How Do You Say, "I hate ironing" in French?

I'm all for the little details, for nice touches that equal perfection. I really am. That being said, I'd rather not spend forty-five minutes ironing every single table cloth in the dining room. Especially when that means we can't set anything on the tables until that job is done. I guess it's the restaurant's version of a New Year's resolution. Maybe they think that by smoothing out the creases on the linen, the creases in our own service will somehow improve as well.

I have enough trouble ironing my own shirt properly. There's always some crease that I can't get out, some wrinkly patch that I'll inevitably miss. Half the time I'm creating creases where there were none, or burning myself with the steam button. (Even though I kind of like the noise it makes, a friendly little hiss.) I tried to explain this to my co-worker when he got all huffy after I said, "You're not done with that yet? Hurry up, I need to set this section!" and he passed the iron my way in a "Let's see if you can do it faster, then." kind of challenge.

I attempted to avert the chore with a feminist argument (Just because I'm a woman, you think I'll be good at the ironing??) but he was having none of it.

"Who do I look like, the Iron Woman!?"

"Sorry, I have some other pressing issues to attend to..."

I stated my past history of all things heated - the scar on my neck from the curling iron, the blister on my hand from the straightener, a somewhat exaggerated mishap with the sandwich press - but by this time I was actually just talking to myself.

Choosing to strike while the iron was hot, I smoothed things out with my co-worker.

Bar Mitzvah: Emphasis on the Bar

To get to the off-site catering venue, I take the subway further north than I ever have. I polish an annoying amount of rented plates and try to feel grateful for having a job. We force the Austrian busboy to go to McDonalds, because the kitchen guys are too busy to feed us.

When the guests start arriving, I want to puke because I haven`t eaten McDonalds in a year. I cross my fingers that a grimace will pass for a smile, and grab a plate of canapes. Luckily, I don't even have to circulate the room. A swarm of twelve year old, curly haired boys surrounds me, eager for skewered quail and coconut shrimp. Someone tells the Austrian busboy that the dip for the crab cakes is called `STD sauce` and steers him towards Bubbe and her friends.

I try to pass off the last mini cups of cauliflower froth with caviar - "It's really tasty. You're gonna love it," I coo at one kid. He wrinkles his nose. I push my tray towards him. "Just try it!" He glares, saying "Don't force me!" before running away. My arm is getting sore and I want to go home. At least there's an awesome band and a few hot men to check out. And the teenage girls are amazingly well dressed. I spot three Coach clutches and a boob job during one round of clearing empty glasses.

One of the security guards (yes, bouncers at a bar mitzvah!) points out that there are a few important people in the room. "Look, there's that guy from Kenny and Benny." If I thought I was popular with a tray of kosher chicken skewers, then this local celebrity is a rock star. "You mean Kenny vs. Spenny?" He shrugs and continues to scan the room, as the kids clamber to get their photo taken with him.

At one point, the chef sends me into the blizzard with $45 and an order to get as much chicken bouillon as possible. I contemplate not returning, but I think I`ve flirted enough with the bartender to have secured some free alcohol if I go back. Plus there`s a huge tray of cheese that I need to make friends with. I relieve the grocery store of their bouillon reserves and trudge back.

When the end of the night arrives, I load up a garbage bag with at least six loaves of bread that would actually end up in the dumpster, and lug it home with me on the subway instead. Mazeltov.

Iron Chef = Iron Less?

When I read that the ladies of Comrags were collaborating with Susur Lee to create uniforms for his new Manhattan Restaurant, Shang, I genuinely wanted to throw away my stained-in-weird-places-but-i'm-too-cheap-to-buy-new-ones white blouses and go work for him in NYC. Not that I didn't have the desire to live in New York City already. And not that I wouldn't have worked for him in Toronto, but I'd prefer we didn't dwell on that point.

The truth is that I really respect an establishment that would a) hire Canadian designers for their New York restaurant b) afford to have them made and c) care enough about this kind of aesthetic. Plus, the servers are allowed and encouraged to include details that would personalize their outfits just a bit. And apparently, the uniforms look better the more you wash them. What kind of a genius freak idea is this? No drycleaning or handwashing only stipulations for your designer server dress shirt? Now that's incentive to wash my work clothes more than once a month.

Blind Wine Tasting - No, not drink until you're blind.

