes a tremendous effort to say something to me. All that comes out is something like "Bwwwwwoooooaaaaaahhhh eeeeeemmmmmmoooooo" and so on. I translate this as, roughly: why don’t you fucking help the poor woman you bastard instead of sitting on your lazy fat white ass?!

I could have missed some of the subtleties, but I think this was the gist of his statement.

The entire bus is watching now, as the attractive woman and the older lady struggle, and I sit there and pretend like I’m being helpful. I fear that the attractive woman is unimpressed by my lame show of chivalry.

The older lady is trying to collapse the cart to fit into the seat, but there is no way that’s going to happen. I tell her, finally, that it’s ok to leave the cart in the aisle, that people can get by, that she really doesn’t have to worry about it. She calms down, and stops trying to shrink the cart. I calm down, too. Attractive woman stops trying to help (no need anymore).

The older woman talks to the attractive woman, who, it turns out, lives not far from Takeout Lawyer. Of course my interest is peaked even more, as not many attractive women live in my "transitional" neighborhood. So now, she’s got three things going for her like gangbusters. Attractive (Takeout Lawyer attractive, though not with the full complement of listed attributes (it’s ok, I’m flexible)), super, super nice (and, based on several minutes observation, surely very, very cool as well), and lives in the hood. Yowzah! A catch, without a doubt.

However, in view of his complete failure to help the situation (evidenced by the deaf guy yelling unintelligibly at him and his vain flailings), the public nature of the bus, and probably also his current state of mind having just left the disaster date, Takeout Lawyer deems it unacceptable to hit on this woman at this time.

Dammit, she probably even likes the same weird music I like, too.

The older lady is going to near the end of the line, and the attractive woman is not.

So attractive woman will not see me chivalrously take control of the situation at the older lady’s stop by commandeering the cart and getting it off the bus and up the curb so that she’ll be able to wheel it on home.

Nope, she didn’t get to see that.

Oh well. Back to The Onion.

Roll on, Spring Rolls

2005-05-15T15:11:00.000-04:00

Theo rolls his own spring rolls. I have, in fact, learned how to roll spring rolls, too. Quite an art. I’ll have to show you sometime.

When Theo gets to an order of spring rolls on an order ticket, he tells me to get them ready. I pull 'em out of the fridge and ask him - knowing the answer - if the deep fat fryer is ready.

"Not yet" is nearly always the reply. He opens the front of the beast and crouches down, turning knobs and fanning the air until the gas jets light up with a big whoosh and the quick fear of singed hair.

Ok, Theo, just let me know when it's ready.

A few minutes later I'll ask again, and he'll say yes, it's ready, probably without looking at it. I'll take the three spring rolls that compose an order and drop them into a basket, lower the basket, and grab a long metal skewer/poker that has a nice wooden handle. I don’t know what sort of implement this is, but it has one and only one use in Theo's kitchen. One, I should add, very important use.

I use it to poke the spring rolls.

I poke 'em because they float, and we don't want them to cook only on one side. So every time someone orders spring rolls, no matter how busy the place is, I drop whatever I'm doing to run over, grab The Implement, and poke at the spring rolls for a few minutes until they're done. Poke at 'em, roll 'em around, try to get them to cook evenly on both sides.

As a little game, I try to get each to float with its lighter side down. Each spring roll has a preferred side up (the light side, I presume), so when you roll it, it will tend to stop with the same side up each time, and that side will not cook as much as the other side. So I try to get each perfectly balanced on the light side. It never works for very long, but it makes the task marginally more interesting. Such a fantastic waste of time.

So, of course, I try to develop a more permanent solution to the problem. I am, after all, Takeout Lawyer.

Seems like I should be able to find something to weigh down the spring rolls, right? I finally find it, staring me in the face.

Theo, what if I take this other basket (there are two) and put it on top of the one with the rolls in it? That way, the top basket keeps the rolls completely under the oil.

"What? No, you be careful! You crush spring rolls! No, just use the stick."

Right, I'll crush those spring rolls between the heavy weight of the wire basket and the, uh, oil. Between a rock and the deep blue sea.

