Whenever I find myself involved in a which-coffeehouse-is-better disputation over um, coffee, I have always, always insisted that Starbucks is second to none. Over the many years of being a hapless victim of commercialism, I developed an emotional affiliation with Starbucks not because of their coffee or food, they are no better than most crap you can find in other coffeehouses out there anyway, but because Starbucks practices the “We don’t really care if our coffee tastes like piss, we will surely be friendly enough to make you forget about it” philosophy. The staffs and baristas of the Starbucks outlet I frequent even greet me by name whenever I walk in, and that is the sort of personalised service you will be hard pressed to find in say, basically anywhere else except for I don’t know, whore houses?
Bad coffee + good looking baristas = #1
That is why, whenever I patron restaurants or even hawker stalls (approaching the end of the month), I have always been more critical towards the service they provide rather than the quality of food they serve. Culinary skills can be nurtured, so there is always still hope. Being a gigantic asshat, however, I’m afraid that stays for good.
Which brings me to Kissaten, this cozy, quaint, three-storey Japanese-Fusion restaurant nestled within the thriving and constantly cockcop-blocked commercial development of Jaya One, Petaling Jaya.
So, I was at rooftop “bar area” of Kissaten (I hope it means something else in Japanese and not something that tells me to kiss a size ten feet) with a couple of friends for some drinks to drown the sorrows of being employed. Business for them was slow and we were the only customers of the night (you will find out why).
Okay, before I go on. Remember the crazy, psycho and stalking bitch/jerk you once dated but never had the guts to own up to it? The one who would call you every 10 minutes and loved you enough to let you experience your very own version of Wicker Park? Okay, just keep that in mind. Let’s paint a picture of a crazy, psycho and stalking person in your head. Good? Ready? Let’s continue.
Probably your ex.
At the bar, only one waiter cum bartender served the 6 us the entire night, and his name? Guy. 10 points for originality there. And Guy, who seemed to be trying his best to impress us for his imaginary show and tell session, could speak Thai, Mandarin, Cantonese, English and probably Elvish, I wouldn’t have been surprised. A waiter named Guy and expansively multilingual at that. Nothing weird there, right? RIGHT?
Trying his best to win the much-acclaimed “Freak Waiter of the Decade” award, Guy then started hitting on the guys. Not so much on me because either I was the worst-looking guy on the table or I just didn’t bother giving a fuck about him. Guy, decided that going gung ho was the only way to go, started pulling this guy from our table to the bar every 15 bloody minutes. For what? I don’t know. After that grab-and-kidnap-your-customers farce, Guy probably felt a little stupid… for not making EVERYONE feel uncomfortable.
He then conceived this little game of his own. Every time when we got ourselves immersed into an interesting conversation like setting up our dream bachelor pad, stupid music that makes us weep or dead Indonesian at a concert, Guy walked over and went, “HI GUYS. I JUST WANT TO SAY SOMETHING.” He then proceeded to offer a handshake to everyone on the table, which we reluctantly, not to mention regrettably, obliged, “I JUST WANT EVERYBODY TO BE HAPPY OK!” Guy then started touching the guys.
Okay, it was more of a borderline molestation.
Still thinking about that psychotic ex of yours? Don’t let that image disappear.
Your ex. No?
After awhile, Guy started giving us FREE imported beers. “Nice,” I thought, “probably that’s a retard’s way of saying ‘I’m sorry for being a total asshole.’” The first bottle came, then the second bottle, then the third, and before we knew it, he gave us over 10 bottles of imported beers. On the house.
Oh I forgot to mention, he forced us to finish all of them. On a Tuesday night.
You know how VIPs get treated to free-flow of alcohol at glamarous functions or events? Yeah, it was pretty much like that, except for a hot, exotic girl serving us drinks and lighting up our cigarettes, we had Guy – the man who haunts your nightmare. Guy then started pleading, “CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET? DON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS! I JUST WANT ALL OF YOU TO BE HAPPY!” That is when I realised maybe it was his last day at work and he really just wanted to fuck his employers over by giving out free booze. “I JUST WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY! TONIGHT, WE WILL OPEN PAST 2AM! WE OPEN UNTIL 4AM!” I took a glance at my watch, it was only 12:30am. Damn.
Everybody HAPPY!
The same crazy cycle happened over and over again for every 15 fucking minutes. Guy comes over, babbles some indistinguishable nonsense, puts down a bottle of imported beer on our table, pisses on our patience by forcing us to bottom-up the drinks, and then goes back to the back of his bar, probably to pump more meth into his nervous system.
“I just want to get the fuck out of this place,” I whispered. Fear lingered around our table and everyone felt uneasy. “Did you guys watch Hostel? What if he’s some crazy bastard who would severe our limbs and shit?” one of my friend said jokingly. To think about it, I guess he wasn’t joking at all.
Not being too pleased about getting mindfucked by a polyglot, intrusive, possibly homosexual and very, very generous Jack Torrance-inspired waiter, we decided to leave. Being the cheeky bastards that we are, my friends started pouring the excess beer (excess beer – never thought I’d ever say that) onto the potted plants.
As we got up, all prepared to get the hell out of there, Guy emerged from his bar with a video camera and started shouting “HAHAHA! YOU GUYS ARE ON CANDID CAMERA!”
Ha! Assholes!
Who the fuck am I kidding, he obviously came to us with more fucking beer . “NO! DON’T GO! FINISH FIRST! I GOT MORE HERE! NO NO NO!” Already tired from work, all the beer and having a prick as a waiter, my friend (drunk, possibly) told him off whereas I silently flipped Guy the finger before we stormed off Kissaten in a huff .
Boys and girls, that is the story of a waiter named Guy from Kissaten. I hope folk songs, tales and poems about this sonofabitch will be written and composed, so that when our children and our children’s children grow up, they will read about and pass on the legacy of Guy – the dude who won the “Freak Waiter of the Decade” accolade.
Future generations may not believe in his existence, but what do people know, most of us still think Batman is a work of fiction, too.
Holy shit...
