They've got this thing that they call "The Ironwood." Just like the name of the club. While I am certainly not here to offer any kind of value judgments about the food, or the people, or the sanitary conditions of the kitchen. I mean we put out some great food. We even had a perfect night. Party for sixty-six in the Grand Canyon Room. Time of cocktails: 5:30 PM. That's official cocktails. Some of these folks commence their cocktails much earlier, like 5:30 AM. Time of food: 6:30 PM.
6:30 on the button, Lupé wheels out the shrimp salads with remoulade and turns them over to the front of the house.
I've got the sweet potato soup all heated up real nice and when Chris calls for the soup, I fill up a two gallon water pitcher from off the stove and commence to pour into these soup cups that Charlie has just produced from on top of the salamander two sheet pans of piping hot cups. The soup is pouring beautifully. Thick and creamy sweet. Lupé pipes out dollops of whipped cream and Charlie follows up with a drizzle of raisins and almonds. OK. Sixty-six of them. The main course: Creole roasted tenderloin and blackened chicken breast with smoked corn/pepper relish and dirty rice.
Sixty-six hot plates out of the warmer. The Irish Chef is cutting the tenderloins up, the most beautifully cooked medium rare tenderloins I've ever seen in all my life. Lupé plates two slices shingled up real nice. Charlie runs a line of the smoked corn and pepper relish down the middle of the plate. Then he runs another line of the dirty rice right up along side of the relish. So you've got your shingled slices of roasted tenderloin buffeted against the smoked corn and pepper relish with a nice line of dirty rice up along side it and Charlie slides the plate to me. This is all going perfectly. No slip ups.
I've got this spoon I found somewhere kind of like a tablespoon or a big soup spoon that's just perfect for running a little of this mango chutney up alongside of the tenderloin. Then I lean up one of these real cute blackened up chicken breasts up along side of this dirty rice and pass the plate to Alvaro, one of the dishwashers, who wipes up the edges of the plate, if need be, and puts lids on each and every plate, stacks them five high and remands them to the warmer. Sixty-six is a piece of cake. All of them piping hot. Two of these gorgeous slices of the tenderloin shingled up ever so nice, with a little plop of fresh mango chutney, then comes your line of fresh smoked corn and pepper relish followed by the dirty rice all lined up just perfect, thanks to Charlie, right along side it. And then that beautiful little blackened chicken breast balancing up alongside of the rice. A very cute little dish.
The French Market Coffee served up with the praline ice cream topped off with the pecan caramel sauce with nice little wafers inserted in to the clear glass bowls and just a little puff of whipped cream to top it all off. The Irish Chef dances a jig after that one and sings to us an Irish lullaby - When Irish Eyes are Smiling. Like I say, though, I'm not here to offer value judgments about the food or the people. Not here to talk about the fact that you can hardly get your own children into the place to eat unless they, they meaning not you but your kids, are at least 55 years old. They do things up a little bit different to the ways of an Eastern type person. I call a spade a spade. Voilà. And now we have it. Your basic Ironwood. You take and shore up this big slab of sirloin and commence pounding it out and then keep on pounding it out until you've got it pounded out real nice and it is roughly about two and one half feet square. Then you take and stuff it à la florentine which basically goes on to say that you take and stuff it with spinach stuffing all made up real nice beforehand. Creamed up nice with heavy cream, chopped bacon and lots of fresh ground black pepper and maybe some day old garlic bread crumbs to tighten it up some. The point is to get that stuffing tightened up enough so that it doesn't start spilling out all over the place when you're slicing up 500 slices of it for 250 piping hot plates each one perfect. Each one done up real nice. With vegetable and starch and sauce. All real hot. Some want it rare. Some want it well done. Medium to medium rare. For these parties that's the best you can do. Two-hundred-fifty of them all at the same time, each perfect, two slices on each plate shingled up one against the other bedded down in a nice pool of sauce with the sirloin nice and crusty brown on the outside and nice and pink around the center with the spinach nice and creamy green filling up the inside without even suggesting it might take and all fall out.
Are there any substitutions for tonight's party? Just that one order for the apricot chicken, Chef. And where might that be? Just where might that be my bonny Mr. Bones? On top over there, Chef. In the top oven. He looks. I don't be finding anything in any oven over here. Top or bottom. Just what the fuck are you doing? You're responsible for it. Jesus Christ, now where the fuck is it? The Irish Chef is on me like a fly on shit.
Ophelia's thawing out her fresh-baked cakes and pies, and Charlie is slicing Ironwoodys back on Ophelia's table that she uses for her rolls and baked goods... slicing it up back there because what with two-hundred-fifty plates to do up with meat, sauce, duchesse and now two vegetables there just plain isn't room to slice it there on the steam table. So Charlie slices it back there and runs it up to Lupé, an Ironwood at a time on a half sheet pan. Lupé plates up two slices and shingles them. Magally, the feisty, finicky dishwasher from Glendale whose English is, to mention it, not worth mentioning, is pouring the sauce sauvignon which is theoretically to go alongside the meat, just a little trickling off the edge of it, or the sauce could even go entirely beneath the Ironwood slices, but the way Magally's pouring the sauce up it would appear that the Ironwoods are, in point of fact, not at all retaining or restraining the spinach stuffing which is spilling out of the meat no matter how clever Lupé's hands may be at staying the avalanche. Magally, to her credit, seeks to camouflage the floundering presentation in a deluge of sauce sauvignon. Charlie, unable to stay his powerful theatrical underpinnings, takes, at this point, and cuts his finger.
I'm not trying to force feed this whole thing down so's that maybe then I can get somehow up to my point, taking for granted that I have a point. The point eludes me. Less forced more gradual. There's a point I can live with. It's got to be reeled out real gradual like over time. Not that kind of over time. It's got to make a certain kind of sense, you know, like Doctor Timothy Leary standing outside of Albee Social with a big paper cup of ice water from the coffee shop that he'd asked for and him saying What is this colorless, odorless liquid? He drinks and everybody laughs. The point here being that you've got to have a certain amount of control over your catch. He rises and the great white sperm whale plunges down the toilet. Rachel is her name. Day passes into night. And Rachel. Are you reeling in the years? Stowin away the time. Are you gatherin up the tears? Have you had enough of mine? You been tellin me you were a genius since you were seventeen. I am a genius, Dickhead.