The next time Theo's buddy is around, I try again. I have found that Theo is more suggestible when the suggestions come from - or at least in the presence of - his buddy. I take advantage when I can. But even so, Theo doesn't really like the idea, in part I think, because it's harder to see the rolls when they're under the oil, cooking evenly. Fair enough.

But Takeout Lawyer, I hear you shouting, why not simply set the timer on the deep fat fryer? Experiement to find the perfect amount of time needed, set the timer for the rolls, and the problem is solved!

Great idea! The problem, however, is that Theo cannot seem to get a constant temperature on the fryer. Sometimes it's too hot, sometimes not hot enough. Often while trying to get the rolls to float on the lighter side, I mention to Theo that the temperature seems off, and he again opens the front of the fryer, crouches down, and fiddles with the knobs.

"Should be good now."

In yet another attempt to fight fate, I tried to determine what the problem with the fryer was. If we could get it to work right, maybe it would keep a constant temperature, we could cook the rolls by time, and it would be ok to submerge them. Ha! Brilliant! That law school eduation is really kicking in now.

So, Theo, what's the problem with the fryer? Perhaps we should get it fixed, or maybe I could take a look at it. I'm pretty handy, you know.

Theo thinks for a few seconds before answering. He then states "I can’t explain the problem to you." That’s pretty much a direct quote. "I can’t explain the problem to you."

Which means he can’t explain it to anyone else, I s’pose, so we’re, again, up a creek without a paddle. But with the poker/stick/skewer.

Snippets

2005-05-10T21:49:00.000-04:00

Takeout Lawyer's been busy this last week. Lots of personal news, but you're not interested in that. So here are some random items about the Thai joint that illustrate its absurd quality.

The Envelopes

Under the counter, near the takeout window, behind the radio that usually plays NPR, is a stack of envelopes. Ok, not a stack. A stack is neat and orderly. Someone once put a bunch of envelopes there, and they sit there, like a partially-opened fan, sorta. On my first day, I thought I would take all of the order tickets for the day and put them in an envelope, label it with the date, and put it in a special place so that Theo or his accountant would know what orders came in that day.

Makes sense, right? So at the end of the night, I grab an envelope.

But I can't open it. It's sealed. I grab another. They're all sealed. Every one. Pre-sealed, I call them. So I carefully tear off one side, stuff the order tickets in, and fold the torn edge over. I put them beside a bunch of pieces of paper sitting next to the cash register. I don't know where they go from there.

The Cigarillos

Theo smokes when he's not in the zone. That is, before it gets busy and then again after it's calmed down. While he's preparing food. Once when he was rolling spring rolls, ashes fell onto the pastry wrapper thing. Theo wiped 'em off as best he could and continued to roll and to smoke.

I don't really mind the smoking so much, though, because he smokes cigarillos. They're like big cigarettes, or little cigars. Cigarillos. Brilliant name. He asked me to go to the drug store to get him some once. With great care, he slowly and deliberately wrote the name down. It wasn't the name I was expecting. He wrote: Garcia Vygenia or something like that. Hunh. I guess it's a knock-off of Garcia Y Vega. (Not that I'm an expert when it comes to smoking products, but I can certainly tell a Tiparillo from a Swisher Sweet.)

I find the cigar section at the drug store. They appear to be all out of the Garcia Gevynas, but I do find the Garcia Y Vegas. Very mild.

The Menus

Ah, the menus. Theo's got a menu, of course. It's posted everywhere in the back, which is convenient. Printed on regular 8 1/2 x 11, tri-fold or bi-fold or whatever they call it. There are even some folded up on the counter for customers to take. One night we ran out of those menus, so Theo's buddy asked me to fold some more and put them in the menu display thing. He told me where they are. Theo has, apparently, 2,000 of these things.

And Theo showed me how to fold them just the right way.

So I'm folding, and I'm thinking. Theo sells a dish called salmon in red curry. Consists of an entire salmon steak. You know the kind. It's thick and big. And Theo charges $8 for it. $8. The barber, Jeff, from two doors down comes in every once in a while and buys it. Deal of the freakin' century, I think. It's fantastic.

I prod Theo on it, though.

Theo, the salmon itself must cost almost $8. How are you going to make money off that?

