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Burger Time!
Nov. 29th, 2005 03:06 pmSigh... So, it's official. Nick Carrol is installing a fucking BURGER PRESS behind the bar at the Jacpot Saloon. Because, apparently, the only think that can save our beloved watering hole from it's current financial nosedive is to make the entire place smell like a fucking GREASE TRAP.
For those who haven't had the pleasure, this is what the bar at the Jackpot looks like:
Lots of polished wood and pressed tin, not to mention the red velvet wallpaper plastered behind the row of highend whiskey bottles. Not exactly the kind of situation you want to introduced EVAPORATED CATTLE FAT into, right? WRONG! Because, despite what every employee, patron, and random passerby have said, Nick Carrol knows what's best for everyone. In this case, "what's best" equates to "irritated bartenders handling raw hamburger while pouring drinks for you." It just doesn't make any SENSE, you see...
I swore a long time ago that my days of line-cooking were over. After spending my entire working life as a short-order monkey, I've finally pushed my food service days behind me... Except for baking, which doesn't really count. After all, as![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
skajester put it, assembling bread is more in line with MANUFACTURING work. Yeah.
I guess what I'm saying is, I'm probably out the door the moment Nick fires that grill up. And I've got several vegetarian co-workers who will probably follow me into the street, just because they don't want to smell like dead animal whenever they come home from work... Personally, I'm used to smelling like the ass end of a stove top at the end of the day. I just don't like the idea of being tied to a sinking ship as it goes down.
Sigh... Why wasn't I blessed with my DREAM JOB? Why can't I be a tough-but-tender ne'r-do-well with rebellious gleam in my eye? Why can't I be a troubled young dance instructor at some high class resort in the Catskill Mountains? Why? Why?
For those who haven't had the pleasure, this is what the bar at the Jackpot looks like:
Lots of polished wood and pressed tin, not to mention the red velvet wallpaper plastered behind the row of highend whiskey bottles. Not exactly the kind of situation you want to introduced EVAPORATED CATTLE FAT into, right? WRONG! Because, despite what every employee, patron, and random passerby have said, Nick Carrol knows what's best for everyone. In this case, "what's best" equates to "irritated bartenders handling raw hamburger while pouring drinks for you." It just doesn't make any SENSE, you see...
I swore a long time ago that my days of line-cooking were over. After spending my entire working life as a short-order monkey, I've finally pushed my food service days behind me... Except for baking, which doesn't really count. After all, as
skajester put it, assembling bread is more in line with MANUFACTURING work. Yeah.I guess what I'm saying is, I'm probably out the door the moment Nick fires that grill up. And I've got several vegetarian co-workers who will probably follow me into the street, just because they don't want to smell like dead animal whenever they come home from work... Personally, I'm used to smelling like the ass end of a stove top at the end of the day. I just don't like the idea of being tied to a sinking ship as it goes down.
Sigh... Why wasn't I blessed with my DREAM JOB? Why can't I be a tough-but-tender ne'r-do-well with rebellious gleam in my eye? Why can't I be a troubled young dance instructor at some high class resort in the Catskill Mountains? Why? Why?