There now. Can I go on? So what you're working with is this nice big slab of sirloin that you've taken and pounded out real nice to a size of about two and one half feet square. Give or take an inch or two. What I'm trying to say is that you've got this real nice looking piece of sirloin that you've already taken and pounded out real nice and even and this creamed spinach all stocked up real nice with crispy chunks of fresh-cooked bacon that you've run a real nice and healthy line of alongside one of the edges of this pounded out sirloin...and you take and roll it up. Roll it up real nice and tight just like you roll up a sleeping bag or a bedroll or a joint. And what you've got is awesome. Somethin looking like it come off'n a bull or a buffalo even. It is big. Veritably, a battering ram. And then to take and diminish this gorgeous piece of meat, à la florentine, if I may, to take and virtually crucify it with a name like "Ironwood" really upbraids me. I just can't begin to tell you how pissed I get when I think about it. Or why. For that matter. No matter. What matters is to get on with it struggling, as I am, to get up to my point. Don't make me laugh. Diameter of eight or ten inches and about two and one-half feet long. Everything so far all done up real nice.
Now comes the tricky part. Not tricky really. Operations aren't exactly tricky. You'd be more likely to say critical. And take my word for it, this part is critical. The fucker has got to be tied off now and tied off real nice so's you don't take and pop a vein. The master is, of course, Jamie, on a score back from the City, hunkered down in the corner of a Gulf Station Men's Room with the attendant pumping $5.00 of the Good Gulf. Nah, we can't all be masters of the universe.
There's a point to be made here. We're just reeling it out nice and slow. Which reminds me...What is the catch of the day, Suh? That would be the pink snapper, Suh. Not fish exactly, Suh, but it surely does smell like fish, Suh. Until you've got it all tied off real nice so that it can't come apart and unravel and you lose all the spinach before you even get to cooking the blimey thing. The Ironwood. Cook the Ironwood. Great name. Ironwoody. Hah hah hah hah hah. Peck this. Like Woody Woodpecker yuks it up.
Here's what's critical. Not critical really. The tricky part. I know I said it the other way around but that's the way they want me to see it. Critical. Life or death. These rich fuckers come in off the course half in the bag, all charged up on pitchers of martinis or gibsons and they have their little party for two-hundred-fifty and fifty want their Ironwood rare, fifty want Ironwood done up medium rare, fifty want it medium, fifty want it medium well and fifty want it well done. Am I done yet, Daddy? Well done, Laddy. All gassed up with money falling out their pockets and they want Ironwood now. It's critical to them to have their Ironwoody right now. Have another drink. And two of them put in special for the apricot chicken. Just have to be different. These rich fuckers, as you so cavalierly pop them off, are paying you a good wage to walk around and taste soup all day, Boonesy Boy. Yes, Boss. You said it, Boss. Fetchin it up over here, Boss. Jes the way you like it. They are payin me good and this is my big chance all thanks to you, Djeff. Certified Executive Djeff.
And here I am new on the job, in way over my head, just flew in from New York and the Irish Chef parading me around in front of all these Mexicans like I'm fuckin Escoffier. Not to mention the Food & Beverage Director, the General Manager and all the little office fillies who want to see what the new Irish Chef drug in. And the new Irish Chef telling me to just to take and walk around and look the part. I'll take care of the rest. You look the part. Just look the part, Laddie. Taste the soups. Taste the salads. I need someone to talk to out here. Don't worry about the cookin. I'll take care o' tha. Me called in special from New York to help reorganize the place and get it back on its so-called feet subsequent to whatever mishap it suffered. Me called in special because the Irish Djeff needs someone to talk to. How long can one brigade survive in the same foxhole? How long before Hell's Kitchen gets the best of you? These Mexicans don't give a shit what happens as long as they get paid. Rumors floating around about the new General Manager, how he took and changed all the menus but didn't have any recipes for the new stuff and these Mexicans don't read or speak English anyway so what the fuck? Over.
You look the part. Offer a little bit of a suggestion here and there he tells me. Tell them it needs a wee bit more o' the cilantro. Right. Speaking of which, I can't remember what cilantro even looks like. Or smells like essence wafting throughout. Oh, Brother, can you spare a dime? Use some a them big words I know you know. Right. Most of these people don't speak fucking English. Who cares? Quien sabé?
Only you can only walk around for so long tasting things and looking the part before certain managerial types bent on food and labor cost percentages, efficiency and the like take stock. Court boullion, me Lady, is a fishy stock. Why did the barmaid champagne? Because the stout porter bitter. Barrels o' laughs at the Ironwood. These people don't get any exercise. They ride in carts. All around in carts. They drive their carts on the roads up to the place, through the parking lot and out onto the tee. Tee hee hee. They can afford it. Afford to build a Great Wall around the entire city so their kids can't get in and ask them for money. It just can't go on forever. They should have listened when they had the chance. You don't know what a gibson is? It's a martini with one of those little onions from a jar in it. Takes the place of the olive. It's their own goddamned fault I tell you. All this could be theirs now if only they'd listened to The Old Man. If only they had listened. So they say.
Why after a while somebody has got to wonder why they call in someone special from back East to walk around and taste the soup all day. What I'm trying to say is there comes a time when the rubber has got to meet the road. Otherwise known as shit or get off the pot. And I know it knew it somewhere in the back of my mind like I'm waiting in my room for Pa to look at the D in Health on my report card. Me supposed to be a straight A student. Well suppose this. Take and suppose this. Or one of the times I'd smashed up one of his brand new cars. I knew it didn't know when didn't know how didn't know how bad it was going to be but I knew that sooner or later my number was going to be called. Yes, Boss. Oh, yes, Boss. You betcha, Boss. I'll make a point of it, Boss. When the roll is called up yonder I'll be there, Boss. For you, Boss. Because I worship the ground you walk on, Boss. Cause you're my Boss.
I mean, Christ Almighty, here I am making ten dollars an hour which is twice as much as half of these guys make who bust their ass for half as much. Fuckin Charlie's makin six dollars an hour says the Irish Djeff. I hired Charlie for six dollars an hour. The Irish Chef grins. Charlie's a fuckin Djeff. Lot of these Mexicans worked for him when he had his own place. Lupé worked for him. See how much I care? What favors I do for you? I got you ten dollars an hour. Did I mention my fee? Oh, there's always a fee to be had, Lad. You can afford it, Billy Boy. Ask your father for the money. Just a wee Benny Franklin now. And soon. Render unto me soon me C note doubloon. Duhna fail me.
