Coffee and reviews

So I was lounging around, avoiding work, when my eyes fell on the restaurant review section of the Bigtown News. Quite recently a new upscale restaurant has opened just up the road from us and the filthy hack from Bigtown had written a report. As you know my opinion of journalists is that they are the second oldest profession and the oldest is more honorable. True to form the hack gloatingly admitted that he took his wife out for her birthday and then wrote the review. In other words her birthday treat was on the company dime, the tight bastard. I tell you if I was Mrs Hack I know what Mr. Hack would not be getting for his pudding for pulling a cheap stunt like that, still I digress.

Well the review was pretty sad. Indifferent food, indifferent service (..... the server only stopped at our table on her way to somewhere else....) and a high price. Hardly what one might expect from our only fine dining eatery. Not that I have an ounce of schadenfreude in me but I confess I laughed until I cried. Oh to be an undercover food critic.

Then it suddenly dawned on me, perhaps they have done the same to our bistro deli coffee house. I can see the review now.

"The food was quite nice but the server kept looking at my wife's jubblies, winking and lifting the corner of his apron".

Damn if this gets out I am dead meat.

TCB

Good news, good news, bad news

Good News.
Mr Fixit called in yesterday and although the Espresso machine was working I wanted him to check it out anyway. Well the verdict was that the machine was in fine fettle (despite the bastards at the Quality Coffee Co., Bigtown telling me that it was beyond repair). He gave me great maintenance tips and I was so impressed that I actually broke the habits of a lifetime and tipped him out.

Good News II

The second piece of good news is that I have been invited to judge a beauty pageant! How sweet is that? The organisers obviously realise that I have a fine and discriminating eye for the ladies. I am also anticipating that a little bribery won't go amiss here. I am certainly not above allowing a potential beauty queen from developing her full potential in a sans frock situation. If you think that I am being gauche then let me float this past you. Next time you watch Wheel of Fortune, make a mental note of the best looking babe on the show, watch her win and then ask yourself if she didn't ride Pat's shaft of fortune during rehearsals. Point taken?

Bad News.
Having far too hastily accepted the judging deal I have just been told that this a drag queen beauty competition. Dear God how on earth did I suckered into this homofest? Well I can tell you for a start there certainly will be no shenanigans going on with the judging. It's not that I am opposed to a spot of shirt tail lifting, as far as I am concerned the batty boys do me a favor by leaving more totty for us red blooded sausage bandits. Still there is something buttock clenching about deciding which amateur transvestite is the best looking.

Talking of the Wheel of Fortune have you noticed Vanna's hands? Clearly 25 years of pointless clapping have raised callouses 2 inches thick on her palms. No wonder her engagement was called off. It must be like being fondled by a Navy dockyard welder who forgot to take his gloves off.

Now I am off to stick pencils in my eyes before this line up of deviants sends me blind.

TCB

Coffee Service

At one time, when I was in the big bad corporate world, I ran a technical support team. I say with no sense of false modesty (natch) that I ran a great team. You see I had a philosophy that all products were the same no matter who you bought from, trucks, televisions, guns, whatever. All that separates companies is the quality of after sales care. Salesmen are lazy incompetent order takers that apparently avoid closing in order to focus on the big picture, usually from the confines of the golf course. Fortunately I had a boss who realized the importance of what I did and rewarded me handsomely for my efforts. I was given more money than I could spend and was allowed first dibs on the office women. All in all it was a sweet life. Now I only mention this as now I am a customer I am constantly appalled at the worthless imitation of service that most companies pretend to offer.

Case in point, last week my espresso machine gurgled, farted and then died. As you can imagine a Coffee House with no espresso is like a car with no starter, it looks the part but it ain’t gonna take you anywhere fast. So I call around the coffee companies in Bigtown. The first one I called told me “I don’t think we service espresso machines”. Well numbnuts, you either do or you don’t, thinking, in your case, doesn’t enter the equation. This went one all morning until I found someone that could speak in more than monosyllables. They agreed to take in the machine and repair it. Two days later I call then and they tell me that they don’t repair my particular model. However to make up for the inconvenience they will discount a new one from $6400 to $5000. Bastards. Needless to say I told them where they could stick their coffee machine and drove once more to Bigtown to collect mine.