"Is ok. I charge not so much money now, but in three months, I raise price." He gives a little laugh. "I sell all food cheap prices, then make more expensive. Get them hooked on Thai food!" He seems really excited by this. I laugh along with him. Seems like a plan.

Then one day I come in and Theo's buddy tells me that they have new menus with new prices. Ok, fine. New menus, new prices. Now we're going to start making some money, especially on the salmon. Theo's buddy replaced all of the menus hanging in the back, so that when we take orders, we have the right prices. Cool. I'm down with that. Good thinking.

Theo's buddy leaves.

So, Theo, what do I do with all these old menus with the old prices?

"Oh, tha's ok. Just use dem. Don't want to throw away. Paid $2,000 for them. Very expensive. Just keep them, use them still."

But they have the wrong prices, so when people order, don't you think they might be a little upset if we charge them more?

"Tha's ok. Just tell them we have new prices."

I'm not sure how happy they're going to be with that, but Theo's obviously made up his mind, so I don't press the issue. New prices, old menus. I briefly wonder if maybe the old menus state somewhere on them that the prices are subject to change without notice, but then realize that I really don't care enough to look. Wu wei, man. Wu wei.

Mongo Mon

2005-05-01T10:38:00.000-04:00

Walking down F_____ Ave. approaching the restaurant one day, I see ambling towards me in a relaxed Caribbean gait someone I recognize.

Hey hey, Mango Man, how you doin' today!

The guy is nonplussed for just a second, then makes the connection, smiles, and responds in kind.

You coming by today for some more mangoes?!

"Olready got dem, mon!" He shows me the two mangoes he's carrying in one giant hand.

Ok, Mango Man, you take it easy!

"Olright, mon, see you latah!"

The Rasta dude I call Mango Man comes into the restaurant every day or so and buys two mangoes from Theo. He pays $2 each. Theo buys them for about $1 - $1.50 each. I don't know what Mango Man did before Theo opened the joint. Went sadly mango-less, I suppose.

One day when I'm standing behind the counter, Mango Man saunters in and asks if we have mangoes today.

Sure do, Mango Man! Right there in the basket! I point.

In the basket, on one of the tiny tables at which, if you really wanted, you could eat your yummy Thai food, three mangoes sit.

Mango Man looks at them, scowls, shakes his head. "No, mon, I don't want dese mongoes, mon. Dese no good. Don't you have any others?"

What's wrong with 'em?

"Dese are," he struggles for a word, "dese are pahst, mon. Dese mongoes are pahst! I don't eat dem when dey pahst, mon. Dey got to be fresh."

Pahst? Post?

Oh. Past. Old. Overripe.

Hey, Theo, are these mangoes ok?

"Sure, they good mangoes!"

"No, mon, de skeen is not smooth! De mongo has to have de smooth skeen! I don't eat dem when dey pahst."

No, Mango Man, they're ok, actually, they're not past. We use 'em like that for the mango and sticky rice dessert. They're still good. Being a little riper makes them sweeter.

I hoped it sounded as if I knew what I was talking about, even though I didn't. All I knew was that, in the past I'd seen these really wrinkly-looking mangoes in the basket (that I myself thought were past), and watched as Theo would carefully choose one and hold it like a, well, like a new relationship you're trying to nurture, skin it, cut and slice, and bed atop some sticky rice for a hungry patron. Still sweet and yummy.

Mango Man was not to be persuaded.

"Dese are pahst mon! I don't eat dem when dey pahst. Dey got to have de smooth skeen!"

Mango Man, these are a different variety of mango. They're not past. It's ok if the skin is a little wrinkled. [I tried a different tack.]

He looked at me quizzically. "No, mon, dose are de mongo ve. Mongo ve. Dat's de other type of mongo. But dey got to have de smooth skeen. Dese are pahst, mon."

Well, I tried. Theo came over and tried, too. "What is the problem?"

"Dey pahst, mon."

I translated.

Mango Man says that the mangoes are [now I'm struggling for the word] uh, past? past their prime? too ripe? overripe?

"No, no, these are good! Very good, very sweet!" Theo didn't seem to understand.

"No, mon, de skeen got to be smooth. Dese is pahst mon. I don't eat dem when dey pahst. I come back when you got de fresh, wit de smooth skeen." He left.