Sure, Man, no problem, Man. Just let me hit the head first. Something hit my head first. Then it went blank. Then I saw lights. More air, Doc. What's up, Doc? More air. Where's your little pea brain? Walkin. Walkin it off over here, Boss. Boss Chef. And saints be praised, I've done it. I've taken and made it to the Men's Room. I mean, shit, Man, I can tie knots, Man. Anybody can tie knots. We musta had to tie fuckers like this up in Meat Fabrication. Not this big. Never seen em this big before. Ironwoods. The Ironwood awaits you. The fact that I can't remember how to do it is no indication that I can't do it. You ride a bike once you ride for life. Pissin like that Grateful Dead Truckin. Pissin. Maybe just a bit more pepper but good, very good. You can do it, Man. I'm prepping myself and basically just standing here taking care of business and basically just trying to rustle up enough courage to walk back out there again. Call it pluck. Don't call it pluck. Spunk ought to do it. You can tie your shoes, can't you? Strike that. And gradually in the midst of all this cheap phony ass counseling slash prep talk I'm dribbling, appropriately, may I inject, here at the urinal, subtly it invades my consciousness almost like an ambush. And it flashes on me that it's happened once or twice previous. Must be twice before this same thing I mean you've got to be 60 years old just to set foot on the grounds here. Ironwood. It's not a bad name for a club. Golf club especially. Twice before at least, and I've been here less than a week. Trace coincidence back far enough. The point is to get back to it or up to it or beside it that I shouldn't ever hear it in a place like this. It becomes inevitable. Trace it back far enough and coincidence becomes evidence. These people have bands out there every night that play Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. No, wait. They like Neil Diamond over at their big auditorium over at their Sun Palace or whatever. OK, Neil Diamond, yes. But Steely fucking Dan? No shit. Are you reelin in the years, stowin away the time? Smell that fuckin tune, Boy. Run along now and fetch yosef up a tune. Tears have sprouted, Man. Yeah, it was nice. It was bliss. Fuckin bliss, Man. Fuckin serenity on the Hudson. You can do it, Man.
Back at the table with that Ironwood all sprawled out. Twist that fucker up real nice and tight oh yeah just the way you like it, Boss. If they could see me now all rolled up perfect and I'm ready to hogtie this fucker in eight seconds flat. Absolutely floored by that music in the Men's Room. The Employees Men's Room. Cooks' Men's Room. Front of the House Wait Staff Men's Room. Which, alas, serves coincidentally as the Employee Dressing Room. All holed up and hunkered down trying to get into your chef's suit with waiters swearing, place reek of shit, swearing about the patrons, people lighting cigarettes up real quick to get a drag. You're in your scivvies with all your pocket change on the floor. How's it goin today? I'm here, ain't I? Well now I reckon that's for you to know and me to find out. Dickhead. You ain't talkin to your mother or your father or your cocksucking brother. You hear that-Boy? I mean I don't know if what's piped into the bathroom cum dressing room that we use is what's piped all over the place. I mean it couldn't be. Could it? I mean these people are just as responsible for what gets piped around their club music-wise as they are for what gets piped into their celery, cherry tomatoes, assorted soups, pheasant breasts, duchesse, shall I go on; parfaits, hard-boiled eggs to name just a few, the majority to remain presently unnamed, perhaps permanently unnamed. I mean are these guys sitting around their Men's Locker Room with all their TV's and jars of fresh combs talking about all their money and how great Ronald Reagan was and what about Steve Forbes? Can he win? With Steely Dan being piped into their cervelles? I don't know, Man. Let me get back to you on that.
I mean I doubt if these people... they should call it an Ironwoody. Two Ironwoodys please, Boy. Yes, Boss. That could be their little club sandwich...have the teensiest fucking inkling of an idea of who Steely Dan is, or, for that matter, who William Burroughs is. It does not add up. I'm wondering all this as I take my ball of twine, if it's piped all around it's not radio music. Wondering as I commence to tie this sonuvabitch off if these Ironwoodys would ever in a million years stumble onto the fact that I bought fuckin blotter from one of these dudes, Man. That's what makes my ass ache. No fucking way. The best, Man. Like Dennis Hopper says it. It's the best, Man. Hey Nineteen. Way back in 67. Did you ever have to finally decide?
Now, theoretically, there ought to be a point to all this. The point is that it's not getting any easier. Not any easier to push said rock up the hill. It's March and they're all mad hatters around here. Crying about the election. The old farts - they can't see, can't react for shit and they're driving around at 75 mph. Stay off of 17 and Northern. It's blocked off down there until they get a couple of them scraped off the highway. Thanks,Jane. That was Jane. Up in the chopper. Watching them all crunched up behind their steering wheels with just the top of their heads peeping over the dashboard. Slow down for Chrissakes. You can't see. Moon all filled out real nice now. Rachel. Rachel is her name. Ballet on moonbeams. And always. And dancing. Fragile. Paying seven dollars for a bag of oranges when the back yard is full of oranges. Shall I go on?
Now tying this meat will accomplish a couple of things. I can feel it happening like my brain is being taken over by the Irish Djeff. Well, it's an interesting point you'll be raisin anyway, O'Leary. Tim O'Leary, that is. It will keep the spinach inside and the meat from unraveling and that's what makes it so's it can all cook up real nice and even. The meat and spinach will cook together to form a bond that will endure throughout the entire process of cutting, plating and service. And while there is nothing complicated about this process, as per my recollection, proceeding with a wee bit of caution is sufficient word to the wise. The trick is to get your knots tied up real nice and tight. You don't care what they look like because all string is removed anyway before plating and service. Hopefully.
Now it seems to me that just as long as the string is taut enough to preserve this nice, big, cylindrical shape without actually tying it off too tightly, then you've got what you want. Seek no more. Oh, there's a trick to it. Make no bones about it? Take and make sure to leave the string extra long to make it long enough to wrap around the entire diameter of your Woody Woodpecker. Like you were tying somebody off to shoot some smack. Am I going too fast? Shall I go on? Shall I stop? I can't stop. I can't go on. I'll go on. Try and finish this sonovabitch up.