During the weekend the Boss had the brilliant idea (and I wish that I could take credit for this) of calling in at another Coffee House and asking how they got their espresso machine serviced, they were happy to give her the number of a sole trader who makes his living from fixing these things. I called him up and he knew the model, the probable fault and said that he could fix it. Sadly for me he is so busy that he can’t get to us for three days, merde!

Of course the concept of poor or non-existent service trickles down through the industry. The Digital Queen of Smallville came in for her usual large skinny caramel and I was forced to turn her away empty handed. I think that the look of sadness on her face will haunt me forever. I hate to leave a good woman unsatisfied.

The Coffee Bitch

PS Just for fun, or probably out of desperation I reconnected the espresso machine and she fired up! If the DQ shows today she will be leaving with a big one in her hand, on me. Ahh Double entendres where would my life be without you.

Bertie's Revenge

Damn just as I was nodding off an outraged Bertie bludgeoned his way into the shop. He stripped off his pants and his jacket and started to hit me around the head.

"Bertie" I cried "What the hell do you think you are doing"

"I am slapping you with a suit" said Bertie

Will this day ever end?

Bertie rides again

Bertie Grabbit (Sue, Grabbit and Runne LLP) has been looking more and more morose these days. I am guessing that he is slowly coming to the realisation that the next President of the US will be either a white woman or a black man. Even Bertie, whose politics are slightly to the right of Genghis Khan, must realise that that crusty old fossil McCain isn't going anywhere especially in light of his alleged dalliances with a not unattractive lobbyist. I tell you people when they say that politics is a dirty game, they really mean politicians are dirty.



All of this has made Bertie more curmudgeonly than usual and he has taken to warning fellow customers that I will short change them. Now most of my regulars look at Bertie with a "so what's new" look on their faces. We have all come to realise that a little financial shenanigans is all part of the rich tapestry of being part of my world. Bertie also likes to ask loudly how I passed the health inspection, to which I reply, "the same way as you passed the bar exam, by writing the answers on the back of a $100 bill".



Anyway it is time to put Bertie in his place so this morning I posted the following advertisement in the Bigtown News

Coffee and Language

Winston Churchill once said that we are two nations divided by a common language and how right he was. Case in point. When we first moved to Kissbotty County I would ask refined ladies if they would like any more tea/coffee/ whatever, to which they would sometimes reply “I don’t care for any more”. Now in English “I don’t care” has a certain connotation that the original offering was not particularly acceptable. I have to confess that I spent a few weeks in a melancholia of self doubt until I realized that this was just a southern way of saying, no thank you. In similar vein, whenever I hear someone say, “Please may I have” it is like a breath of fresh air. An example of which now follows.
The Boss’s sandwiches are overfilled and generally people will request a fork. The most common form of this request is “Can I get a fork”? To which I quite often reply, “Not from me pet, I don’t do ugly chicks”.

Coffee, God and Crack Hoes

Bear with me people this is a convoluted tale but as usual I promise that every word is true.

As a prelude to this sorry tale might I respectfully ask that, if you have not already done so, you first read this tale.

In addition here is another story. Some time ago we met a nice preacher man who runs a Mission in Honduras. He sends out medical aid and imports their coffee, which he sells for them. I may have actually blogged this in the past but to be frank I cannot remember what I was doing yesterday, let alone last year. The faithful reader will recall that the big guy upstairs and I do not converse much these days. I can’t remember what the spat was about but in the finest traditions of grudge bearing nothing gets forgiven until I get an apology. (Is it sacrilegious to expect God to apologize). Anyway, just to show what a great guy I am, we bought 30 pounds of coffee and that was my olive branch, so don’t keep me hanging for my apology.

And now for today’s story

We have, over the ages, developed a fine and wholly justified reputation for our coffees. There is no great secret one just has to buy good quality beans, store them sympathetically and grind them fresh. Water at 195 degrees and toss whatever you haven’t sold in 2 hours, my coffee has a short but happy life.

Last week two of the nastiest, skankiest crack hoes that you have even seen slithered into the shop. This in itself is unusual as despite the fact that we are situated next to the Court House and, ergo, the jail all of our customers are jolly decent sorts. Even the trustee is the sort of guy that you would want to work on your house and trust to wander around when you weren’t there. So the skanks (and using the term skanks is very, very generous) order two coffees and to make a not too subtle point I serve them in to go cups. They search through assorted bags and sacks in order to come up with the necessary $2.74 and pay me in torn bills and pennies. One of the trollops sucks on her coffee and declares that this is dishwater and says hello, where is the caffeine. As you can imagine I was outraged and looked skank 2 in the eye and say “That is the house blend, if you are not happy I will gladly refund your money”. The skanks keep the coffee and I follow them out with a mop as I Clorox a trail of bodily fluids from the counter to the door.

