You live in Taiwan. A day, a month, a year, 5 years, 10, the question will come up why did you come here? It’s some how the most profound thing a Chinese can ever say to you. After 10 years you think about it—after a year you can only explain it. I don’t have any further insights on why to add to adventure. I mean there is a girl in the mix, a back story but over riding all that is a profound sense of escapism–my own personal believe it or not.
Though if you were to ask me how I came to Taiwan, I’d give you a different more concrete story one of bars, waiting, a scrounged together means. I didn’t arrive on a Fulbright scholarship for example. Mine was more of a personal hunch and launch. Somewhere between fuck it why not and fuck it.
Not brilliant. Not explicable.
So I’m working as a waiter at Tony Sassi’s. Tony is the former owner of Sassi’s-- Melbourne’s premier Italian eatery. He’s divorced his wife and the settlement requires he sell Sassi’s and set himself up else where. He moves 300 meters around the corner and opens a bar—restaurant. It’s small, intimate, something more akin to his dream. It’s an open Italian bar and grill, but it is not selling your standard Italian fair, this is lemon spatch cock, lime cooked octopus and peas, spit roast garlic infused leg of lamb plus an Italian sausage grill. It’s the menu that made Sassi’s famous. But the grill is open and Sassi stands behind it good naturedly insulting the customers as they file in, addicted to his exquisite food.
I get the job as a waiter through somewhat obtuse but understandable circumstance – a bouncer at Young and Jackson’s hotel. Former security at Sassis and supplier of Tony’s dope needs and my own. Mutual friends.
Tony is naturally wary but remotely attracted to the idea of a male waiter. He’d like someone who could close up on a Friday night. That honor, however, is going to take time. I’d have to earn it. I didn’t particularly care but I soon realized that Tony was attracting a clientele Young and Jackson’s could only dream about. That’s not to say Young and Jackson’s couldn’t bring them in. It could. It was an iconic hotel. A place where sports stars and politicians would front up to the bar to drink, but not eat.
Tony’s was where they went to be sophisticates. Remembering names and orders meant tips. That much I quickly garnered. So I played the role of Tony’s affable side-kick for six months. He’d berate the Aussie country hick to the amusement of all and sundry, and they’d laugh at the fool. And tip. The more laughs Tony could raise, the greater my humiliation, the more money I made. We’d worked out a routine of sorts. Tony had never encountered tougher skin. The hide of a rhino was his description of me at the Sunday get-togethers he had as a staff meal. Every Sunday. That was a party. They say of travelers there is no place like where the homeless meet, but I’d say there is no place like where bar staff and restaurant types meet. Stories reach to the ceiling and laughs are belly felt.
Tony and my favorite routine was for him to insult some wanna be and me to get the order right, explain away Tony’s flirtations to the potential cuckold, and perform some kind of rectification where I’d start singing the order, “Well have one minestrone, and we’ll have two cannelloni, we’ll have one ravioli and a lot of Tony’s belloni.”
It got to the point where people would request it at every one of Tony’s slights. He didn’t care of course; we were on the same path. So he’d ridicule me and in the same spirit across the table I’d fire back, on behalf of all that had suffered Tony’s crap, my own half assed attempt at coping with Tony. Most often the crowd loved it and Tony and I would split a Parmesan and sun-dried tomato pizza and a few beers with the other wait staff and kitchen hands at the end of the night. Love was what he had going.
Then one night Tony asked me to close up.
I was his fool. The world at large, from Victoria’s State Premier to the Australian cricket captain, they’d all had a laugh at my expense. I had to toss them all out and count the till. It occurred to me that Tony probably had never checked behind the till tray. It was a likely place for 50- and 20-dollar bills to get caught. It was a thing about tills that the 50’s holder in the tray got cleaned out less frequently than the 20’s, 10’s and 5’s. It was a simple practical matter. But when the 50’s holder was full the top note could easily get caught in the mechanism and slip behind the tray. It was standard practice at Young and Jackson’s to check behind the till tray every night. So I pulled the tray out and reached in and felt a thick layer of notes that for three years had been pounded tight against the back of the till. There was three thousand dollars over the night’s takings in my hand. I could go now. My adventure had been paid for, but the fool in me handed it over to Tony four days later when I came back for my next Thursday gig.
Tony was teary eyed with pride. He’d made the right decision. There was no splitting of the bounty, however, just a simple thank you and endless harassment of his hapless clients for not tipping the waiter near enough.
[/quote]