Take and secure a length of string by passing it through your fingers and then crossing one end over. Not so bad there you fuckin Chef, you. Watch me now. Make a loop, loop dee do, by passing the end, identifiable as the end you are not presently pressing between your fingers, now take and pass this end underneath your fingertip. Oh yeah, you fucking Certified Master Chef, you. Now take and loop the string back and under itself. Sure I'm nervous but I'm not that nervous. No English today, guys. I got work to do. Teachin em poco ingles, you know. Hey, you hussy, let me see your pussy. They tell me it's all the same. I don't know. Rachel is her name. Day passes into night. I press on. What else can I do? I take and make a loop. I mean it's not like I'm working with some kind of a cocktail weenie here. Jesus, I've got a fucking torpedo in my arms cradled. Take and make this loop by passing the end not held with me fingers—take and pass it back underneath me fingertip. Continuing in the same fluid motion I whip the string back and under itself. I want to show you something in number three on the double, Mohn. Yes, Sir, Chef, on the double only holy shit. When I try to drop everything and run, it quickly evidences itself that I have somehow taken and managed to tie my arm to this fucking piece of Ironwood and I can't put it down. Actually, I can put it down but then I can't move. Can't leave the table. Que pasa?
I gather the now nicely cylindrical (to give due credit) nine or ten pounds very close to being tied off perfect and just about ready to be seared battering ram in my arms; meaning to suggest that what I'm doing is exactly what I'm planning to do, that is to say I'm trying to make it look like, for whatever reason, I want Woody here in on the upcoming conversation between me and the leprechaun.
To the freezers!
Like I'm lashed to a masthead. Yes, Mates, I'll take her down. Let Billy Bones save your worthless souls. He's starting to come out of it, Doctor. Increase the air. Give him more air. Stepping into this here freezer is like you're one of the wee people and you step into that little freezer atop your frigidaire and you're having to plunk your cute little arse on a tray of ice cubes. And the wiry leprechaun pounces at me from out behind of Lupé's ice carving. Ice carving for the Sunday brunch. Or is this done up special for this party? A perfect blowfish.
And just what're ye doin now? All the saints in Ireland couldn't save your ass now. Look at yourself tied up to that fuckin thing like a little fuckin kid. You can't even do that right. Can't even tie yourself up. You certainly are right about that, Chef. Oh fuck the right chef business. Don't you know it, Lad, you're me right hand man? Yer the fuckin sous chef for chrissakes. This ain't no fuckin joke. That's a ten minute job tyin off that fuckin meat and you been fuckin around with it for 45 minutes. And its all fucked up. Don't you know these people are all watchin you? What if fuckin Leopold comes by and sees you all tangled up in that thing and here I'm payin you ten dollars an hour. That's four dollars more than Charlie and Charlie's a fuckin djeff. Gimme that fuckin meat. Well, Jesus Christ, cut the fuckin thing. Did you ever hear of a fuckin knife?
All right now what are ye gonna do? Gonna check on Charlie and see what he's got goin for a special tonight, see if he come up with a catch. Fuck Charlie and his specials. Never mind about Charlie and his fuckin catch. Do you know that there's pheasant stock been boiling away up on the front line for two and a half hours now? Actually, Chef. Don't actually chef me, Mr. Billy Bones. You and all your fuckin college. Tell me everythings pussy good. You cunt complain. Kiss my ass. You don't have a fuckin idea of what you're doin here. It's actually more an hour that I'm payin you than anybody else around here. Lupé doesn't get what you're gettin. Scott doesn't get that. And what the fuck for? Now where the fuck are you headed?
Check that pheasant stock, Chef. Shatten up ship, Boonsey Boy. Shatten up oor bouounce. Bouounce or be bououounced. Gluttony of these eoldars I'd sooner be cellaring to a pigstrough. Aye, Bones, a bloody pigstrough. And now I'm tired of it. You've surpassed yourself. I'm plain and tired uhairing of you. Give me extremes now. I met with dapper dandy way back in 67 and he shocked me big then. Toasties. Toasties.
Check the pheasant stoock. Mie fuckin arse your arrre. RRR. Annnd mooost kindly, Sir, Mr. Souerious Chef, check these stoock with wud with wud? Where in Christ's name, Bones, is yer goddam mise en place? Get yerself a fuckin container, Laddie, and a china cap. She's a bonnie stock but she's got to be strained. And don't be all day about it either. That's a five minute job. It's gonna be busy tonight. Are you fuckin droooonk or what? Are you OK? You know you're gettin to be a fuckin embarrassment to me.
And he's gone. Jesus, it is cold in here. Cakes, pies, ice cream. Pig. Pig? Yeah there's a fucking pig in here. Hot off the presses all baked up fresh all baked up special for you just the way you folks like them. Carrot Cake and Rocky Road Cake and Chocolate Mousse Cake and Key Lime Pie. And three cases of the Lemon Meringue Pie plus two singles makes for 26 Lemooons Pie. Jesus, it is cold. Scared to go back out there can't stand it in here fingers are freezing up Apple Pies and Cherry Pies, Strawberry Rhubarb Pies. Pumpkin Pies. Strain the stoooock. Any simpleton. Just waiting to be thawed and heated up special and fresh for you and your golf playing, gibson drinking, cart riding, Ironwood peckering got the cards to prove it man of your dreams. Rachel is her name. Day passes into night. And Rachel. Shall I finish it? Shall I go on? I can't go on. I'll go on. Thanks, Wanda, for inviting us out. I had no idea what to expect. We expected more desert and less green, that's for sure. Once you get inside those walls it's just like an oasis in here. Sprinklers spraying all over the place. I had no idea there was so much water out here. All those Indians along the road on our way out just standing around. Don't they care about anything? Can't they be educated? See that lady up on the dais playing the harp—doesn't she just look like that picture of Betty Crocker? Or Mother Hubbard or something? Like somebody's fairy godmother. Maybe it's the harp. And that tune. That's Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata first movement. I mean that's the only movement I ever cared about. With the possible exception of my private movements. But I've never heard it on the harp. It's really impressive. Da Da Da. Dum Dum Dum. And all those golf balls flying around. I hope all these windows are really fireproof. Not fireproof. You know what I mean. Shatterproof. We hear a lot of strange things about this place back East now, Wanda, so bear with me on this but somebody told Harry and I really shouldn't even say since I don't even know who it was, not that I'd forget but he wouldn't tell me who told him that besides completing the course in a certain amount of strokes another thing you have to do to get into the Woodpecker not Woodpecker I don't know what makes me say that, into the Ironpecker, oh, land sakes, my brain is going into the Ironwood I know this sounds ridiculous is you have to shoot a golf ball off your wife's head at 20 paces. Now isn't that just the most ridiculous thing you ever heard? Wanda? And look over behind the harpist at that cute old fellow with the cowboy hat on. This is a strange place. That song she's playing now is the same song I heard in the bathroom. I recognize that tune. It's a nice tune. But it's that modern stuff. I thought you paid good money to get away from all that. Ricky don't lose this. Ricky don't lose that. I think she should stick to her classics. Notice how her hair changes color when she plays. Auburn to strawberry.
