When I was a journalist there was less drama in the newsrooms while covering Bosnia- Herzogovina than there is in the restaurant in which I am now working.
It’s the kind of chic restaurant to which men bring women they want to impress.
Rejoice all my enemies – (come to think of it I used to have enemies of a higher caliber; the President of South Africa once described me as an “attention seeker”) I am, these days, waiting tables in sensible shoes and a bistro apron. Usually my hair looks as though it were combed with an egg beater.
Like eating an artichoke, waiting tables is a lot of work for a little reward.
On Easter Sunday a lamb is roasting on the spit in the courtyard. I avert my eyes when I go to the walk-in to get herbs (that would be ‘erbs’ as they say in the colonies.)
As a juvenile prank, one of the servers takes a photograph of the unfortunate creature and puts in on the Facebook page. The angle from which the photograph has been taken is alarming: huge tragic eyes, head lolling and the pole looking as though an act of sodomy was performed. In the background is a shabby split pole fence and a row of dead lilies.
As soon as the picture is posted there is a slew of outraged comments
“How fucking disgusting is that!” “I just puked” etc etc.
The server, a bully in an apron, fails to see that he has committed a Pee Aar gaffe. His cronies applaud him.
The chef dismisses it too. ‘These people never go out! They’re shut-ins!’ he explains.
Personally I think that if you partied in New York 24/7 you would still be shocked by the crudeness of the picture, but who am I? When I clock in on Aloha, it says ‘Server,”not PeeAar, or radio-show host or columnist.
And so a blog is born.