Ok, Mango Man, see you when we've got de smooth skeen!

The Evils of Inbreeding

2005-04-21T23:31:00.000-04:00

Guy walks into the restaurant. Says his name is Andrew, he's here to pick up his food. Theo, how much time before Andrew's order is ready? "Oh, I think, ten minute. Food ready in ten minute." Ten minutes.

"Ten minutes?! I called you at five minutes before six and you told me it would be ready in half an hour, and it is now 6.45!!!"

Apparently someone's been counting.

Yeah, sorry about that, we're working on our speed and on our estimating abilities.

"This is simply unacceptable!!! You can't run a business like this and expect to keep customers!!!"

I'm a little aghast. I mean, how do you respond to someone standing right in front of you spouting off with such vehemence?

Yes, I understand. It's a frustration that I share.

"Well, you're going to lose customers and go out of business unless you can get your act together! This is just ridiculous!"

Ok, chief, thanks for the lesson in how to run a business. Clearly we're doing something right because, well, you keep dragging your sorry ass back here, ordering food, and paying us your hard-earned money, knowing that we're slow. In addition to which, I told your stupid self on the phone that I would call when the food was ready. Guess what, Einstein, there's a reason why I haven't called you yet. Perhaps I should give you a few seconds to figure that reason out. In the meantime, why don't you tell me how those eyes of yours got so close together.

I escape to the kitchen to pack the food up as Theo finishes each dish. I bring out one bag of food (it's a big order), and he asks which items are in the bag.

Uh, not sure, but you're free to check. "I'll take a look."

I've got the last item right here.

"What is it?"

Well, it's a noodle dish. "Which one?" I don't know [you dumbfuck, just take your food and leave. Here, I'll open up the container and breathe on your food while I try to answer your question.]. Looks like drunken noodles. "What are in these other boxes?" Your order. [What the fuck do you think is in the other boxes? Could you really tell the difference anyway?] "Well, I just want to make sure everything's here because you've fucked up my order before." I think everything's here. "Ok."

Enjoy your dinner! Come again!

After he's gone I make sure to inform Theo of my opinion of the gentleman. Theo agrees, and notes that Andrew's a regular customer. He adds with a chuckle that, next time, perhaps he should add some more hot pepper to Andrew's order.

Jesus, I think, if that's the worst that a food service worker will do when confronted with an asshole customer, we live in a world that is either truly beautiful, or one truly lacking in any real justice.

Press Any Key

2005-04-19T22:13:00.000-04:00

Need to Batch! Press Any Key

That's what the credit card machine's little screen instructed its viewers to do when I arrived at work one day early on. Hey, Theo, what's up with the credit card machine? "Just push some button. It fine." Not satisfied to push just any key, I hit the enter key. That seemed safe. Enter is the action key, the go with the flow key, the don't rock the boat key. Unlike, say, the escape key, the cancel key. You know.

The screen went back to its usual display, something like "Account No." with an arrow or something - I never paid attention. Just followed the step-by-step instructions that Theo's buddy wrote up. Of course, the instructions weren't always right, but they were close enough.

The next time I looked at the machine was to run a credit card for a customer. At some point - just when remains a mystery - that same Batch screen reappeared. Shit! I clearly need to batch! But I also need to run a customer's card. So, again, I hit enter, and ran the card, just like normal.

At a slow period during the evening, I decided to respond to the needs of the machine. Why, you ask, would Takeout Lawyer start futzing around with the credit card machine when Theo was perfectly happy to just have me keep hitting any key to achieve normal functionality? For one thing, the machine kept insisting that Batch needed to be performed, and I presume the machine knows what it needs. For another, though this was a machine I'd never used in any manner other than that prescribed by Theo's buddy's instructions, I have a theory that says that things made for people to use are aimed at the lowest common denominator. That's why a camera comes with a 30-page instruction manual that you really don't have to read, and a pack of matches tells you how to strike one up. In other words, they make these things fool-proof, and Takeout Lawyer's no fool.

Hey, Theo. I'm going to try Batching this thing, ok?

Theories aside, I still didn't want to be responsible for screwing up the machine or the transactions already entered. If there's one thing I learned at the law firm, it was to cover my ass whenever possible by putting someone else on the hook (and to hide my identity whenever not possible).