Look at the guy behind her. And his cute little red bandana. He's a real cowboy. What's he up to over there? Why he's making omelets! Omelets for that long line of people. And all those gorgeous pies. They must have people working around the clock here on baking alone. This is a top shelf establishment you've landed in this time, Dearie. But I'm happy just to visit what with Harold and his Parkinson's I wouldn't be comfortable with him shooting a basketball off my head, let alone a golf ball. I'm thankful just to visit. How about the kids? How do they like it? Really? Not at all? Not allowed? Well, you can't say they didn't have their chance. It certainly isn't like nobody warned them. Pulled the wool over their eyes. I mean the sad thing is that they make us look bad. We slaved away for them and now just look how they treat us. The payback. Kids on welfare. Our own kids on welfare. And that whole table. Just pies. And each one made from scratch. Key Lime. Pumpkin. I can't really see them. I stopped by on my way back from the Ladies' Room. That's when somebody told me. I guess it was the cute one with that tall hat on told me then that they were all made up from scratch. Apple. Rhubarb. Ice cream and frozen yogurt to go along, that little girl scooping it out over there. She looks about 18 or 19 years old. I'm just crazy about those chunks of heath bar in my ice cream. She's got a whole jar of it over there. You can have as much as you want. All those syrups. Land sakes here we sit eating ice cream and drinking champagne and its not even noon yet? Raspberry and strawberry. Chocolate and butterscotch.
Wanda, what are you doing to me? And look here comes that cute one with that tall hat over again. He's got another pan of bacon. Look at those little heaters underneath the pans. They're just like little candles. Certainly seems to do the job. Looks like somebody's got one awfully close to that beautiful ice carving. Yes. Yes. L'art pour l'art. L'art pour l'art. I still think they should have some kind of a little refrigerator for it. Drip. Drip. Drip. I don't care. There's something frightening and painful about it. A whole salmon. Look at his pink. Look at his eyes. He looks like he's jumping in the rapids. I swear, these people should go into embalming. All on mirrors. That mirrors is a frightfully nice concept.
Look over at that cowboy now though, Wanda. He's all flustered about something. He looked so on top of things. What could have happened? He's got that big container of eggs and he's taking it back over there to where they bring things out from. Must be the kitchen, of course. The way he carries it, it seems like it's almost full. I wonder if there's a problem with the eggs, themselves. Liebenstraum on harp? Whose piece is that? Liszt? Yes. Yes. Look at her hands. Like little munchkin hands. How she gets that fluidity is a miracle. She looks like she couldn't pick up a dime off the sidewalk. Drunk or sober. You never can tell. She must be her own fairy godmother. Say what? Oh, land sakes alive, have mercy will I never, Wanda? Well, when in Rome. Oh, yeah, please.
I guess one more can't hurt...
I said what the fuck are you doing out there me boooncin Boones? Besides suckin up to the little old ladies? Joost look at them. Droonk. Your basic champagne buzz. Rules is rules is rules and the rule is no social stuff with the members. Or their wives, daughters, granddaughters, nieces, etc. Right on down the line. Must I go on? I think so because that's their rule. Not mine. Lord have mercy, Bones, I thought I could depend on you. I called you out here to be me right hand man. Nooomber Twooo. Sous Chef. I thought you could do me ice carvings. I thought you could bake. Jesus Christ, Man, you can't even peel the fuckin potatoes. I need help, Man. You. You're nothin but a fuckin embarrassment to me. Leopold come by this mornin laffin his fool head about me and my fancy sous chef all tied up like a calf in a rodeo. Laff. It's no laffin matter Buonos. No. Yer not but a sorry source of embarrassment to me anymore. I canna take much more. Look here comes Bill. He's na suppose to leave his post. Are ye all gone loony toons on me? He's na ta fetch his own eggs.
That's your job.
Ask Charlie if he put milk in these eggs, will ya, please, Billy, and if he did tell him to be sure not to do it again? And be a good man and fetch me up a container of fresh, imported eggs. That's where it starts. May God strike me dead if I'm lyin, Billy. Evry omelet I make sticks to the pan so bad I can't even scrape em out. I got people standin in line, backed up all the way to number nine tee and I can't serve one darned omelet. I tell you I been doin this for 40 years and I ain't never once before had anything like this happen. Please will you fetch me up some fresh eggs? Call em fresh, and make sure nobody puts nothin,nothin at all into them this time.
Bodhisattva. Bodhisattva. Two seconds of relief in here and there's that music again. Steely Dan playing again. And it's not only in here it plays. I heard it in the office yesterday when I made those copies of the recipe for the garden terrine, the one the Irish Chef is so partial to. Are we or aren't we in Burroughs country? In a nutshell? Is this it? So ASU in Tempe pulls a fast one on U of A in Tucson. Athletic rivalries. All these retired athletic supporters. Big time. They don't have anything else to do. Except politics. Vote a guy in whose platform is to lower his own taxes. But I still don't get how paying $100,000 for a Burroughs archive cuts the mustard. Around here. A faggot. A junkie. Shot his wife in the head right down in Mexico. Build up their desert, their barren when it comes to culture, get hold of some "belles lettres." These Ronald Reagan type cowboys. Hey, what the fuck? Over.
All's I know is that I've got to get back out there and make like I know what's going on. Go run that Swiss oven. I can't. I don't know how. Go mash those potatoes. I don't know how to turn that mixer on. Chop these peppers up in that buffalo chopper. I have absolutely no idea not to mention I am scared to death of that buffalo chopper. Mark these fillets for me. I don't quite recollect how those X's get on them. Is it four and six or one and five? Or five in one baby. That's it. One in five. Turn. Turn. Turn. Fetch me up some cilantro and some basil. I ain't no fetch boy and besides I never did get a fix on those fresh herbs. I know how to make that gravelax. Gimme that fuckin spoon. Where's the soup? I'll taste it. Tastin. Tastin it. Tastin it up over here, Djeff. Just the way you like it. Oh yeah. This soup is good. Cream o' punkin.