Well after a few minutes of muttering and stomping about I tried the coffee and it was garbage. Nasty, thin, watery dishwater unfit for human consumption or come to it, skank consumption.

Talk about no good deed going unpunished, bloody Hondurans and their crap coffee. I tell you people, you try to do the third world a favor and all the thanks you get is to be scorned by skanks.

Thank you God, thank you so bloody much.

Coffee and Tea

We have started to develop a well earned reputation for our afternoon cream teas and I am good with that as I see it as part of my mission to wean the ladies of Smalltown off the shine and onto more esoteric pastimes.

So yesterday we had the ladies of the Smalltown book club in, and before you say anything nasty, yes they were real books not coloring books. I normally give a little spiel on how cream teas work and why the term high tea is incorrect. I then end be telling them that it is their tea and they can do whatever they please. Well as you might imagine I don’t mean it, I mean you will do what I say as when it comes to tea I am omnipotent. Still someone had the audacity to ruin the ambiance by telling me that she didn’t like tea and wanted de-caffeinated coffee. For a moment I thought about asking them all to leave but to be frank I needed to money (and I have discovered that cream tea participants tip generously).

So the greedy old luddite had two refills and then redeemed herself when she announced to the crowd that this was the best coffee that she had ever had in her life. I was just about to forgive her gaucheness when she said, yes much better than Starbucks. Starbucks!

Well excuse me but isn’t this rather like telling the Dean of Harvard that his school is much better than the Smalltown Community College and Tire Service?

Talk about the good Lord giving and taking away.

Coffee and Monks

As I have mentioned in the past, Smalltown is the buckle on the Bible belt. Today I saw something that I had never seen before and to be honest did not realize even existed in this part of the world. Two Franciscan monks came in for coffee. I was naturally curious as to their lifestyle so I set up a conversation. After they left I could not but help to reflect on the fact that if they really did want a life of celibacy and emotional isolation they should probably move to Chateau Coffee. At least it would be more comfortable and they could use the internet to download copious amounts of Japanese scat porn.

Coffee and Ribons

Ah Valentine's Day. Can there be a more romantic time of the year? You would think that tying a big red ribbon around the old johnston and hanging around with a unwrap me look would never get old but it seems like the magic may be fading a touch. The Boss didn't look to impressed this year, well I suppose it was a very cold morning.

I tell you, I will never understand women.

Coffee and the Tree Rat

This blog comes under the realms of the "you couldn't make this stuff up" category, but I swear it is all true.

I was arranging with a friend to organize a squirrel hunt. The deal is that we will hopefully bag a mess of squirrel and the womenfolk (as we call them in Ol' Virginny) will cook up a stew or something. (Those of you who read my blogs on my turkey hunting experiences will understand the hopefully in the previous sentence). Now I was under the impression that squirrel is vermin and as such there is no season, which caused some dissent amongst the group. A quick peruse around the internet proved me wrong and established that for reasons that I cannot comprehend you cannot shoot a squirrel (aka tree rat) outside September 1 to January 31, so we missed it by days.

I was wondering if I was going to be sufficiently gastronomic to eat the little critter (I know the Boss won't) when the following ensued.

A stranger joined in the conversation and although agreeing that the season started on September 1st, mentioned that folk in this area regard the best eating to be had in August and that no one would care too much if one was to start huntin' a little early. Well he seemed to know what the score was so I asked him what the eating was like. He told me that it was like a delicate chicken or perhaps frogs legs. This kind of blew me away, who would have thought that Smalltownians would be connoisseurs of frog’s legs. Then he let us know that his Grandma had eaten squirrel all her life and that she regarded the best part as the brain!

To think that I was feeling squeamish about eating the thigh.

Well it’s Friday and tonight I shall be slipping into the arms of Bacchus on a river of Grolsch courtesy of,

a) Hemmer, Rhoyd and Piles LLP who tipped me out an astonishing $100 on a catering order
b) The scumbags of Kissbotty County (we got the jury lunch order)
c) The Smalltown Development Authority who asked us to cater their meeting today.

