50 don't-you-dares for restaurant staffers
Herewith is a link to a list of 50 things restaurant staffers should never do, as provided to the New York Times by a guy named Bruce who's getting ready to open a seafood joint.
I used "herewith" because he did, as the very first word of the piece. I used "joint" because it doesn't sound like something you'd hear from someone who begins an article with "herewith."
As for the list, it's only part one. Bruce has 50 more don'ts ready to go next week.
Most of the first batch is hard to argue with, as in ...
1. Do not let anyone enter the restaurant without a warm greeting.
5. Tables should be level without anyone asking. Fix it before guests are seated.
21. Never serve anything that looks creepy or runny or wrong.
38. Do not call a guy a "dude."
... but feel free to disagree. In short: Read and discuss, dudes.
Facebook Status Update of the Week
From my friend Jimmy Doom, noted actor-writer-poet and former lead singer of the Almighty Lumberjacks of Death:
"Today is the first day of the rest of your life and about two weeks after I got tired of listening to you bitch about it."
About those chickens ...
I mentioned Kauai's wild chickens in this morning's column about why people drive what they drive, and figured I should probably elaborate here.
The first chickens were brought to Kauai for the same reason chickens get brought anywhere: They're tasty.
Then, the story goes, Filipino immigrants brought in some fighting cocks. Hey, cockfighting is a crime for good reason and it's not my idea of sport, but cultures do what cultures do. Try explaining football.
Anyway, Hurricane Iniki brought carnage and destruction in 1992 and freed a bunch of chickens, hostile and otherwise, who interbred and flourished to the point where they pretty much have the run of the island. Their only natural predators are dogs and cats, who don't want any part of them.
I played four rounds this month at Prince Golf Course, a beautiful layout on the north end of the island that often winds up on Best Courses lists. At one point, I stepped out of my cart and found myself getting hissed and scowled at by a feral cat with a bad attitude and no tail.
Not 10 feet away were two chickens. Excuse me, I said to the cat, but I'm considerably larger than you, and I have 14 golf clubs. Those are birds. Haven't you watched the cartoons?
He kept hissing and arching his back, so I got out of his way. The chickens barely noticed.
Rather than get upset about the chickens, the people of Kauai have embraced them, albeit from a distance. You'll find chicken art and chicken T-shirts and even this chicken recipe, which will help explain why no one eats them.
Kauai Wild Chicken Recipe
1 Kauai wild chicken
1 large onion
1 bunch seasoning spices of your choosing
1 large rock
Salt and pepper
Put all ingredients into a large covered pot. Simmer over a low flame for several hours. Remove the rock. Discard the chicken. Eat the rock.
My lunch with Soupy Sales, a good and funny man
A decade or so ago, a magazine asked me to do stand-up comedy and then write about it.
Okay, I said. So I started putting together some material, writing jokes and jotting down observations and condensing a few of the stories that always knock 'em dead at parties, and before long I had quite a bit of stuff.
What I didn't have, I realized, was an act. But I had someone I could call for advice:
Soupy, who died Thursday in New York at 83, would ring me sometimes if he needed to promote an appearance in Detroit. Or I'd ring him if I needed someone to be spontaneously funny on most any subject imaginable.
This time, fortuitously, he was in Detroit, booked for two or three shows at a supper club along Lake St. Clair. I found him in his hotel room and asked if he had a minute to chat.
"What are you doing for lunch?" he said.
We wound up in a burgundy booth at the old Excalibur in Southfield. He offered advice. He offered jokes. He spent probably three hours with me, partly because he loved comedy but mostly because he was a nice guy.
He was invaluable, and I'm not going to kid anybody: It was an enormous treat to realize I was lingering over lunch with the Soupy Sales.
The last few times I called him, I could tell he'd slowed down. When he was on, he could shoot out jokes like a comedy Gatling gun. Now I'd have to help him with the punchlines of his old stand-bys.
We hadn't talked for a few years. I didn't want to intrude when he clearly wasn't feeling well. But every time we made contact, he ended with the same request: "Tell Detroit I said hello."
This is where it all started for him. He never forgot that, any more than Detroit ever forgot him.
Nobel Peace Prize injustice? How 'bout the Cy Young?
I was puzzled to hear that President Barack Obama had won the Nobel Peace Prize yesterday, but hardly -- as so many others found themselves yesterday -- upset.
Upset I save for truly important miscarriages of justice, like Fernando Valenzuela of the L.A. Dodgers winning the National League Cy Young Award in 1981 when the more deserving pitcher was clearly Tom Seaver of the Cincinnati Reds.