Dyn know it, Bounes? There's Mexicans here makin half o wat yer makin, makin persimmon sauce and fois gras terrines. Blowfish. Jesus, I thought you did ice carvings. Let em play golf and lap gibsooons. It's their cloob. They can set it up just how is pleases em to. Shut off water all around the neighborhood for their greens and fairways. They're payin for it, Bonesey Bouououy. Better get it in yer pea brain that the buck stops here. It is. Five to One. One to five. Sear the bastards. Charbroil it. Charbroil. Charbroil it nice. Yes, Boss. Coincidence my ass. Not with Steely Dan in me hand and little Rachel fingerin me meat thermometer ever so nicely, ever so nicely through the folds of me chef's outfit, jacket's pocket and I say so you like that and she smiles, Rachel smiles and kind of blushes and she says yeah, yeah, she does.
And what have we now here? May I ask? Eggs for Bill. Every one of his omelets is sticking. Sticking something awful. Says he's got customers backed up to number nine tee. The fist of the Irish Chef makes a concussion with the metallic door of the number two walk in freezer and rebounds in a bloody mess. While steely gray eyes bare down on me. I flinch. Fuckin Bill has been here since before you were born. He's old enough to take care of his own goddam self. But Djeff, you said. Never mind what the fuck I said or didn't say, Looney Booney Boy. You've got your own work to worry about. Yer gettin to be a goddam embarrassment to me. I'm not your fuckin babysitter, Lad. I hired you, took you on as me right hand man. Nooomber toooo. W. I'm a fool to do your dirty work. I don't want to do your dirty work no mo. No mo. No moh. No mo. Oh yeah. How many people in tonight's party? What time is the party? Any cancellations or substitutions? Jesus Christ, Man, this is your party. You're in fuckin charge. I am not gonna babysit you on this one. No more dirty work. Are ye on fookin droogs, Mon? Are ye droonk cause ye are daft far share? Daft far share. Are ye OK? Come on out of it, Booones. Snap out of it, Mon. Two hundred and fifty people comin to the party and you don't even know what's on the fuckin menu. It's been sittin out there for three fuckin days for you to look at. Well, I wash me bloody hands of it. It's all yours, Lad. I canno longer be bothered. I'll be sayin no more about it. Call me tonight and let me know how it went. Has anybody got a calculator in this place? What is it with all these fuckin obsolete adding machines? Are they burros? Anyway? Three ounce portions for 250 makes 750 ounces of carrots, peeled carrots, that is. I said is there a calculator in the house? I can't use these old adding machines. I don't know how. Charlie's got the sauce all made up for the carrots. The carrots are cut up real nice kind of like an oblique tournée. I made myself scarce when the amigos cut them up. Hey, that reminds me. I better take and brush up on my knife skills pronto. Mohn jaelli. Mohn jaelli. Seven pans in number three cooler and ready for steaming. Steam them off and promptly remand them to the proofing oven which is doubling as a vegetable warmer tonite because it is. Because it has to. Just one of those things. Two hundred and fifty plates and half the warmer is full already. Empty plates without covers. No way in hell can we get 250 dinners in that thing. They're gonna have to run em as soon as we plate em and cover em if they want to keep them warm.
But it's me. If I want to keep them warm. It's my baby. Start little fires all around the kitchen. Make a pattern. Try to hem in all the little burros. Especially the adding burros. Melt all the blowfish down and let them drink. Then scatter them on the fairways. Let them play. This Timothy O'Leary sposed to be able to turn water into firewater and/or tequila. Give the dude some of that colorless, odorless. Blotter man. Fuckin blotter. Odorless, colorless. Two hundred and fifty covers? Cover yer ass! Cover yer ass! I know I counted out 250 cause I counted out 260 of them. Them and us. Us and them. Hus hus you mushies. Hus. Two hundred and fifty mics on one little dot.
Talk about space.
Proofing oven? Jesus, I put them in the proofing oven to warm them up some. Still room for seven hotel pans of the carrots and now fuckin Leopold waltzes by and says he wants another vegetable. Christ Almighty, why not wait until serving time to tell me? Vegetable? This is bullshit. Nothing wrong with that plate. Paying good money for this. So what? Jesus we can't get it ready now and you want another fucking vegetable and there aren't even anymore fucking vegetables around. You don't need another vegetable. Fucking peas and onions and they aren't even fresh. No cancellations. Two substitutions. Apricot chicken. Salvadore, at the sauté station took and set them aside for me. I'm finishing off the cabernet demi-glace only we don't use the Cabernet Sauvignon. We use some cheap West Coast table wine and charge for the Cabernet Sauvignon. Thinning it with a little beef stock. Are we happy? Can we proceed? Shall we go on? Shoulder our burden and come back to fend for the masses?
Bodhisattva! Bodhisattva! Salt. Fresh ground black pepper. Five pounds of melted butter. Two big aluminum bowls how big how the fuck real big man big enough to wash a cocker spaniel in bowls to toss the butter, salt & pepper, mix it all up real nice with the carrots and now peas and onions not to forget Charlie's sauce for the carrots. Maple syrup and cinnamon whatever, it is good. Charlie is good. Charlie's a Djeff by trade. Hotel pans to put it back in the warmer. Hot. Nice and hot. All heated up real nice and hot just the way you folks hanker for it. Real fuckin nice. Real fuckin hot. Ho. Hup. Hell's Kitchen. Yup.
Dammitall, Charlie, put them Ironwoods in the oven now. All 22 of em. You know it'll take longer to cook them all at once in there than it would one at a time. God, we don't want it coming out raw again. Meat. Veggies. Sauce. I said put the fuckers in goddammit, Man. Just do it. I'm in charge here. The Irish Djeff left me in charge, took off and left me said I wouldn't have to do shit. Taste soup. Walk around and look the part. He's so smart. Put those seven, all seven of them duchesse in the convection oven. Where'd that come from? Just a gift. Remembering those spuds. What other key ingredients to this fête are eluding me? Eluding me? Rachel is her name. Oh, you like that, huh? Yeah, she says. Fingerin it ever so nicely. She's just a kid. Mohn jaelli. Mohn jaelli. Lupé. Lupé. Beautiful. Everything mohn jaelli. Hey, Djeff, we got him. We got everything. Oh, Man. Dear God, just this once please let this thing come off. Salads are all ready to go, Chef. I got to put the dressing on when they call for salads and then I'll be right here to help you and Charlie. You got everything OK? You ready? They're having their drinks now. Seven o'clock they supposed to call for salads. We ready for em. We ready, Chef. Mohn jaelli. What about desserts, Lupé? What the hell are they having for dessert? Have we got some pies or something to give em? Don't worry, Chef. Everything all ready. Relax. Ice cream's all plated up and in the freezer. We did 260, that's ten of them extra. Two hundred and sixty bowls we put the caramel sauce and the wafers on later. We gonna have plenny time. Mohn jaelli. Beautiful. We serve em up that meat and potatoes first. We got a plenny time.