God Bless you one and all.

Coffee and Floods

I don’t actually need reminding but nevertheless I am regularly reminded that here in Smalltown we are indeed the buckle on the Bible belt.

I was having a slow morning so I thought that I would engage a passing customer in conversation. We chatted amiably about politics, sport and world economics and he had some fair and balanced points. Then we got onto glabal warming and he told me that as a Christian he didn’t believe in it. Apparently God has made a promise never to flood land again so if global warming is going to cause the water to rise, it must be just a myth.
Wow am I glad we cleared that up.

As a postscript another customer was wondering why people bothered to ask God to relieve their suffering. After all he cocked a deaf ear to 6 million Jews. Now I really don’t know what to believe.

Coffee and Hugs

A lawyer from Bigtown, who I shall call Ron, is a fairly frequent visitor. Now as happens it seems like everyone arrives together and then decides to leave together. So Ron is at the end of a line of people who not only want to pay but entertain me with stories about their lives. Ron, clearly late for court, is hopping from foot to foot and eventually jumps the queue, slaps a $10 on the counter and says “Gotta run, this should cover it”. Well as soon as the words were out of his mouth he spots the Boss coming out of the kitchen and decides that his lunch merited a hug.

There is a fine dividing line between a hug and foreplay and to be honest I think that Ron crossed it in the first 60 seconds. I don’t know what to be more pissed about.

a) Ron copped a free feel
b) The Boss was clearly up for it.
c) When I finally cashed him out he had left me a 49-cent tip.

I wouldn’t mind him tweaking the old funbags but honestly 49 cents. Talk about it never rains.

Coffee and the Texas Ranger

We have a customer, Albert, who I appreciate above all others. The reason for my undying devotion is that for some bizarre reason Albert always tips me a twenty. Cup of tea and a scone; a twenty. Lunch for Albert and Missus; a twenty. Now what’s not to love about that?

So purely by coincidence Albert is in line to pay and right behind him is Bertie Grabbit (Sue, Grabbit and Runne LLP). Well before I had even rung up Albert’s tab he drops a twenty in the old pickle jar. Bertie spots the tip and naturally (being an attorney) assumes that a mistake has been made. His jaw drops and I see him draw breath as if to speak. Nimbly vaulting the counter I casually fell Bertie with a roundhouse karate kick to the throat before hopping back over the counter and thanking Albert for his largesse.

I have learned so much from watching Chuck Norris as Walker, Texas Ranger.

Swipe here -> Chuck Norris is always there even when you can't see him. <-

TCB

Coffee and the filthy hacks

What the intercourse is it about journalists? I presume that when they are out on assignment (and for that matter when they are in the bar) they are on expenses so why are they cheap skating me, the bastards? Here are two absolute gospel true stories to prove my point.

For quite a while the journo who covers this area for the Bigtown Gazzette used to sneak into the Coffee House to use the wifi in order to email her story tissue of lies back to base. When my back was turned she would then sneak out without ordering anything. Well I got wise to this little ruse and as soon as she came in I would give her a menu and as what she wanted. Her tactic would be to start with a glass of water, file her story and then when my back was turned, well you can guess the rest. Not only do I expect to be paid I also expect to be lavishly tipped out as well. I certainly don’t expect the royal shaft.

Yesterday (and this is still making my blood boil) some girly hack from the Smalltown News and Post came in with some other silly bint that she was clearly interviewing for a story. I asked them what they needed and she replied, “Nothing thanks”. The audacity of using my Coffee House as a free meeting place was so astounding that despite every fiber of my being urging me to drag her out of the door by her pubes I simply walked away.

After conferring with the Boss, if she tries that shit again I will ask her not to disturb me at work; after all I don’t go to the bus depot and interrupt you blowing vagrants.I don’t know what they teach these people at Journo School but by the Christ they have balls of steel.

Coffee and Guns (again)

One of my favorite customers who should remain anonymous (screw that, it was DQ) came in for a bowl of soup. Her bill rang up at $3.57 and as she looked at the display on the register she muttered "That's what I need". Well ever one to pry into someone else's business I asked if she meant a Magnum 357. Cutting a long story short we then had a philosophical discussion on the relative merits of the 38P+ and the Magnum 357 rounds, and the bad day she was having.