Not that I had any freaking clue what Batching meant. But I found the manual (you guessed it - at least 50 pages long) and went to the section on Running a Batch. It didn't explain what Batching meant, but I forged on ahead. Almost immediately I ran into a problem. You'll not be surprised to learn that the manual is for a different model of machine. However, my theory held, and I was able to complete the Batch successfully. Reading the printout that the machine generated led me to believe that it had something to do with sending transaction information . . . somewhere, and clearing the machine's own local memory.

A few days later, Theo's buddy was there. He comes by almost every night to provide what I'm sure he believes to be help. More on that another time. He busied himself with the credit card machine, asked me what questions I had about it, and drew up a list of questions for Theo to ask the manufacturer the next day. A little while later, after he'd left, he called and asked me to add to the list of questions whether or not we take Discover. It was an idle question that I actually had, but one that would be easily answered by running a Discover card through to see if it worked. Theo's buddy asked me not only to add the question to the list, but also to walk Theo through the question. (When it comes to things outside his demesne, Theo is not what you'd call a details guy.)

Several days later, after Theo had failed repeatedly to call the manufacturer, after we'd lost tips because we didn't know how to add them to a bill, after me running Batches every once in a while as the machine demanded (and still not really knowing why), Theo's buddy took matters into his own hands, called the manufacturer, and got answers to the questions. Phew.

So, it's 11pm, I'm tired and wanting to leave, and Theo's buddy is insisting that I stay to hear the answers to all of our burning credit card machine questions. He keeps saying that he wants to get on with it so that he "can get [me] out of here," but he doesn't really make any move in that direction. I know that he's going to write up an index card with all of the instructions I'll need, but he seems to want me to receive the wisdom from him verbally.

The answer to my question of whether or not we take Discover Card was as follows (my thoughts in brackets):

"Ok, Takeout Lawyer (no, that's not what he called me), I asked this guy Robert who works for the company that makes these machines whether we take Discover Card or not.

[Already far, far too many words. It's late, you're keeping me here, I've already been paid, so I'm off the clock, and all you needed was four words AT MOST (We don't take Discover). Could've gotten away with as few as two (No Discover or, in the alternative, Discover? No.)]

As it turns out, the guy said that, with Discover Cards, if we want to take them, we have to pay these fees. There's like a setup fee, I think that's like $40, and then we'd have to pay a monthly fee, too, of like $20. I just don't think that

[What the flying fuck are you on about, dude? I don't give a crap about fees and shit. I just need a two-word answer here, man. You're wasting my sleep time. Hurry it on up!]

it's going to be worth it at this point to pay those kinds of fees just to take Discover. I mean, most people who have a Discover Card have wither a Visa or a MasterCard anyway, so

[Dude, this is fucking painful, man. I'm trying to show in a respectful and not incredibly impolite manner that I don't give a shit what you're saying right now and just want you to tell me the short answer and move on. Nope; can't think of a good way to do that.]

if someone tries to use one, just ask them

[I can see where this is going and, dude, I'm Takeout Lawyer; not a moron, ok?]

for a Visa or MasterCard, and I think that should be fine. At some point in the future when we're doing a lot more

[Christ, I will not be here in the future, ok? I'm concerned about what I need to know right now. And what I need to know right now is how the hell can I get you to piss off without, well, pissing you off.]

credit card transactions, we might rethink, but for now, Theo? I don't think we should be paying fees right now, right Theo?"

[Jesus, dude, just make the executive decision.]

It may have gone on longer, but I think I blocked it out.

At some point, when we were talking about how to enter tips into the machine - which is done in the Batching process, you'll be interested to learn - he said that he'd write up an instruction card, but wanted to tell me in person, too. Oh joy. I swear to God at some point, while he was babbling on about something particularly unimportant, he said: "I know this is all jumbled what I'm saying to you, but that's just how the words are coming out of my mouth right now so you'll have to bear with me." I'll refrain from comment on this.

After learning that we don't take Discover Cards, I decided to try to care about who actually gets paid the tips when people come in for pick-up (it happens once in a while). After a few misfires, Theo's buddy finally answered, well, I guess that Theo gets them, unless he decides that, because of the good service, the counter person should get them. Grumbles from the surly underling.