Valenzuela won 13 games and lost 7, with an earned run average of 2.48. Seaver was 14-2 and 2.54. How can that not gnaw at somebody?
Maybe if I'd ever collected Nobel Peace Prize trading cards, I'd have had a stronger reaction to the result in that race. Of course, since we never officially know who the nominees are, it's hard to feel outraged on behalf of the runner-up.
For a tidy overview of the day among Nobel Peace Prize fans, there's a nice piece in the Washington Post today from Eli Saslow.
No tears for Stefani -- but definitely, our thanks
Let the Attorney Discipline Board and the county prosecutor do what they feel needs doing in the case of lawyer Michael Stefani, who admitted Thursday what most people already assumed: he was the source of the text-message transcripts that brought down Kwame Kilpatrick.
He knew the potential penalties for leaking the texts to a newspaper. If he gets spanked by his fellow attorneys, so be it.
I can't imagine he'd have much to fear from a Wayne County jury, though, if the prosecutor brought perjury charges related to his testimony in various hearings. The fact is, without Stefani, Kwame Kilpatrick would still be Mayor for Life and Detroit would still be his rolling frat party.
Considering what Stefani's share of the $8.4 million settlement probably was, I doubt he needs our help defending himself. But if someone starts a defense fund, I might have to find a way to leak him a check.
Two options for punishing Miguel Cabrera, neither of them good
Clearly, the Tigers need to do something to show Miguel Cabrera how furious they are. At least, I assume they're furious: Their best hitter drank deep into Saturday morning at the Townsend Hotel with at least one friend from the Chicago White Sox, wound up in a physical altercation with his wife, and was still bombed enough to blow a .26 when he was collected around 6 a.m. by the Birmingham police.
Then he went out that night against the Sox, in a huge game for Detroit, and stunk.
The question is, what do you do about him?
Theory one: Park his juvenile rump on the bench for Tuesday's playoff game against the Minnesota Twins, the one that will determine which team proceeds into the post-season. That becomes a particularly attractive option when you learn that after an August altercation at the Townsend's Rugby Grille, the team had warned him to stay away from the place.
Theory two: A whomping fine.
The problem with suspending him for the playoff game is that it also potentially punishes his teammates, the Tigers' fans, and every bar, restaurant and T-shirt merchant who figure to boost business if the team reaches the next round.
The problem with fining him is that his contract, which runs through 2015, is worth $152.3 million. Assuming an arbitrator upheld a breathtaking fine, say in the $100,000 range, would he even notice it?
From the Tigers' standpoint, the greater issue here may be that five weeks after being banned from the Townsend, he went back. His behavior Saturday was deplorable on all counts, and that's assuming he didn't drive himself home, in which case it was both deplorable and criminal. But his choice of drinking establishment, unless he finessed the direct order by drinking exclusively in his friend's room, was outright insubordination.
The Tigers probably should have taken action Saturday and sat him down. Heaven knows they'd have been better off without him. As facts continue to wriggle out, both he and the team look increasingly -- and deservedly -- bad.
Having let him play Saturday and Sunday, it's hard to now turn around and bench him on Tuesday. But the thing to do Saturday would have been to sit him down -- and fine him.
Five out of five financial experts agree: Michael Moore made a movie
Editors from moneywatch.com convened to review Michael Moore's new movie, "Capitalism: A Love Story," and one out of five of them actually gave it a thumbs up.
Three others found it entertaining but factually incomplete, in Moore's not-really-a-documentary way.
The last guy said it had a good beat and you could dance to it, so he gave it an 85.
From the shadow of the RenCen, you're welcome
Reader John Day e-mailed his appreciation for today's column about the three gentlemen who BASE jumped off the Renaissance Center.
I thanked him, and then I thanked whoever invented video cameras. They make it easier to enjoy that sort of adventure vicariously, which is the way I prefer it.
'Whip It'? Skip it.
Drew Barrymore went on "Today" yesterday to plug her made-in-Michigan movie, "Whip It." She's on the cover of In Style magazine.
She's doing everything she's supposed to do to promote the film, which marks her debut as a director, and she's saying nice things about our fair state, which is appreciated.
The movie, alas, appears to be a mess.
Our movie critic, Tom Long, gave it a C-. And here's a bit of inside scoop: Having listened to Tom and our other in-house movie guru, Adam Graham, discuss "Whip It," I'm surprised the grade turned out as high as it did.
If you want to see it, please don't let me deter you. Heck, the Philadelphia Inquirer gave it three stars. Tom says the performances are just fine, and it's always fun to catch local landmarks on the big screen. But based on two voices I trust, the roller derby movie would seem to be skating by on the classic "gentleman's C" -- or in this case, gentlewoman's.
