Hooters Douglasville Georgia

Hooters what is wrong with them? Plenty. This place drives me crazy. Frightfully slow at lunch, I sat there and wondered why. I had a thin tanned waitress wearing the annoying crinkled socks, and the mini orange shorts, with the obligatory tanned hose. She sported her Hooters top that came just past her two owls showing her tanning-bed-flat belly. As an all American home grown male, this would not to seem to be a problem. Just hang on, it will unravel very quickly. I sat down at a low square table, as the high tops looked uncomfortable with the hard looking mini stools that were only big enough for only one of my 38 inch waist sized butt cheeks to fit on. The waitress offered me a blue Moon. I declined, but inquired about what was on draft. She cheekily offered a Blue Moon again. This was meant to be an up-sell or a contest offering I am sure. Seeing my expression, she trudged through the beers on draft, and I made my choice.

My beer came while I was plodding through the menu. For the love of everything that is clean and pure, this menu is a train wreck. A quad folded two sided train wreck. I am all for being clever, and even cute, but cramming even more clever quips, and "new item" tags does not make a good menu. Matter of fact, it just stinks it up even more. Look, this menu should be real simple. Let's review; wings, check; burgers, check; seafood, check; salads, check; appetizers, check. This does not require a quad folded double sided, clutter filled menu with stupid little quips everywhere. There is no need for extra Hooter Girls cluttering the menu either. Just stop it.

I had made a decision. Mahi Mahi sandwich with Cole slaw. I finished my beer as I waited the twenty minutes for my sandwich. And what is that noise being piped though the speakers? 50's Rock-a-Billy!!! Auuuuuuuggghhhhhh!!! Really? Seriously? My brain was starting to hemorrhage. The orange shorts, Christmas lights, and general clutter of excessive amounts of stored paper towels was closing in on me. Then it hit me. Hooter's had forgotten why they were open in the first place. This is relatively understandable given the nefarious activity that has obviously distracted the leaders of this organization.

That comment reminds me of Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen telling Marty McFly "Mighty strong words runt!". Well, that may be a bit harsh, but they have forgotten that "People go out to eat to eat." Somebody upstairs may want to read the book "Good To Great".

The closing manager came in during my consumption of dolphin. Technically, in my opinion he had not done a bad job in hiring or training. The server had offered me two alcoholic beverages; besides the Blue Moon she had offered me a SoCo and lime which was an amusing choice to offer a frumpy old fart like myself. But hey, maybe I still have some spunk and some coolness left in me! She offered ME a SoCo and lime, just like the cool guys in the commercial. Yeah, I still got it. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, she also offered an appetizer in a muttering kind of way which I did not grasp completely, and toward the end of the meal she offered me a Hooters T Shirt. He obviously had done a good job hiring pretty girls and training them in a robotic way to offer specific items. The problem is in the believability in the whole process. However hiring and training sincerity is not his forte, but rather being generally creepy and unfocused on what is really happening. He reminded me of Al from Married With Children in a odd way.

The bevy of babes that were not focused on the few customers that were coming in were all congregated over by a large round top in the corner. I personally hate this type of activity as it is annoying and distracting. Somehow servers have it in their minds that work is play. They are on a stage and the world really cares about their drama and general BS. Note to all servers in the world: We really don't care, because we came out to eat to eat.
The pm manager seemed all too pleased to be obfuscated by this mass of orange, white, and tan. He left the am manager to deal with the real business of the day, which was the hanging of the UFC fight posters the beer guys had delivered. I conned the beer guys into having another beer with me as I continued to iron out in my mind why this place was a ghost town. They mentioned that the current volume of business was the norm. I scanned the room and I started to get uncomfortable as the only guests were male. We were over forty save two young  backwards hat wearing fellows who preferred tribal tattoos. I admit at this point in time I started to feel a bit like a pedophile.

Well, back to the food. The Mahi Mahi was cooked fine, and placed on a Ciabatta bread, with shredded iceberg lettuce and a slice of tomato. The "side" of  Cole slaw was a three ounce portion of uneventfulness. I would love to expound more on the food but there is only so much can be done with average. Maybe this is another problem with Hooters. Maybe this is intentional. With so many other distractions, the quality and originality of the food gets forgotten. I have had good meals at Hooters. My wife and I often have shared the Carolina Style Roasted Oysters and enjoyed them. Hooters main fare has always been hot wings witch are OK, albeit a bit greasy for my liking. However, with so many other things going wrong, food is never on the main stage. It is ok to be a bar or a tavern, but if you are going to be a bar, look like a bar, and act like a bar. Hey, I have an idea; actually HAVE a bar. Always start at the beginning.

This Hooters is located on the road that leads to WalMart and Sam's club. There is a huge amount of local traffic that drives right by every minute of the day. This is why Hooters being open for lunch at this location makes no sense at all. There are three hotels close by that could drive some out of town traffic in for a cold beer at night, but there is no chance for any lunch business. That is especially if you ignore the guests, serve average to poor food, and creep out every female in town that has children. Surrounded by "home-folk" types of restaurants Hooters is just out of place at lunch, maybe even at dinner. I think that there should be a zoning rule of sorts for the Hooters real estate team. Codes such as a Hooters cannot be any closer than 6 miles to a Walmart or an elementary school. This location boasts of a well placed interstate highway sign but when you get there you feel like you are in a strip club in Mayberry N.C. with Sheriff Andy Taylor all too close by. My suggestion for this location is to abandon ship. Find a more suitable place where you can start over where you actually fit better.

