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I haven't seen him for a couple of months, busy with work and getting nothing done and all, so finally I make the call and we hook up for coffee.
Catching up, getting the news and such.
He's been taking an "online dating course" by so-and-so, and one of the things he's learned is that you shouldn't be too keen, don't give a girl the impression that she's all that. Say something like "Yeah, you're all right, but who does your hair? The Gardener?". He laughs, he thinks it's funny.
I ask him if he's been on any dates, this is irrelevant, he gets up to get some more coffee....
...And starts talking with some girls at the bar, also ordering coffee, and I'm worried, no, certain now that he's showing off his new dating tricks, he's the pick-up artist from hell, and I slouch in my chair, coffee with crazy. I should really dress better, then people might at least think that I'm his social worker or something....
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"...it was the first time I ever played..." he's telling me of the first time he ever won the lottery.
"....and I'm checking the numbers, and I have the first number, the second number, the third number, and the prize is I don't know, forty million Euros..."
This story is set in Italy, the Italian equivalent of the lotto-6-49 here, only I gather from the numbers he's throwing out and the size of the prize there's more to choose from ....
"...So I call into work, I tell them, I'm sorry, I won the lottery, I won't be coming into work tomorrow, I think, you know, that I have half the numbers, I won half the prize, I'm worth twenty million Euros...."
Now I'm laughing. He's not pulling my leg, he's not making this up, if anyone would make this mistake it would have to be him....
"...Then I call my father, and I tell him, I think I won the lottery, and he leaves work to come home right away to check my ticket, he's driving 200 KM an hour, and when he gets home and sees my ticket he tells me I'm a fucking idiot.....But I didn't know, I never play before, and now I have to call my job and tell them I was joking....I won, but only like 20 Euros...."
Now he's an addicted gambler, never passing by a casino or VLT, and homes he's online playing poker.
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"I've eaten cat, you know....In the Philippines...." The dishwasher's telling me, he's Filipino, I'm getting him to collect scraps of chicken and veal from the tables to feed my cats. He's asked about them, and I'm getting an idea of where the conversation is going....
I don't know what started, it, my collecting of scraps for my cat, of my various insensitive accusations of the things they would find edible. I'm not very culturally sensitive.
"It's good. Very good. Not so good in Canada....they feed them different, better food, more sweet...."
"Where did you get cat n Canada?" I ask, I have my suspicions...
He thinks for a second, he's nice, but not so bright...."I didn't, I meant, they feed them different here, not so good...."
"Are you out trapping cats?" I ask him. Every ethnic stereotype coming true....
"No, no, I don't eat cat in Canada..." he denies it. I don't believe him. Maybe not regularly, but I'll bet he's tried it, otherwise how would he know?
I think of my cats, the one, a Thanksgiving Turkey, the other, a fine muff for the hands and a plump chicken....I really shouldn't, my daughter would never forgive me, and I might have some moral qualms myself...Still, I'll need to have them looked after before Alaska....
"You should see my cats..."....I begin..."1 as fat as a Turkey....so fat....maybe Thanksgiving I bring him in for you...". He laughs. I won't, but for a moment the thought amuses me.
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The lunches and dinners have picked up, there's scarce an empty table most days in the restaurant. This doesn't stop people from attempting to just "drop by" in the hopes we'll accommodate them - frequently we do, we're good that way - tables set up in the front foyer, wine cupboard, beside the bathrooms and the bar...
It's Xmas, time to pack-em-in like sardines.
Mafia boss comes in with his lawyer, mafia boss in a long overcoat and overly dramatic dark glasses, no reservation, G finds room for him in the private room.
This disgruntles a regular who has a standing reservation for the Private Room, but he understands (begrudgingly) that over Christmas it's waived.
Mafia Boss, he's asking about the noise in the kitchen, the bosses curses and shouting, it's the boss isn't it? And I tell him that yes, indeed it is. Maybe then I want to go and tell him to shut-up? No, thank you, but he's more than welcome to if he'd like to, the door's right here and the boss, well, he values all of his patron's feedback.
Mafia boss looks at me. Maybe he's not used to being contradicted, or he detects the slight matter-of-fact insolence in my voice, the regular he's sharing the room leans forward "Ask him to shut-up after I get my meal please" and the mafia boss gets where this is going, laughs and makes a joke, tells me he likes my sense of humor. His lawyer, he looks good natured enough, but the look of good nature has frozen upon his face as he listens to the terrors in the kitchen.
Bringing his bill later the regular who's privacy was thwarted tells me "Whatever you make, it isn't enough....".
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Now as insane as the nights out with staff are (and they are - completely - entirely - predictably insane), there's another group of people the staff occasionally party with - that's the customers.
And these stories, they're completely fucked up.
Completely.
The girls - waitresses, have a few - dropping off drunken customers, popping in for a drink (and who, after all, isn't curious how the other half lives?) - mad groping with drunken older men, strange exhibitionists, ridiculously weird circumstances that they're loathe to confess but must make their working life a bit of a hell - the customers, the male ones anyways, generally transparent in their ludicrous expectations.
And there's the Nephew and G, who've probably created as many stories amongst the female clientele as the male customers did amongst the female staff.
There was a time, rumours, of a previous manageress who - for a small (or large) sum of money and the right amount of wine could be bribed into certain acts, but she's long gone. Still, you only need to get lucky once and you'll try and try again, and I'm not certain that our current employees are above the same sort of prostitution, their shock and awe more directed at the lack of material benefit than at the preceding invitations...
The boys, they've been out with the women, then there's the big night out with the male customers, a group of well-heeled regulars who take G and the Nephew along for a late night, talks of blow, the calling of prostitutes and the reputed dubious sexuality of the one customer who declined to partake, passing his along to another and contenting himself with watching in a housecoat....
I've never been on any of these excursions, late night safaris with customers, my rather aloof demeanor keeps me safe from any invitations and when they come I merely treat the customer as drunk and help them to call a cab. It's not worth giving any of them a ride home, I have to trust the second hand reports, they are - if anything - dumbed down for my consumption.