I think it's good to build rapport with co-workers. Important to spend time together and bond. Or maybe I'm just lonely.Most of my motivation for the ridiculous things I do involves an "I just want them to like me!" or a "I just want to fit in..." mentality. Hence, spending over $50 on a bottle of wine to bring to a party and pretending to smell things like darkly roasted unfair trade coffee or leather from a 2 year old dressage saddle.

I wandered the Vintages section of the LCBO, scanning the price tags. For once, my heart didn't leap with joy at colourful label designs, labels with quirky mammals, or something under $8.75. No, the pressure was on to find something that might impress my colleagues, or at least trick them into thinking it was from Cote du Rhone, not Chianti. "Oooh, this'll get 'em," piped up my helpful liquor store friend. "100% nebbiolo...they'll think it's Barolo. But really...it's Barbaresco." I nodded knowingly. "Nice, great pick, love it." I murmured, resisting the urge to high five.

I returned home with my choice, keen to hide the label with creative collage skills. Finally, me in tasteful floral and my bottle in leopard print and a Tommy Hilfiger ad, we were ready. Arriving, I eagerly pulled my bottle from the paper bag, to show off my decorative finesse. "Non!" shrieked the Frenchman. "You mustn't show us anything! Even the bottle's shape can give it away!" Inwardly rolling my eyes, but outwardly nodding and smiling, "Just kidding, Pierre! Only trying to psych you out." I hid my well dressed bottle dejectedly, but was quickly soothed by the sight of rabbit terrine and truffle oil on the table. Let the drinking commence!

Turns out there's this big wheel with all sorts of things you might find yourself tasting or smelling in your wine. My personal favourites include: wet dog, sauerkraut, soy sauce and filter pad. Luckily, none of the bottles at this party reeked like any such thing. Rather, we had freshly cut grass, lavender, touches of caramel, even some blue cheese. I won big points for sniffing out some pine needles.

While I may have been rather far from selecting the right grape or region, I did get pretty drunk. Bottles of Fifty or $50 plus bottles of wine - that, my friends, is indeed the best way to build rapport with your co-workers.

SOL: A Tale of Staff Bathrooms

Buzzing flies, empty soap dispenser, no toilet paper, piles of shoes and dirty aprons. Why is the staff bathroom always the most depressing place in the restaurant? Currently, we don't even have a staff bathroom because the toilet is completely dismantled. If a staff debris room was what we craved, we couldn't ask for a better one. And it might be okay if we were allowed to use the customer bathroom. But if a customer comes, we cannot go. If you see what I'm saying.

I suspect the boys must be sneak a leak in the alley. But as one of three women who work in the establishment, we're SOL. Ahem. The debris room has a mirror, so I can put on lipstick or smooth my frizz but that's about all it's good for. And so we wait. I try to limit my liquid consumption - usually I'm too busy to hydrate anyway - but, still.

It's not just peeing that's the issue. The debris in the debris room prevents the door from closing, so you can't change in there. And the, "Oooh, I followed you in here just to see you in your underwear" joke has really gotten old. Or so the guys are telling me.

"Do you want to improve your style?"

"Hey, bring a tray over here when you have a minute," my colleague said to me. This Quebecois co-worker wanted to teach me a trick. He wanted me to add some flair to my style - beer-pouring style that is. We only sell bottled beer, and an extremely high price. I cringed to ring in Coor's Light at $7 a pop. That being the case, I guess I should at least be providing some entertainment while pouring his ridiculously overpriced beverage.

The trick goes like this: You hold the beer glass against the tray with your thumb (only works for glasses with a slight stem and base), and pour the beer on that angle. The same angle that you'd pour a beer right into the glass to minimize the head. But at the table, and on a tray. Insert 'oohs and ahhs.' Truthfully, it looks kind of cool, sort of like a magic trick. Here's the catch.

"Now, make sure you didn't just stick your thumb in some butter by accident. Or that the base of the glass isn't wet at all." In essence, this is not a trick for people with hyperhydrosis. A sweaty handed server is not going to pull this off at someone's table. I have little desire to mention this to my co-worker. But now he's taught me the trick and probably wants to see it in action. Maybe on a good, dry day it'll happen. Even so, now I have to be the show-off who pours beer that way. If it will get me five extra dollars I'll probably do it. But if someone poured my beer that way, I'd likely be thinking, "Who does that jerk think he is?" I guess I'll just have to decide what kind of style I want to have, and how much I want to improve it.