And I want the strings cut and removed from every one of them. If there's a complaint let's not have it be from something like I got a piece of string on my plate. Where's the rolls? Whose doing fucking rolls? Where's that sheet of paper? With the fucking list, Man. With the fucking menu for chrissakes. Yes, Jesus, they're getting all kinds of rolls. Get down to Number Four and get two bags quick. Christ, hurry up, Man. We don't have much time. Watch those fuckin potatoes. Charlie. You all right? Thaw the fresh baked rolls in the big microwave. I gotta piss before the shit hits the fan.
Never goin back to my old school. Jesus, you guys can go back. And Billy Bones here lost his medicaid card in an ATM machine. Tryin to beat the system. Seventy years old piping Steely Dan around the place. Never seen never heard tell of anything called blotter before. Who the fuck are these people? Two bucks for this little speck of paper. I'm getting ripped off but fuck, Man, nobody ever gets ripped off at my old school. You need a bike, Man, you just take it. Drop it off Down the Road. So I'm coming out of the coffee shop onto Stone Row. It's drizzling and Johnny Winter is supposed to give a free concert over at Blithewood at six tonite. Timothy O'Leary and the Irish Chef's tins are opening up. Where are the Irish Chef's tins? Don't lose those whatever. I thought you could bake a little cake in me tins. Ton Ton Tin. Ton Ton Ton Tinn Tinn more air. More air. I need air.
George and me head over to the tennis quarts to watch Mr. Oxley, the white-headed British librarian, playing tennis with that beautiful Black Lady and it's about 90 degrees out and you're fuckin shivering, Man, suddenly you are freezing, like this blast of cold air and you're like inside a freezer and you look in your hand and you've got this strawberry ice cream cone and it's making you freezing cold somehow. You can barely tolerate it. And George is laughing like he knows about it too. And you are aware somewhere in the back of your mind... HOW'S YOUR MIND, GEORGE? John Hall booms it out from the other side of Stone Row. Getting off. Trays from the Dining Commons on the lawn. Aware somewhere that you are laughing harder than you have ever laughed in your whole life. You are freezing because of this ice cream cone and this is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you, tiny little speck almost of gray paper, blotter, the absolute funniest until Mr. Cohen, your Abnormal Psychology Professor walks by and good naturedly asks what's so funny? And it's like I never knew funny until I heard him ask that. Never really laughed before then. Shall I go on? No. There's no point to going on. Talk about rainbows. Aye, there was. Ohhhh yeah. Johnny Winter belting Leland Mississippi Blues. You and George with your ears to the ground. Listening. Listening for the rainbow.
Salads are OK. Pull all the Ironwoods as soon as I go back. Pull em and have Charlie start cutting the strings offn em. Steam off the carrots. Season them up real nice and put them into the proofing oven. Wait for two minutes and follow with the peas and pearl onions. Oh yeah. That's the way. That's the way to cook it up. No. They're all out there at the trough. Just let them feed according to their whims. They're payin for it. They can't help it if the Indians can't hold their liquor. Little burros melting on the fairway. Buenos sauvignon sauce. Duchesse. Rolls are in the Jesus did Charlie get those rolls in where all the ovens are full no room for them start making little fires in a pattern of stars. Buenos Buones. A pentagram. No man pentagram is way too expensive. I geeve you my seester, I geeve you four free. Hell's Kitchen, Man. Hell's Kitchen. Nothin special. I mean what the fuck? Don't these lunar egghead types know what they're piping around their whole golf club here in the offices and in the hallways in the Ladies' Locker Room? Slide over, honey.
Add this up on your little machine: "I'm strictly for fish, and I luuuuuuuve it. Confidentially, girls, I use Steely Dan's Yokohama, wouldn't you? Danny boy never lets you down. Besides, it's more hygenic that way..."
I say, Geoff, old chap, shall we have another go at a gibson before the charge? What's on for tonight anyway? More of those bloody ironwoodies? Ironwoody tartare? Capital. Capital. Tell me, Old Boy, if you've got a fix on that new harpist. Doesn't she look rather like a munchkin or an elf or something? Musically, I find her unpredictable. Unless, of course, you make a request and she plays it—which she does or has done from time to time. I'd just as soon if Forbes makes out. My wife worries. But the kids are all right. Next year this time they'll be out here. We'll have em out. Hell, we did all we could. You know that. Pass the adding machine, will you? I think they're messing my ticket up.
Never goin back to Hell's Kitchen. Now take and make damn sure the strings are off every one of them Ironwoody wood peckers ha ha ha ha ha before we start plating up. What the fuck do you think I'm talking about? Do the carrots have strings? Jesus, fuck of a time to cut your finger, Charlie. Are you OK? You're too old to cut yourself. You're a fuckin chef for Chrissakes. Chefs are people too. Chefs are people too. I'll tell you, Boss, the word Boss is basted nicely in irony. I'll tell you, Boss, they don't pay me enough not to cut myself. You're the Boss. Tell us what to do now. Do? Get a fuckin bandaid. Wrap that thing up. Cauterize it. BAND AID. Jesus Christ, does anybody speak English around here? Everybody peeka ponny nobody peeka ingles. While Irish eyes are smiling. Tooralooraloora. Where's the fuckin medicine cabinet? The ship's doctor? The lifeboat? The next train to Clarksville? And then taking an old schedule of trains from his pocket he says I told you when I came I was a stranger. There must be 200 doctors in the next room. Hup. Hup. Ricky on the spot. Thanks Rick. Just the one? Don't lose it then. It's the only one we've got. Looks like it's gonna need some stitches, Chef. Somebody's gonna have to take Charlie to the hospital. Hey, can I be the one to take heem, Djeff. Hey, Djeff, can I take heem in your car? Hey, Djeff, I got a nice seester for you man. She cooks. What's all this Djeff shit? I ain't no fuckin Djeff. I'm the Sous Djeff. Or the Geoff de Partie. Not to mention Banquet Djeff. Fingerin me meat thermometer ever so nice. Looking up into me eyes. Day passes into night. Kinda standing up on her tippytoes to gingerly finger it. You, like that, huh? Yeah. I like it alot. Rachel is her name.
