On the final evening of a not-so-recent trip to Boston I was treated to an evening of laughs with old friends and arguments with new assholes.

The friend I was visiting ditched me for a date that night so I made plans with her roommate, Mikala, also an old pal of mine. We met after her shift at the restaurant and sat outside making our plans. A small man walked by and instead of blatantly ignoring him I nodded a congenial, “Hello” in his direction. Something about his eyes suggested that my choice may have been a poor one and I immediately returned to the discussion at hand.

Mikala and I ended up two blocks down at Sister Sorel, a favorite of the locals here both gay and straight. As we sat enjoying our nightcaps I noticed that the guy who had struck my defenses earlier was sitting just two stools over. To make matters worse, the bartender mixed up our orders. I was caught off guard as I looked to see which lucky guy received the smashing India pale ale. It was him. Eye contact was achieved a second time and I would soon be wishing I had stayed with the Irish stout.

I turned to Mikala and asked if he was staring our way.

She replied with a quiet “Yes.”

Great.

Mikala visited the WC and in her three minute absence I managed to involve myself in a slight altercation with a woman that felt justified using the word “fag” in a derogatory fashion. When I refused to call her a dyke to “even the score” she proceeded to try her case to every gay man in the bar seeking any sort of validation for her ridiculous opinion and behavior. Not surprisingly, the small, staring man had befriended the group of people belonging to the poor word choice lesbian and I knew it was prime time for a switch of venues.

We continued to another local hotspot, Stella, which has more space and a less offensive crowd. Just as we were getting settled the entourage we left behind at Sister Sorel staggered in the door. I can’t be certain, but it did seem like Mikala and I were the subject of many hushed discussions between members of the hostile posse. We kept our distance in hopes of salvaging what was left of the evening.

As the night progressed and the liquid courage flowed I narrowly escaped several attempts by the small, staring man to engage me directly. Unfortunately, there is only so much you can pull off with fake mobile call tactics and he finally caught me off guard.

Standing on his tip toes he slurred into my ear “What difference do you find with the people of Boston and the people of the rest of the US?” I took a deep breath and looked down at him long enough to say “Sometimes they can be very annoying.”

He grimaced in defeat and returned to the growing group of drunken patrons. Glancing in their direction I took notice that the self-proclaimed “dyke” was making out with some guy and eating something from another restaurant’s take-away container with her fingers.

A few more of my Bostonian friends had joined us by the time the persistent and completely pissed small, staring man returned for yet another go with me. His entrance statement this time was “Has anybody heard the new Pink album?” I was done. The time for diplomacy had expired. I hissed into his face, “Yes, my favorite song is the one that goes something like “don’t talk to me, keep your drink and give me the money? I can really relate to that”.

The level of hostility I exhibited cued one of my newly arrived friends to intervene. He sent me to the gents and tried to neutralize the situation with the aid of Mikala. Somehow even after all she had been through she still had faith in the power of kittens, rainbows and bubble gum to make everything better. That didn’t last long. Once the small, staring man thought he could intimidate her with a little close proximity verbal abuse Mikala traded in the sunshine approach from some good old fashioned whoop ass and shut him down pronto. The small, staring man finally departed with a half-assed finger gesture that nearly caused him to lose his balance.

I was happy to see him leave, but most of the night has been tainted and it was nearly closing time anyway. I started to feel bad about my thoughts and actions towards the little man, who meant no harm and probably just wanted to make some new friends albeit in an intrusive and rude manner. I am not usually impatient, but I just didn’t have it in me this time around. I think the encounter with the “lesbian” at Sister Sorel served to strip all of my patience reserves for the night.

I am human first and foremost and deserve to be left alone to enjoy my time by myself or with my friends. I tried to be kind, polite and even used sarcasm to get the message across without hurting or even worse, embarrassing him. We all have our limits and he pushed me to mine. There are people with no social filtering mechanism and when they are inebriated it seems like nothing will get through to them. If he has any recollection of the night at all it will probably be what a raging asshole I was to him. He will gloss over his terrible behavior and label me a jerk for not inviting him into my circle. Perhaps my guilt is somewhat misplaced, but at least I took the time to see the situation from his perspective.

Thanksgiving at work had been a real joy so far. Bad manners, cheap guests and disappointment abounded and it was far from over. The owner of the hotel came in with a party of six. The staff were nervous right away because he can be very demanding and a bit rude. I had no fear and welcomed the challenge. It didn’t matter that half of his party, on arrival of the first course, demanded something else. Why should it irk me that the menu was ignored and the food rejected after it had been prepped and served? It was my job to serve and I was determined to do so, and well.

