Kim Jong Robinson and Other Mid-Shift Daydreams
Restaurant guests say the funniest things, they really do. When they aren’t ordering mash and noodles they are asking you personal questions that would make a Spanish inquisitor blush with embarrassment. It’s the audacity of their line of questioning, it’s just so inappropriate. I hate to say it but the Americans are the worst with only the Aussies pushing them anywhere near close.
“So mate, are ya gay? Loike the bloody fellas do ya?”, asked the big lump of antipodean sophistication, all shorts and sun block and a face like a builders melt. Sun block? In Belfast? In June? He’s confident! He was attempting to whisper which in Australian terms meant he could be heard on the other side of he restaurant, the restaurant next door that is.
“Scuse me?”, I was taken aback, as you can imagine, and I wondered for a brief second what I had done or said to make him think I was gay. Was it the delightful way I poured the wine with my wrist bent back and other arm behind my back or maybe it was the way I recited the specials. I didn’t swear once when describing the fish of the day, could that be it? Swearing appears to be bloody important in bloody Australian bloody culture…..bloody.
It wasn’t the question per se that shocked me, I have been asked it before- mainly by family, but rather the brassneck of the chap making such a bold inquiry. I was flummoxed.
He persisted, “Are you gay? I mean it’s all bloody right with me if you are Sport. I live and let live, don’t I Martha.”
Martha confirmed his easy going nature with regards a persons sexuality but looked suitably mortified. Which was nice.
I didn’t want to answer, why should I? I wanted to employ the Keanu Reeves defense and say nothing but in the end I spurted out an answer just to put an end, hopefully, to his banter and get on with the normal everyday tourist conversation about the Giants Causeway, the Giants Ring and the Giant Ship that sank.
“Me? Gay? Don’t be daft….I don’t have the legs for it”, and off I flounced. The flouncing probably didn’t dissuade my Aussie chum from his initial impression. Don’t have the legs for it? What did that even mean? I’m sure I heard him whisper “bloody definitely a gay” to Martha.
But when they aren’t attempting to out you they are asking you questions that we just don’t ask in this country, well not directly. Religion and religion’s dodgy cousin, Politics, are not discussed in this country with strangers. I mean you have a better chance of getting a discussion going with strangers on the bus about your bathroom activities and strange seeping from your anal passage than you have about religion or politics. And if we are being honest people would be less disgusted with that line of chit chattery.
Then there was Sean from Boston. He was far too chipper for my liking, far too chipper by half. In he arrived one evening dressed in his finest Oirish gear. It was like he had just stepped of the set of The Quiet Man or Finian’s Rainbow. He had it all; from Aran sweater to tweed trousers all topped off with a jauntily placed flat cap. I fully expect his boxer shorts bore a picture of the holy trinity (Bobby Sands, Gay Byrne and Catholic Jesus) dancing round the GPO. His kiss me I’m Irish attitude was getting on my moobs something shocking. Boston Sean wanted something traditionally Irish to eat, of course he did!
“….things that you guys eat!”, says he.
I told him about the great chicken and green peppers with black bean sauce from the Hong Kong Palace Chinese Takeaway up the road. But he didn’t get my sarcastic response so I steered him in the direction of the lamb and assured him it was so local that if it could have spoken it’s first words would have been, “Top of the morning to ya…..baa.”
After he had eaten and he was safely half way down his Irish coffee we started chatting. He assumed I was a Protestant fellow because I use the word “cheers” a lot. His logic being that if I was an Irish Catholic I would say Sláinte and not the Anglicized version. Sweet Jebus it’s hard to defeat logic like that and everybody knows how to spot a Protestant anyhoo – eyes too close together and they cant pronounce the letter “H” properly*. But as I have rent to pay and Niquitin lozenges to be buying I resisted the very real urge to perforate his throat like a Tetley Tea Bag with my trusty stabbing fork. Stabbing the guests is not seen as conducive to career advancement or so I am repeatedly told.
