Sweat And Scotch.

That wasn't dinner service. That was rape.

My dead grandmother could have felt that penetrating her and lived just long enough to ensure it was announced to the world, loudly, from some form of a rooftop.

And that would be coming from the woman who I'm pretty sure spent the first 21 years of my Dad's life telling him he was the emaculate conception so as to avoid him ever bringing a girl home and sleeping with her.

25 seater restaurant booming with 4 sittings from open til close. If a tow truck ran over my feet right this very second it would comparitably feel like a massage.

But strangely, nothing really went wrong. Everybody was tipsy and full and happy (aside from myself, my French sidekick and my Frankston bogan kitchen hand who by the end of service resembled a pack of celery sticks that were a few weeks past their prime). Oh, and except for the ONE table that I deligated to my Sous while I escaped outside to reunite my lungs with fresh air, which happened to be occupied by a good mate of mine and I had no idea. (Manager can go deep throat a cactus for that one.)

Nearly ran out of absolutely everything too, stopped a few times to pray to anybody that would listen that please let there be no more. It was like an intense orgy but nobody could cum... Eventually you have to stop and say "Is it over yet?"

But for the first time in my hospitality career I can proudly say Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

I hope the sex you go home to leaves you as thoroughly spent as that evening has left us.

Now, who's got the scotch?