So here's a thought.
In order to get here, you either know the covert and extremely sly observer of the food industry who pens this collection of ghastly tales...or you googled "balls." Or "coffee," I suppose. Or god forbid, "balls in your coffee." Either way, welcome. Now, a quick starter course on how my employment with a certain eatery led me to the blogosphere.
The first time I saw Lester, a friendly, far too ballsy, in-house mouse barely the length of my palm, I was sitting at a cocktail table in the upstairs bar on my first night on the job, filling out my W-4 financial forms. I filled in my first and last name, and then glanced up briefly to see Lester scurry like a bat out of hell across the entire empty bar floor and dive under the serving station. Huh, I thought. Cute. And then I went back to my form.
My reaction to this initial health code violation—calm, collected, not remotely surprised—is probably why I am still an employee of the infamous...we'll call it the Martini Shaker for all intents and purposes.
The Martini team was made up of a relatively tough core group of ragtag employees and honorable lifers who had been there since the inception; others came and went, outraged at the recent lack of dinner business on the weekdays, the shitty pay or the morally questionable goings-on of the place. But those of us who remained…well, different as we all were, we seemed to share an unholy affection for the downright grimy nature of the place, what the French might call dégoulasse. The customers were shameful. The music was too loud. “Locked safe” was a bit of a loose term. But we stayed, and we observed, so that we could perhaps feel a bit better about ourselves when we passed out at night, after a few too many shift drinks.
After over a year of employment with this upstanding beacon of American cuisine, it was decided that it was time for me to record some of the weekly embarrassments we all witnessed. They are not for the weak at heart, nor for those with a particularly jumpy gag reflex. Know that they are remembered fondly, as one would look back on that 4th grade birthday party where that boy you liked threw cake on your face and then kicked you in the shins. Or something like that.
So, now that you've made it, stay awhile and click around. If an explanation of whose balls are in whose coffee and why is what you're after, here's a good place to start.