As she left I could not help but to reflect on the fact that if you piss of a Yankee woman she will whine and bitch and have a hissy fit and generally make your life hell. Piss off a Kissbotty County woman and she just picks up her 357.

I tell you people I am never leaving Kissbotty.

Coffee and Hiatus

Good Lord, I'm back. Did you miss me? I missed you (natch, otherwise why would I be blogging)?

I would love to be able to tell you some fantastic stories that explain my absence. You know, an inoperable brain tumor that was miraculously fixed by a blind neurosurgeon from Chicago that operates (pun intended) pro bono because he loves the blog. Or perhaps a deep undercover mission to stop the Moooslim hoards jacking our precious right to rape the world of its natural resources. Sadly none of that would be true and as you know my stories are all kosher. The simple truth is that I just got bored and now I am not bored, just boring.

Despite the lack of a blog, all my chums kept turning up, Bertie, Judge Mental, the DQ and every day they do something to amuse me.

So here we go, pen akimbo and wating for today's hilarity

The End

That's it, I'm done. It seemed like a good idea at the time but the novelty of writing a blog about a Coffee House has worn thin and to be quite frank it goes against my mantra. Many years ago a wise man once told me that everything had to be just for fun and I guess I ran out of fun. It is not that I ran out of stories (thanks to Bertie and Co. the stories will never end), but it all seemed such a nause writing them down.

So that is it, don't come back here there is nothing for you, just move on, I feel your loss. Still if you really want to continue to dip into my life (and if you do might I respectfully suggest that you get one of your own). Click here.

Goodbye forever.

TCB

Coffee and Salad

As our regular patrons will know the Boss puts on a special lunch every day. I don’t know how she does it as it is my avowed intent to stay out of the kitchen forever, but she does, and who am I to ask questions?

Today’s piece de resistance (as the Germans say) is a Caesar Salad with anchovies so I thought that I would share with you the reason a Caesar Salad is called a Caesar Salad

In 31 AD Julius Caesar was having his birthday in Londinium, which as you are well aware eventually became London. The local tribes known as the Angles (from which we derive the term Anglo-Saxons) hated the Romans whom they correctly thought of as foreign invaders. The maurauding tribes were, however, very much smitten with a Roman import know as lettuce which previously had not been seen in England. So the bandits invade Julius Caesar's birthday party seeking the said lettuce. Caesar shows them a truly beautiful salad to which the bandit chief replies, "We come to seize the salad, not to praise it!"

And you thought that today was going to be wasted. Now get back to work.

TCB

Coffee and more Internet

Do you remember all the nausea I experienced trying to set up an Internet connection? Well you can remind yourself here and here and here and here and here. Finally we ended up with two different service providers and as one was free I was cool with having one for me and one for the hoi polloi. The salespeople from the free service promised me an upgrade to 5Mbits, a portfolio of promotional stuff and a $75 commission for every sucker I converted to them. Sadly none of this materialized but what the hell I still had free DSL. Then without warning the modem started flashing all of its lights like a disco on acid and making strange noises which must have translated as “Argghh I am about to die”, which is indeed what it did. Then I discovered that the Smalltown Telephone Company had pulled the plug on the DSL line. What a bunch of cheapskates. These Scrooge like antics, coupled with the stories that I hear concerning the reliability of the 2 wire router lead me to recommend the Smalltown Alternative IP Provider, however………….

This month my bill was up from its normal $42 to a staggering $153 (an I assure you that I did indeed stagger when I opened the envelope). Closer examination showed that the difference was due to 4.4 Gbytes of overages. Now FOTL2 is home for the summer and up until now things have been just sweet. She of course denies everything and I hate to put 2 and 2 together but I know the little hellion is guilty as sin. They say that if you love someone set them free, if they don’t come back they were never yours. If on the other hand you set them free and they come back, eat your food, mess up your home, watch your television and rack up your Internet bill then they are probably your student child.

As a postscript I spoke to the wonderful people in the billing department and they agreed that I had suffered enough (I expect that they know FOTL1 and FOTL2) and agreed to drop the overages. In view of this supreme piece of customer relations I shall do the unusual and out them. The Coffee Bitch recommends the great guys at B2X Online.

Now if you will excuse me I need to download some vast amounts of smut while the Boss still thinks it is FOTL2.

Striking whilst the iron is hot.
TCB