But I set the stabbing fork aside the other evening in favour of laughter. Oh my how I laughed, I laughed so much I nearly did a little pee. I probably shouldn’t have seeing as the couple I was laughing at, not with i should add as I was very much laughing at, where sat right in front of me with curious faces.
“So, Manuel…” began one of the lovely American ladies “what is the deal with Ireland then?”
“The deal with Ireland? Buy a cottage and get a county for free.” I wasn’t expecting belly laughs but there wasn’t even a polite smile. I moved quickly on. It turns out they wanted a quick run down on Irish Political History charting everything from the early Norman invasions of 1169 to the brutality of the last thirty years and subsequent peace deals and everything else in between. And I did all this whilst maintaining my waiter’s poise as I balanced two plates, two bowls and associated cutlery on my arms. They weren’t, it has to be said, getting any lighter.
But I didn’t mind as the two lovely American ladies seemed to be following my tales of Irish woe and famine and Glenroe. They bore the faces of happy, if slightly nerdy, children learning the joy algebra and Pythagoras’ theory. I was sure they had gained much from my five minute history lesson.
Wrong. They understood nothing. Or maybe I told it wrong.
“So it’s like Korea yeah? Which bit is the bad bit?” asked the one that looked like she might have been a former tennis champion/catalogue model.
“Korea? Hmmmmm. Yeah, yeah It’s very like Korea”, I was struggling to keep my shit and the plates together. “Except we don’t have the bomb……anymore”
I made my excuses and wandered off giggling at the thought of Kim Jong Robinson, The Great Leader The Distinctly Average Leader.
Tourists eh, lovely people but should probably think a bit more before they go asking you if you are gay or Protestant or comparing your country to the mentalism that is North Korea.
*Joke……..obviously. Send threats etc to the usual places.
Oh God, where are all the mid-nighters gone? I saw your gay legs briefly, but not in any erotic way, at that last Dublin blog awards. You cannot deny their lithe homo-erotic gayness.
Did we meet? I’m positive I would have remembered…..hmmmmm my legs are not gay, feeble for sure but gay no….my feet though are rather camp….where is this going? I’m just not sure……
i swear, sugar, i am so glad that i never, ever, ever ask my waiter personal questions when i’m away from home. well, except, of course, to find out of the waiter is single and interested in meeting my single daughter. ok, i wouldn’t do that in ireland or france or san francisco, but those are other stories…. xoxoxo
you could do it here…..no question…..
But are you really sure Sean from Boston and The Two American Ladies weren’t actually from Canada? (Canadians can’t really be trusted.)
You are? Ooooh man, sorry about that. I’ll have a little “talk” with all of them. Lets see what kind of personal questions they ask when they’re missing part of their tongues. As for the Aussies…you’re on your own.
I agree that Americans ask too many personal questions of their waiters/waitresses. I have been asked my religion and sexual preference, as well as my age, clothing size, if I ever eat, if I have had…uh, enhancements made to my figure. I could go on, but you get the point.
Maybe I would fare better in Ireland. I am American and I can’t even stand the rude American diners!
I read these stories, and I honestly don’t know how you do it. You must be a patient, patient man.
Maybe that was just your ‘Strayan man’s chat up line, and he was looking for a threesome?
I will apologize in advance for my fellow Americans and my own American-ness, but I can’t be sure that I will not be guilty of talking politics/religion/racism once I’m living over there. The Spouse Sparrow’s well nervous; he’s sure that we’re going to get our windows bricked, as we’ll be smack dab in the middle of Jaffa Cake territory, god help me.
And I have it on good authority that you can tell Catholics apart because they have tails. Is that like having back? ‘Cause I’ve got that.
[...] The Nomad wrote an interesting post today onHere’s a quick excerptI hate to say it but the Americans are the worst with only the Aussies pushing them anywhere near close. “So mate, are ya gay? Loike the bloody fellas do ya?”, asked the big lump of antipodean sophistication, all shorts and sun block and … He was attempting to whisper which in Australian terms meant he could be heard on the other side of he restaurant, the restaurant next door that is. “Scuse me?”, I was taken aback, as you can imagine, and I wondered for a brief second … [...]