Even better, though, is that we have a cash register, but nobody knows how to use it.

No, that's not true. We all know how to use one button on it. The No Sale button. This opens the drawer so we can make change. Every time we hit it, the tape advances and prints something out, so we've got this long, curled-up strip of paper covered with meaningless printing repeated over and over and over. And absolutely no record of the cash we receive. I love it.

A Boy Named June*

2005-04-14T22:32:00.000-04:00

So on my second day of work, I show up at my appointed hour, and, as the chef/owner, Theo, seems to expect, June is late.

I met June on my first day of work, when I remembered him as the sweaty, slow-seeming guy who took my order on that fateful day when I first visited the restaurant. He failed to alert Theo of my order (or so someone else said), turning a long wait into a very long wait. Fortunately for me, the waiting area of the joint was well-appointed with comfy chairs, books on Buddhism, and a thumb piano.

When June does arrive, he sets to work immediately, but something is amiss. Theo, calm and focused even with a dozen orders demanding his immediate attention, is snapping at June. Something about using the wrong cutting board. "OK, Theo, I got it." "No, not OK! You need to remember! I already tell you!" "OK OK." "No, not OK, you do it the way I tell you next time!" Jeezum, Theo, take it easy. June's a decent bloke and diligent prep cook/delivery man/stock boy, everyone makes mistakes.

A little while later, I'm standing next to June as he cuts broccoli. From across the central prep table, Theo turns and looks at the cut broccoli. June explodes.

"Fuck this shit!" He throws down his towel, knocking a large chef's knife onto the floor, and makes for the front exit. "You get the fuck out of here now!" Theo yells back. "Give me my fucking money!" June stops and moves back towards the cash register. "No, you stay out there! You get out there now!" Pointing towards the front exit. Theo goes to the cash register, asks me when June arrived. 5.15. Theo pulls out a ten and hands it to June through the window, June leaves.

"I glad he gone. He make me nervous. I have to watch when he cut to make sure he not make mistake." Well, Theo, now we don't have a delivery guy. "That ok. I feel better now, less nervous. June make me nervous. I can't trust him. He lazy. He don't know how to learn." Ok, Theo, but when people call and want delivery, I have to tell them we can't sell them food. "Oh, man, look at this broccoli. I teach him how to cut, but look at this shit. Too small." A catastrophe of unprecedented proportions.

Calm Theo has returned, but apparently he brought some need for self-justification with him. The rest of the evening Theo explains what a bad guy June is. "We worked together for ten years. He did lots of little jobs for me. But I glad he gone now. We find somebody else. Maybe I find hispanic woman who want to learn to cook Thai food."

Good luck, Theo. I'll just stand here, slice this red tofu, and re-adjust my opinion of my new boss.

*Names may or may not have been changed in protect the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and the currently unaffiliated.

I'm a lawyer working at a Thai takeout joint for $10 an hour. Plus dinner.

2005-04-10T23:11:00.000-04:00

Long story short, I was an international transactional attorney working for a big firm when I was given the option of either moving to the Beijing (or as I called it, the Babe-jing) office or having the firm "find another way of helping [me] achieve my career goals."

I chose the infamous "third option": leave in favor of working on my house for a while. Off the conveyor belt, into the dark side, headfirst.

It was great. It _has been_ great, I should say. But I've got to get a job at some point, because the interest I get from my investments sure as hell ain't financing my law school loans or my mortgage. Or, indeed, my black beans and rice habit.

So one day a coupla weeks I ago I found myself at the new local Thai takeout place, located in a miniscule rowhouse basement on F___ Ave., with a friend, waiting for our food (the reviews in the neighborhood listserve all said two things: great food, long wait) and joking with the 50-year old white guy in a porkpie hat and leather jacket who was working behind the counter. Joking about government workers, joking - uncomfortably - about my friend and I having children together, joking about me working there. It's unusual, I thought, fleetingly, to see a middle-aged white guy, porkpie hat and leather jacket or no, working the counter at a takeout joint in D___. So last Thursday I found myself standing behind the counter, chopping ginger and red tofu, answering the phone, and asking the customers if they want their number 24 (that's the panang) with chicken, beef, or pork.