They say that in the restaurant business the most important things are “location, location, location.” Well that’s bullshit. I’d know because all three of my restaurants failed despite excellent locations. Both “Let’s Taco ‘Bout Our Feelings” And “God’s Flan For Me” were right next to a Mexican cemetery yet didn’t last more than a month. But it was the failure of “Artichoke Me, Daddy” (located in the vicinity where all those grisly strangling murders happened) that really made me look back and ask myself: where did I go wrong?
You could already feel that this day was going to be a doozy. As you sit down at your table, you see him coming your way. Sleeves rolled up to show-off a bunch of tattoos, some of which you’re sure you can only get in prison, untucked shirt, 5 o’clock shadow at 1 in the afternoon, lit cigarette in his mouth, and a breath that could strip paint off a speed boat. God, what was the restaurant thinking partnering you up with a loose cannon waiter?