Oy Vegg!

- The True Confessions of an Eggonomic Hitman

Bad pun: 1. Cheesy, contrived, lame, “you so stoopid!” play-on-words known to be a common cause of irritation when repeated
2. Employment as a server at a restaurant called “Eggspectation”

I began the ingratiating journey from simple-minded civilian to well-eggquipped eggspert of all things Egg last Monday. In one marathon training session, I was provided with all manner of trade secrets into becoming a well-oiled waiting machine. The art of the up-sale, pivot points, how to wash my hands (apparently, servers have to wash their hands) and what constitutes seggsual harassment (apparently, men/cocks are not permitted to handle women/hen’s ‘eggs’ without permission these days) were all dealt with accordingly.

For dinner, our small group of future eggployees were served a selection of dishes to acclimatize us with the restaurant’s offerings, thereby allowing for at least half-truthful future recommendations. I found the 'Muffin Eggsplosion' pipped the Apple Pie Cheesecake as my favorite sweet dish. Most recently, I have taken to carrying my 24-page extended menu around on my person, hunting for pneumonic devices to differentiate the 'Eggsileration' morning special from the 'Uneggspected*.' I’m yet to try the Eggchilada, though, whose preparation this morning I greatly admired at the hands of small Mario, whose fellow Salvadorean colleague taught me to refer to him as “ciervito**.”

Although I’ve never waited before, I have bartended in London. Which is to say, I made kalimotos (wine and coke, hardly a garnished cocktail) for drunken Spaniards at private parties and snakebites for American college girls in London’s International Student House. Although a generally positive experience, the pedestrian nature of the work means that I’d be only a half step above the next sod in terms of mixology experience, and still an unbroken-in schmuck with three plates in my arms. In Ellicott City, however, the location alone earns one a degree of respect.

Amongst DC students, spending time in London is only slightly more noteworthy than visiting your parents in North Carolina over winter break. In fact, Georgetown students would raise greater eyebrows if one was to boast of exotic journeys to Wyoming (to visit the Cheney shrine perhaps; not to be confused with Yasukuni) or Idaho, far from the cosmopolitan cultural islands of Tokyo, Lagos or, most run of the mill of all, old London town. Such is the duality of living on the border of the political machinery of Washington and its surrounding tri-state corporate suburbatopia. In DC, my own background quietly mixed into the pulse of a whole city of fleeting encounters amongst cultural hop-skotchers, most of whom cross time zones as rapidly as Baltimore natives use Old Bay seasoning (all the time). Here, playing my Aussie card hand lends an artificial yet useful air of celebrity to my existence.

Now, with this short post-college stint back in the town in which I last lived during 12th grade, and at a restaurant which originates from Montreal but whose clientele is mostly from the immediate area, I have the opportunity to add some zesty Australian-Asian spice to this benign yet bland middle-class omelette. I could be the soy sauce accompaniment to Ellicott City’s mini crab cakes, if you will (actually, I probably wouldn’t). I’ve previously used being from somewhere unusual as a social tool for remembering my name, exploiting the gullible for good-natured laughs and so forth. However, this may be the first time I actually acquire tangible—and by tangible, I mean green and taxable—benefits from my home country’s favored reputation. The question is: do I really intend on unashamedly milking my background to beef up my measly supplementary income?

Why, like a farmer to his cow with teats pouring liquid gold, that’s what!

So, depending on my assigned, unassuming diner, they can look forward to a caricature-based variety of Markissed, Mark-glish linguistic dew drops, all loosely rooted around the history of British Empire and the wonderful language it forcefully instilled upon we Yellow yolk…I mean, folk.

For instance, when the host assigns me a 50-something WASPish couple, my razor-like waiter-brain will visualize the husband occasionally hosting distant cousins from Bournemouth and his wife enjoying PBS Dickensian TV adaptations (such as my mother’s recent addiction, “Bleak House”)...

“Good day Sir! How do you do Madame?! Excuse my nosiness, but may I inquire as to whether you have dined at our humble establishment prior to this most exquisite occasion?...Oh, how positively delightful!”, I shall intone, sounding like an Asia-fied Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Now as I toddle off to fix the couple their drinks (Earl Grey tea, they'd of course request), the table conversation would at this point have switched from tax cuts to tickled culture-guessing:

“My goodness! I wonder where he’s from! Doesn’t look English, does he? Sounds like a butler from ‘Bleak House!’…”

Later on, when deliberating over the tip, this unexpected rhetorical treat should result in a sympathy/surprise offering of at least 20 percent, 30 to 50 being ideal.

Or, alternatively, they could see through my mostly-artificial server identity, exclaim: “What sort of bad high-school production ballyhoo accent is that joker trying to put on?!” and neglect to tip at all. It’s all a bit of a gamble, really, but one that I’m sure shall make the routine and bad pun overkill of working at Eggspectation pass more merrily.

For large, rowdy weekend groups of young business sorts looking for some excitement, I could selectively employ my rough-and-tumble Australian tongue, the dialect I was raised speaking but which in more recent times only escapes my lips following several strong drinks or in the rare company of my compatriots:

“The Surf N’ Turf, mate? You bloody betcha I like it, it has to be almost as de-lish as barbequed Emu!...”

And when the topic of drinks comes up, and inevitable questions about the consumption of Fosters arise, I’ll use my role as charming sommelier to subtly turn their attention toward more premium offerings:

“Australian Shiraz certainly goes well with a kangaroo steak, but for your particular dish, might I recommend the ($449/bottle)1966 Chateau Margaux? We drink it all the time in Oz!”

I’ll admit that these dreamy, lucrative shenanigans are fanciful to the point of absurdity. More than likely, rather than delight and entertain my table with such verbal idiosyncrasies, I’ll simply confuse.

“Ba-narh-narh? What on earth is that? Is it a vegetable?...Ohhhhh, Bill, he means ‘Banana!’ (or, “ba-neh-ner” to the un-American ear), a guest will decipher with latent irritation. That is, before declining dessert altogether in favor of the check, in which she can show me what just what she thinks of my unintelligible variation of her beloved Mid-Atlantic coast vernacular.

Looking forward, how this all actually works out is going to be a useful case study in terms of gauging sources of future income. I hope to perform bartending/serving work similar to this in a variety of countries (and, with any luck, languages), and a successful stint in my adopted hometown would bolster my confidence considerably. Accelerating one’s immersion into a new environment can be done in a number of ways. Feeding and/or intoxicating locals, however, happens to be one of the most universal and personally appealing. There’s much that the self-anointed pop-anthropologist can discover through observing from behind the waiter’s apron: How do Americans eat crepes compared to the French? How do mute Ethiopians converse over a first date (the food being eaten without cutlery)? What is the real meaning behind General Tso, international man of mystery, and his chicken?

Irregardless, you can be sure that I’ll find it all an utterly eggcellent eggsperience...

And now that, dear friends, is a bad pun.

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* In case you were wondering: the Uneggspected has steak, instead of chicken
** "Small donkey," from what I gathered