YOU DO NOT KNOW ABOUT THE REDI

December 13, 2010

More often than not we call jude, 'the' jude. Oh the jude, you wily minx! Always being a cute baby and stuff! –It's just how it is. The 'the' is very important, as is its use in front of many random nouns in our household. But WHY you may ask, why do we put 'the' in front of so many words that have no business being graced with a 'the'? Well i'll tell you, because that's the story we're going to talk about today.

Suck on that, monday morning.

In college (and for a few years) after I passed the time and paid the bills by working in a Lebanese restaurant run by two brothers, straight off the ship from Lebanon. While I didn't particularly enjoy spending 55+ hours a week in close quarters with middle-aged Mediterranean men their little restaurant was ON FIRE with popularity and life was good. (Read: BANK MONIES).

To be honest I sometimes miss the life of a waitress. It was hard work with long long hours but it was a good honest living. Then I remind myself of things like PAID HOLIDAYS and HAVING INSURANCE and NOT BEING DRUNK ALL THE TIME and go back to my beloved day job in the field I actually like, amen.

Anyway, this little restaurant was (and still is) known for two things: tasty overpriced foods and the fact that those brothers are BAT SHIT INSANE. They have a staff turnover rate like an airport conveyor belt. I once witnessed a prep cook jump the fence behind the dumpster and run away on their first day, never to return. I worked there for almost three years. This should tell you something about me, probably that I am a moron.

One of their greatest pet peeves was not taking the food away from the kitchen directly after it was prepared. It was the source of 50% of the screaming on a good day, and not only was there screaming there was a BELL. DING DING DING DING. You could not possibly take the food away fast enough. If you stood there in race-position waiting inches from the plates that was not fast enough. It would only earn you the glare of acceptability- just this one time you had not shamed them with your passable incompetence. To complicate matters the restaurant was very very busy, so it was nearly impossible to always be standing in the kitchen waiting for food. And with that, the screaming would begin.

(To understand the screaming you need to know some basic brotherly facts–
1. They do not know your name, they just shout a random one that may or may not actually be your name.
2. They consistently confuse the 5 w's of where, when, what, who, and why, a symptom of their limited hilarious grasp of speaking the english which I'm sure you're not supposed to point out but was one of their most lovable foibles.)

It's go time. The food is ready. THE FOOD. IS. READY. Are you there?
No!? You're not THERE!?

JAMIE.  I NEED JAMIE.

DING, DING DING.

WHO IS THE JAMIE?!?!?! WHAT IS THE JAMIE???

DING DING DING

BRING ME THE JAMIE!!!

DING DING DING DING

WHY, THE JAMIE, WHO IS THE JAMIE?!

At which time you would run in and load all of your food onto a gigantic tray while being berated for your slowness.

And don't ever go to the bathroom, either.

(It was a lovely place to work, as I'm sure you can imagine.)
(And did I mention that the kitchen was OPEN to the dining room?)

Based on my extensive time there I can now manage a fairly good impression of a very angry Lebanese man saying all kinds of very strange things. I think I should put that on my resume, don't you? It's my life's crown. IT PUTS THE WINDEX ON ITS SKIN. 

Laughing at their english gone wrong was a constant source of entertainment and one of the only redeeming things about that job, and one that I will happily produce upon request any time you'd like someone to stand around shouting things that make no sense in a Lebanese accent.

And that, my friends, is why we call him the jude.

Next time, ask me about the raccoons.
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