ADVENTURES IN THE FOOD TRADE by ROB LOUGHRAN What's the difference between an Engineering Major, a Finance Major, and an English Major? An Engineering Major says: "How can we build it? A Finance Major says: "What will it cost?" An English Major says: "Would you like Fries with that?" I was an English Major. Subsequently I've been waiting tables for the last thirty-two years. By way of introduction here's a few stories (all true) about adventures in the food trade... Working for my buddy Greg Hallihan at Stella's (in Forestville, great place call, ahead for reservations) I was summoned to the phone. Greg said, "Get rid of this weirdo." I took the phone, "Hello?" "I vant to talk to Stella." "Knock it off Richard," I said, thinking it was one of our regulars playing a joke. "I know no Richard, I vant to talk to Stella." "Stella's is the name of the restaurant. It's owned by a guy named Greg." "I vant to talk to Stella." "I'm busy. There IS no Stella." And I hung up. The phone rang again; immediately: "I vant to talk to Stella." "There is no STELLA." CLICK. The phone rang again; immediately: "I vant to talk to Stella." By now, everyone at the counter and the front portion of the dining room is in on the drama. I said, as calmly as I could, "Why don't you call McDonald's and ask for Ronald-there is no *#@!!~ Stella." For all I know the freak is still calling McDonald's. This was in 1977; and I'll remember these pricks for as long as I live. They sat at booth # 36 at Cattlemen's in Petaluma. They were the last table in the place and they wouldn't order. They kept drinking Johnny Walker Black on the rocks-doubles. They were polyester clad, leisure suited, fat cat, pinky ringed businessmen; the antithesis of everything that a 22 year old (me) college-student/poet stood for. The cooks are on my butt to get the order so they can finish up and start in on hard drugs (they'd been smoking pot all night) and these pillars of the community just wouldn't order. Finally:Ê two T-bones rare. Two artichokes. I deliver the salad and fire the order. BAM! The steaks are ready. (There is a logarithmic relationship between a cook's "minute" in the middle of a shift when a "minute" means ten minutes; and at the end of a shift when it means about ten seconds.) The suits aren't pleased that the steaks and artichokes are on the table as the same time as the salad; but I'm the middle man here. What can I do? So the suits have another round and eat their steaks; then they flag me over. "Waiter?" "Yes." "Our artichokes are cold." "That's cuz they've been sitting there for twenty minutes." "Heat them up." "The cooks are gone.The steamer's off." Then-like I said, I'll never forget this-one guy stood up, poked me in the chest and said, "You seem reasonably intelligent for a waiter. I'm sure you can figure out a way to heat these up." I said, "I'll be right back." And I ran the artichokes through the dishwasher. I set them down at the table-smelling of chlorine, but hot - and these scotch-soaked cretins ate every last leaf. This happened at Dempsey's Brewpub in Petaluma. I was in my forties and not quite as hot-headed as my dishwasher/artichoke days. Gray-haired, well-spoken and polite, most customers thought I was the manager. On a busy Sunday,Ê what I refer to as a "Green" family-fifty year old ponytailed dad, late thirties Birkenstocked earth momma with a seven-year-old and a three-year-old; always pay with fragrant cash-are having trouble getting their three-year-old boy into the bathroom. The line is long; it's a brewpub. I suggest they go across the parking lot to Baskin Robbins, but the kid just can't hold it. He pulls down his pants (this is outside on the patio) and drops three little poopies on the bricks. I'm a father of eight and I've cleaned up things that could have been used as special effects on "Independence Day" so I grab a paper napkin, scoop up those Êthree little poopies and toss them over the fence into the Petaluma River. Job well done. Not quite. The table across from the Green family-very Marin, tight-ass, tight-lipped, cheap-tipping ("Thank you, every thing was wonderful")-said, "Waiter?" "Yes?" "You have to say something to them about that." Her black pumps going tap-tap-tap: husband's head nodding in tempo. "I will." So I stopped by the Green family's table and said, loud enough for the Beautiful People to hear: "I need to tell you something." "What, man?" I leaned in and said to the earth momma, "Your kid has way too much iron in his diet." So, again, by way of introduction, these three little stories say "Hello". I'll be talking, monthly, about food and beer and wine and the inside scoop on the restaurant business and general Adventures in the Food Trade. Cheers! Rob Loughran's novel High Steaks, a murder mystery that takes place in a steak house, won the 2003 New Mystery Award. He lives in Windsor, CA.