Random Ramblings

These are the conversations I have with my friends. I am aj

But seriously, IHOP lies. They are not truly international. I want pancakes from ALL. OVER. THE GLOBE, and not just sweet ones. No I want  banh xeo, pajeon, scallion pancakes, okonomiyaki, aebelskiver, farinata, blini, crepes, dosa, latka... THE LIST GOES ON.  Do not be fooled by IHOP. I want a truly international house of pancakes. 

Me and boss just staring at the giant pile of dishes. Me: ...its like they reproduce when we're not looking. Like really greasy rabbits. Greasy rabbits that I loathe. Boss: we should just replace all our dishes with disposable stuff. Me: you know that whole going green concept? I want to do the opposite. I want to be a captain planet villain. I'd be ok with that if it means not having to do dishes.

Coworker while pureeing bone marrow: My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard and they’re like  "is there marrow in this? What the hell? I'm a vegan"

So I find it awkward when I’m on a bus or a train or...well out of a kitchen and in public. Bleh. Why? Well lets start with where and when I was that a peculiar incident happened to me.  I’m at a wedding, its a cousin’s wedding and one that I don’t see often. This is all a part of the family that I don’t know and have never met. So When I wear a suit, I usually take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves because its more comfortable. A family member whom I have never spoken to before leans down to me in passing and goes “Son are you....ok? Like ok mentally? Are you in a good place?”  “Well I’m near the bar. So I’m pretty ok with this seating arrangement. My cousin’s fiance has a pretty decent taste in beer too. I suppose I could do with more bourbon, but the scotch has been good.”  “Well I mean....uhm....your arms....”  “I. What? These are old burns I...Oh god you thought I. No I. I COOK FOR A LIVING.”  This was not the first or last time near strangers have approached me with misplaced concern in their eyes. Chef life amirite? 

As the night wore on, and people got more and more hammered (because I was doing my job right I guess?) I was asked some pretty funny things. Apparently I was dressed the part well enough that people assumed I must actually bartend for a living. I don’t, but a black vest, ridiculous handlebar mustache, and a thin black tie go a long way toward people thinking I must work at some kind of new hip bar. Eventually this conversation happened.  Partier: OOOOooommmg you are such a good bartender! Where do you work I want to get drinks from you ALL. THE. TIME. hahahahahahahahahaha *awkwardly long and shrill party girl laughter continues*  Me: Oh I don’t work at a bar...I was trained as a pastry chef originally.  Partier missing the point entirely: But...but you’re bartending now, not pastry chef..ing. What happened?  Me: Fondant killed my girlfriend.