While being a delivery boy was great fun - we have some crazy stories; too many to count. The best part of working at a Chinese restaurant is of course the food. Or so you'd think.
A restaurant by definition is filthy. A chinese restaurant in particular is a whole new definition of filthy. If you've ever worked the back of a chinese restaurant, you'd never look at chinese food the same way again.
The chinese restaurant that I worked at was a very popular place (also had ties with the Triads). It was easily one of the bigger ones in the neighborhood and was always packed on weekends. My typical shifts were from certain weekdays and Thurs-Sat; the busiest days of any restaurant. When it got to around dinner time the place was a mad house. There are servers and cooks jumping everywhere. Not to mention the trays of dishes that seemed to flow in from the dining hall like an endless train. There were atleast 3 dish washers in the back. About 6 cooks, and various other details. We all had our spots and we designated it our territory and guarded the borders like drug dealers. The delivery boys territory is of course in the back of the store. Right next to the dishwashers. The helpers off to the side, the cooks on the grills, and the waiters out front.
The dishwashers get along great with the cooks. They're always bullshitting with each other even though they dont speak the same language. Half of the cooks were chinese, the other mexican. All the dishwashers were mexican. Illegal immigrant mexicans. The few mexicans who spoke limited english would make a crack about the chinese cooking dogs, then the chinese cooks would snap back at them about calling INS. Motherfucker this, motherfucker that. It was fun for the whole family.
The owner of the restaurant ran the register with his wife. His daughter worked the phone for take outs and deliveries. This particular story is dedicated to the daughter, Janet. Where ever you are. This one is for you.
Janet isn't the prettiest girl. She's barely average. Ugly enough that you would never be attracted to her, but good looking enough to take to bed with the lights off. She was slightly older than us. She had started college.
When you think of asian girls, you think petit, no tits and kinda shy and quiet. Janet was none of the above. She was kinda tall and lanky and had some sweet sweet melons. That was her saving grace. The face ruined it, but everything from the neck down was gold. It was a bloody shame she had to be such a bitch. Not to mention the pound of makeup she'd put on to try to augment that ugly mug of hers.
So what made her such a bitch? For one she was spoiled. She was driving a mercedes benz (which she totalled twice), dressed only in designer labels and never touched the food the cooks made. It wasn't good enough for her.
She treated everyone like dirt. Looked down and sideways at us when she talked to us. And she always gave us delivery boys shit when she gave us change to go out on deliveries. "Dan! I told you to go right now! The orders been ready forever! You're so slow! GAWD!" Her shrill voice still haunts my nightmares.
This girl counted the change down to the friggin penny. THE PENNY. She was a goddamn change nazi. Took after her parents - they were as cheap as hell too. You see, when a server is given tip, he/she shares a portion of that tip with the busboys. The waiters would count the tip of the day, and put like 10% of it into a can which the busboys would divide up. For "safe" keeping the owner was in charge of the can. More often than not some of the loot would go missing. The owner was skimming off the busboys. The waiters would somehow come up with the missing money, because the busboys work their asses off for the tip and deserved it and more. We hated the owner, what a tool. I guess $10,000 a night just wasn't enough money for the guy.
So during the start/end of the day the delivery boys and the dishwashers and busboys hung out back. We talked some bullshit. The running theme in most of these talks was about how Weasel had a hard on for the owner's daughter.
Dishwashers: "Weasel, we hear you wanna give your pene to that binche Janet."
Busboy: "Weasel, you hitting that? You gotta wear rubbers man, she gets around more than your mama."
Weasel: "Dude, Fuck you guys. I'm not into that shit bro."
*Laughter and pointing.*
This would go on all night every night. Some of the best times I've spent in the back of a restaurant was shooting the breeze with these boys. But little did we know, that Weasel HAD been secretly hitting the owner's daughter.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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