Worry not, we can stop everything. Ignore the other 200 patrons enjoying their fixed menu fare so we can make YOU your fucking iceberg wedge you ungrateful, tacky, prick! The owner requested that his favorite wines be served, a 1986 Chateau Haut Brion; a top of the line Bordeaux that we sell for the modest price of $540. The white was a Louis Latour Montrachet; one of the finest white Burgundies ever for the same price. It kills me when someone with good taste has no manners to match. It has been told to me by several upper management persons that this restaurant is nothing to him except a place for his ungrateful, demanding tennis club friends to hang out and belittle the staff. How nice for them that they have a place to go to feel good. So glad we are here for them.

There was some controversy over the location of the second bottle of Bordeaux when the bill came. The owner had been knocking them back like Pellegrino.

I calmly explained that the first bottle had finished well before the second course and since both were on the table I saw no need to interrupt him with a useless question like “Shall I open the second bottle?” when it was clearly there for consumption not decoration. He spoke to me like I was the first participant in an underprivileged youth work exchange program. Let me just say that condescension from such a pretentious dolt is a real boost. It very nearly made up for missing the holiday with my mom.

The bill came to a little over two large. He left me two Ben Franklins and change. The staff were pooling our tips that day so he didn’t just fuck me – he fucked his entire team. People that gave up their holiday to serve sub par food to a bunch of arrogant, entitled, thankless bastards and for what? Ten percent? A party of six at IHOP has 18% added to the bill.

I was a little bummed, but glad to see early on what kind of man I was working for. I was also very glad that while I was decanting the bottle of Bordeaux I saved enough for a huge glass that I shared with the servers through the night. Now that’s what I call holiday spirit!

I hope that your Thanksgiving was full of laughs and that you spent it with people close to you… or at least your experience was as trauma free as possible.

On the great day of thanks I worked a long shift at a new restaurant. Not new to to the world; in fact, rather established, but new to me anyway. It has been around since the 50’s and its claim to fame is that Marilyn Monroe and similar used to frequent the hotel and its many pools and guest rooms. Evidently not much has happened since.

Picture it, Thanksgiving Day 2007. I kept the phones off and the curtains drawn in a seriously reclusive way. I watched the entire third season “Six Feet Under” to further punctuate my mood. If I had to spend the evening with people who were not my family then I was going to have the morning all to myself my way. Sadly my self-imposed solitary was over all too soon and work beckoned.

There were some 500 reservations spread out between noon and eight. Every piece of available real estate suitable as a serving surface was used as a table. If we could seat somebody on it, it was a chair. We brought in outside staff from the banquet division to help with the back work, like polishing silverware, clearing tables and running food. One poor sod had the job of polishing the silverware. For six hours this man stood next to the dish tank and polished everything that came through. He never saw anything but the rag and the flatware for the entire time.

I waited on 21 people in three separate parties and had far too much time on my hands. The work was mostly for the back waiters. I felt bad, there was nothing for me to do but take orders and when you have a set menu any chimp could rise to that task. When the orders came out they were so fast I barely had time to put the proper silver down. The food was prepared ages before so everything was simply warmed or grilled and plated with the easy things like mashed something, bland vegetables and whatsit sauce.

About half way through the shift I noticed a happy table of gays with a child in a neighboring section. Everyone in the party looked happy to be there with one notable exception. He was clearly a guest of the unconventional family; uncomfortable and probably praying for a natural disaster to bring the evening to an early close. To ease his tension he decided to assert some control over the situation. I’m sure you’ve all seen this before, the moose-in-Tiffany’s type complaining to the staff in a vain attempt to appear sophisticated when in fact they end up looking more moose-esque than ever. It’s painful to witness because you have to be embarrassed FOR them. And the irony of the chump making a fuss and complaining on THANKSGIVING was almost too much to bear. The other fellows in the party must have felt the same for their next round of drinks were all straight up.

Believe me, I was not at all pleased with the reality that I would be unable to join my family for Thanksgiving for the first time ever. It just so happens that the new people get last licks when it comes to the schedule and there was nothing to be done. Certainly I wasn’t going to make a public spectacle of myself or undermine the happiness of others. There will be other days, fun days, my sort of days. And I won’t wait a full year again before I take a moment to give thanks because I am indeed very thankful and appreciative… most of the time.