Sugarpie: could you? That would be great. Also have a word about the snap bloody snapping of every course. Soup is soup eh no matter where you are. Thanks
Lone waitress: its nuts right? Where do they get off asking such questions. I may start hitting back with a few of my own….. Probably wont though
minnow: every day is a battle of good v evil….. One day i am gonna give in and just see whats happens…. Someone may get hurt/slightly grazed….
*bounces in, hugs Manuel, spills drink on floor*
oh hiya… nice pad you got here! hope you are well’n'that mister.
maaan… you seriously have the patience of a saint. My blood pressure is rising just reading this story. It’s a good job I’m not a waiter, I don’t know what I’d do in these situations. (Disguise the anger with heavy sarcasm probably, as you did).
btw toast’s mum says that you can spot protestants because they eat the skins on their potatoes.
Why the fuck would anyone visit Norn Iron anyway? To what end? For what purpose? I believe you’re making all of this up, Manuel. Tourists in Norn Iron? Ha!
When the BPC is working and gets asked if he’s gay, he says no, then asks the questioner if he’s gay. If the questioner throws a fit, BPC says that he didn’t get offended when he was asked, so why is customer getting offended when asked.
P.S. does not work if customer is actually ‘good with colours’
I once had a visiting gentleman fae Amerikay ask me where he could buy himself one of “those there stripey green catholic shirts” for his first ever day trip around Glesga.
I swear.. Ibrox was on the tip of my tongue!
You know, people look down on MacDonalds, but their staff impeccably respect customer privacy. Except that time when I was grilled (pun coveted) about my position on abortion, the death penalty, and torture of suspected terrorists. I hardly touched my Happy Meal afterwards. Worst (and only) 7th birthday I ever had.
Fat Sparrow: I’d say the spouse sparrow would be disappointed if he doesn’t get his windows bricked……anyhoo you have to be Romanian/Polish/Hungarian etc to get your windows bricked these days….it;s all just changing too fast for me, I miss the old ways when you got your house bricked for being, “themuns” and not just because you were foreign…..
rubbish knitter: toast’s mum sounds like a very wise woman……hehehe
Sweary: You think I haven’t asked that very question? You think I don’t look at them with a picture of pity and confusion? Cos I do…..it’s so fucking weird…..but still it’s cheaper than the free state where it costs most of your holiday money just to get a pie n a pint…….
BPC: it’s a geg eh init?
Jimmy Bastard: bwahahahahaha nearly spat my tea out…….nearly
Flann: bwahahahaha
Hola Other Manuel!!
Americans? In a restaurant? What could they possibly have been doing in there?
Hola indeed!
Normally they just want a four course snackette before they get something to eat back in their hotel……..true story
Back in the waiter game recently and I’ve been experiencing the person not on holiday, but just a break. Over for a wedding or renunion or whatever.
Last week I had an American who gave me an envelope with €300 in it to “Take care of his wife”. It was either to bury her under the walk in fridge or give her a portion.
Neither was appealling. So I left the envelope at reception for him to collect at check out.
My thanks? A note from him asking what kind of IRA man I was.
Maxi Cane: yes, why are you back in the game again? didn’t you leave the world of waiting for better things? sake…….they always come back, on their belly’s, begging for the crumbs……always….
You could have gone all Bruno on him by saying you were, was he interested, with a little pinch at the end, Manuel.
Medbh: bwahahahahaha biggest laugh of the day and I’ve been up since 6am.
I usually answer personal questions with a question of my own….that generally brings the matter to a halt.
The last such question was whether my (recently born) baby was “an accident”!!!!
MaryAnn
crikey! how could you have missed the obvious? The Aussie Bear took a fancy to you… D’uh!
An apologetic no is the best reply for the gay query. Followed by some loud and detailed directions to the nearest beat if sir is really keen to meet some likeminded souls.