Now will you look at that thing just how nice it's taking and commencing to heal up already? Can't rightly recollect just when I've seen a finger heal up faster. No way that's gonna need stitches. Chrissakes now somebody fetch me up that bandaid. Music in the kitchen. Its band aid. Charlie's got meat to cut. Ain't that right, Charlie? Fetch it up. Fetch it up. Does anybody speak fuckin English in this hell hole? Magally, you're putting the sauce on like last time. Sauce? Sauce fuckin sauce just like last time. And Rick's gonna count plates, put on covers and put them in the warmer. Five high no more than 50 to a shelf. Leopold's new rule. Group facilitator. Jesus Christ give me that fuckin bandaid. Salomé. MOMA MOMA. Ken Russel. Bring me the head of John the Baptist on a platter. Salomé, give me papa like last time. Same thing. One on each plate. Papa? Potatoes. Duchesse. This. These fuckin things. Bring me the head of John the Baptist on a platter. Rachel can serve it up to the head table. The officers' table. All covered over real nice with a fresh napkin. They'll hate it. Put a Titleist in his mouth.
Faster mateys. It's got to go faster. Mas rapido. Lupé, talk to these guys. Mon Jaelli. Mon Jaelli. Beautiful. We got it, Djeff. We got it. These rolls are still frozen in the middle, Djeff. All the rolls are still frozen. Everybody's sending them back. Everybody? Quel success! What do we do now, Djeff? Do? Put them back in the fuckin oven, Man. Whad oven, Djeff? The ovenz theyz all fulled up. Charlie, I thought I told you to take those fuckin Ironwoodys out of the goddam ovens. Jesus, they'll be ashes. Mohn Jaelli. Mohn Jaelli. Beautiful. Beautiful. I don't give a fuck what oven you use. Put them in NOW. Take the potatoes, pappa, pappa, take pappa out of that convection oven and put them in the warmer and then put the rolls in the convection oven. Pronto. But the warmer she all fulled up with lids, Djeff. Take the fuckin lids outta there. They're plenty hot. Air. I need air. He's starting to come out of it now. Give him more air.
Way back in '67 I was a dandy. Thought I was. Honest to God, I did, Rachel. Hey 19. She thinks I'm crazy but I'm just growin old. Ironwoody woodpeckers peck peck pecking four makes the bushel. See, its like this, Rick. I don't know what you're doing here or Charlie or me or Lupé. I don't know why the Irish Chef's not here. I don't know why they misspelled Hawaii on the menu or why your mom works in the office. What I'm sayin about it is could you please I ain't sayin do it I'm just sayin think about it to be a little considerate of Charlie? I mean he is 62 years old.
Reckon. Don't reckon nothin. No dead reckoning. Not yet. Charlie, he's slicin em up and Lupé, he's platin it up with spinach spilling out. Magally, she's pouring Cabernet demi-glace, so called. Rick, he's running vegetables, dishing up both carrots and peas. Faster. It's got to go faster. Salomé, he's plating up duchesse. Papa bueno papa. And don't forget that special for the head table. That platter with the head of John the Baptist on it. No, hey! Surprise.
Cause when little Rachel whisks that napkin off it ain't gonna be Johnny Boy's head, no way, Man. This ain't fuckin calvary, Man. This is Woody Woodpecker's place. We're servin up Stevie Boy Forbse's head for em tonight. All done up special. All done up real nice with glasses still on and served up on a bed of goose gravy and truffles with little sprigs of parsley around his head kind of like a Roman soldier. Lupé has got the truffles all carved up real nice to look like burros to go with one of his ice carvings. Mohn Jaelli. Hup! Shall I go on? No. For it's clear that after the next set of transfers, the removal of the Titleist from the mouth's cavity and the transfer to the giant Gibson at the head of the table, removal of the salad bowls by dear Rachel in impeccable succession, the folks, each one counted and punched up on the little adding machine in the corner, clear as it ever is going to be that these here folks are flaming fucking assholes!
Who is the wiley old coyote over yonder? It's Alvaro now moved from his dishwashing machine up front and back to assist with the plates. Wipin em up real nice where the sauce has spilled, stuff like that, puttin lids on real nice and stackin em up five high, no more. No more. No more. Settin em in the warmer. If you could only read the tune. The tune's the thing. Like it? Oh yeah. I like it alot. That saxophone. As long as the moon is bright. No static at all. It's over now.
Get outta here. I can't cry anymore. You should know. Talk it out til daylight. I don't care anymore how you run around with your dish-like towel. No, after all is said and done, it's not clear. Never was clear. I mean that's part of it, Man—part of the fucking problem. Not with the likes of me, can you imagine never in a million years imagine me caught here between a rock and a hot plate? I just can't cry anymore. Breakaway. Just when it seems so clear that it's over now. With your dish-like towel. Just when it seems so clear... No more marigolds in the promised land. There's a hole in the ground where they used to grow.
And by the time I've crossed the whole parking lot down to me little white car way down there patting myself on the back for finally remembering to punch out for once. The full moon lighting things up like a night game at Yankee Stadium. And I fish in my pocket, the other pocket, my vest pockets, my back pockets, my shirt pocket furiously commence slapping all my pockets my hands because I've found them in my hands before the ignition, the seats, the floor, the ground around the door and I look back. You fuckin jerk! Can't you even walk out on a job without messing it up? Can't you do anything right? Shoot a can off a fence at twenty paces. Rope a calf. Milk a cow. Clean the barn. I can't go back. I'll go back. Got to go back in there. Walk the gauntlet and find my keys. Abandon car? No. Walkin it. Walkin it off over here, Boss. Just the way you like it.
Yeah. I like it. I like it alot. Charlie. Fuckin Charlie. His whole face lit up and he's walkin around that table like a rooster in a henhouse. A couple of the Spanish girls hunkered down over by the proofing oven kinda scared, kinda grinnin. Charlie! Wild-eyed! Mouth plastered back in a toothless grin. Brandishing one of those two and one half foot Ironwoodies. Clutching onto it like it's a surging fire hose. Whipping it around like some Buck Nigger. Slapping it and swatting it up alongside the steam table. Proof? You want proof? Proof this. Here's your fuckin proof.
Babylon sister, shake it. Tell me I'm the only one... Ba da da dat da da da ba da da dat da da dat. Shake it baby. Shake it baby.