I decided to take Boy Wonder out to dinner for all of his hard work lately. Being Monday we had few options, until he suggested the new space that recently opened up in WeHo across Larrabee Street from East West called Eleven. We had been watching this space go through a massive renovation lately with its mosaic patio and concert style lighting that we would see at night.

The place is two stories, lit on multi-levels with warm, orange light and square decorations creating a strong, secure confident space. Above the front door is a DJ booth like no other. Appropriately at 11 the place turns into a lounge, removing the tables upstairs allowing for patrons to dance and hang out in this masterfully done atmosphere. The “booth” looks out over the entire space and is lit like a stage allowing the music man to interact with his subjects creating a harmony between them. Many of my DJ friends have expressed countless times that they perform better when they have a visual and an exchange of energy between them and the guests.

I always begin my critique of a restaurant when I walk in and meet the host or hostess. Our hostess was illuminated with personality, walked us upstairs to a perfect table and told us that she would be coming back to ensure our experience was nothing short of wonderful. So far so good; very good, in fact.

The waiter was from Australia and with that accent was sure to get me salivating long before anything else. He presented us with a drink menu and wine list first. I love that. When I was back in Boston I would always allow my guests to enjoy their arrival by offering that they sit with an aperitif of some sort before continuing with the dinner menu. This was of course done Sunday through Wednesday when the time to turn the table was not as important as the guests’ relaxation and enjoyment of the ambiance and everything thereafter. There was no rush for anything and we were presented with the dinner menu after our wine was delivered, which was a Pinot from the Carneros region here in CA.

On a Monday night you can expect a more relaxed vibe in restaurant service, but the leisurely pace we experienced had nothing to do with slow trade. The staff paid close attention to our needs to ensure that we savored every moment and that is exactly what we did.

If there is Tuna Tartare on the menu that is always our first course. We were not disappointed. This was not your run-of-the-mill tartare. It was Japanese Hamachi with Blue Fin Tuna Tartare. It was accompanied by a Cucumber, Avocado and Daikon Salad. The presentation was on a large, rectangular plate that allowed for one of us to eat the Blue Fin while the other was busy deconstructing the Hamachi. The pieces were more than adequate. They were thick slabs of succulent flesh wrapped around the salad creating two towers of decadence. The classic paring of the Daikon and Cucumber was elevated a notch with the inspired addition of avocado and a drizzle of Yuzo Ponzu.

For my main course I had a Pan Roasted Cod Filet with Romesco, Chorizo, Clams and White Beans. The cod was finished with a bright Garlic Parsley broth and toasted almonds. I was a bit hesitant with this dish; the long list of accompaniments was a little concerning. My reservations were not justified. It could not have been done better. A fish such as Cod was made to be paired with subtle compliments like Chorizo and White Beans. The Parsley broth was superb and the chef is genius. This dish was all about the ways that flavors can tease and play on the palate in a scrimmage of taste and texture. I was most impressed with the size of the portion. Just as I was saying to myself, “I had better stop now to save room for dessert” I was lifting my fork with the last bite.

Boy Wonder had a Macadamian Nut Crusted Maple Leaf Duck Breast with a Celery Root puree, Swiss Chard, Mizuna Radicchio, Golden Raisins and Black Trumpet Mushrooms in a Wild Huckleberry Sauce. My concern with the cod also extended to the Duck, but it should come to no surprise to you that my fears were unfounded. The Huckleberry sauce is what tied this dish together; the dark sweet flavor profile was a harmonious match for the rich and savory duck breast. The radicchio, spinach and celeriac gave the perfect amount of earthy tones to balance out the rich and sweet elements. I watched Boy Wonder’s eyes sing along with the dish and I knew that this was going down in the food books as the best meal yet.

For dessert I was pleased to see a Chocolate Crème Brule. I requested that along with two glasses of a Tawny Port, a fortified wine from Portugal that I find is always a good pair with chocolate. Unfortunately this fell behind the first and second course in presentation and taste. It was rather large sitting quietly on a dish with a lonely dusting of powdered sugar. The chocolate was bitter and immediately put me and the port off. There was also one more thing that I have to say on the note of lacking and falling behind. I only say this because it is a pet peeve of mine and has been for years. The salt and pepper shaker should be removed after the main course has been cleared to finish the meal and introduce a new course, dessert. One does not need to season their Crème Brule or any other dessert for that matter; it is part of the meal that, like the plates, should be removed.

The wait staff, the décor, the food and everything in between was absolutely superb and executed with pride and excellence. And by the way, our hostess did come back just in time to find us purring with delight into the final sips of our Pinot.