Here are my top ten suggestions for Hooters:
10. Be a bar.
9. Redesign the store and include a nice large comfortable bar.
8. Your competition are places like Quaker Steak and Lube and Buffalo Wild Wings, therefore target the biker crowd. This will require a large parking lot and covered patios.
7. Since you are now a "biker type bar" you need to get a biker attitude adjustment.
6. Biker music is needed. More towards Metal, farther away from Rock-a-Billy.
5. Uniforms. Lose the Hooters orange (sacred cow?), and go with black or at least Harley Orange.
4. Now that you are a biker bar....bikini tops? No.....? Fine.
3. Make sure there is a ten mile radius from any WalMart or elementary school.
2. Fix the Front of  House; comfortable seating is acceptable.
1. Get over yourselves, and pay attention to the customer.

gf

The Deep South - part 1.2a

The Deep South needs to be discussed. The description of the South, in my opinion, has changed in my lifetime; and I am sure it has changed over the last few generations. I always thought of the Deep South as some movie scene from Gone With The Wind, or an Uncle Remus story. I always wanted to be Brer Rabbit.

The Deep South is not so much a place anymore. It is an ideal, except for several very tangible things. Georgia red clay, Spanish Moss, Nascar, Moon Pies and grits are a few for starters. Someone could spin you around several times, blindfold you, and drop you off somewhere in the Deep South; and you should be able to figure out where you are at after eating one or two meals. Especially if you choose to eat barbecue. I am not talking about barbecue in a chain restaurant. I am talking about a barbecue joint. Chain restaurants avoid at all costs calling themselves, or being called a joint. If you go to a barbecue joint and you get yellow hash on rice, you are in South Carolina. If you go to a barbecue joint and get sliced barbecue you are in Alabama or Northern Florida. Chopped barbecue with a spicy but runny light red sauce the color of Georgia clay places you in, you guessed it, Georgia. If you get chopped barbecue with a deep red smokey and spicy sauce, you are in Mississippi or Tennessee. Barbecue is how southerner's mark their territory. I find it humorous when chain restaurants try to roll out a national barbecue chain with one style of barbecue. Fail.

The Deep South is hot. Several things are created from this heat. Buildings with high ceilings and valances; ceiling fans, fancy fans at funerals, southern belles with fancier fans. I have never seen a Southern Belle for the record, well, never a real one. When I was growing up in the Deep South we did not have air conditioning. No air conditioning in the schools, at home, at church, cars, anywhere. Fans were king; we had a giant five blade attic fan in our house. Every door had a transom above it so you could close your door, but still feel some breeze as the attic fan pulled the air from your windows through to the attic. There is an art to opening your window to maximize the draft. When we did not have a fan we had sweat. When you had sweat, you had to find a swing; thus porch swings were a must. The porch was out of the sun, and when you swung there was a mini breeze. If you were fancy like we were you had a screened porch; that way the mosquitoes did not bite so regularly. Another thing that is created by heat is limbs hanging out of car windows while going down the road. I remember when my father installed an air conditioner in our '69 Pontiac Tempest. It was awesome. We were instant kings and queens rolling down the road with our windows rolled all the way up. It was an awkward air conditioner; it hung way down low under the dash. Our feet were cooler than our heads. Passengers in the front froze, while those of us in the back longed for a ride in the front. We were almost cool on a real sweltering day. Dad put a sticker on the back of the car advertising our coolness, akin to the motels that we passed along the way that advertised color TV and air conditioned rooms with icicle lettering.

Captain William Smith taught us to dip our shirts half way into water then put them back on when we worked at the local camp one summer. He was a Vietnam Veteran genius. He knew hot; he knew muggy, and he never sweat. That summer I learned of different kinds of heat. There is midday heat. This heat is so hot that you are numb to it; you are sweating and evaporating at the same time; so you really do not realize how much you are sweating. This is how sweating was designed to work. The number one combatant against midday heat is sweet iced tea. Now, if you could combine iced tea with a shade tree, then you had dialed in to cool in the middle of the day.

There is morning heat. When you wake up to morning heat you know you are in the Deep South. Morning heat is not available at the beach, nor in the mountains. Morning heat lives on Interstate 20. Boxer underwear was made because of morning heat. Irish Spring soap was made because of morning heat. Cereal with cold milk was invented for morning heat. Morning heat is nasty and vicious, as it quickly can change into late morning heat, then into midday heat. If you drink iced tea in the morning, or better yet, put iced tea into your morning cereal, you can get ahead of morning heat for an hour or so.
Night heat is the worse type of heat. It is the worse because you thought it was going to get cool after the sun went down. Psychological heat it is. There is no breeze; the attic fan pulls hair dryer air over your body as you lay there eyes wide open. This heat is is fought off with clean cotton sheets. That is all you can do with night heat.
Muggy heat is almost as bad as night heat. Sticky, muggy, nasty, unstopping heat. Cotton is a must to wear; the reason that we acquired air conditioning in the '70's was that we started to wear polyester, wide collared, leisure suits. Before then, cold showers were the only way to fight muggy heat. My grandfather Asa Gullett taught me that. When you are in muggy heat, and you take a regular temperature shower, you will sweat within 2.47 seconds when you get out. No one listened to Asa, so we had to air condition the South.

There are some peculiar people in the Deep South. The people we see these days are a mere remnant of the crazy, greedy, messed up people from the past. First there were some industrious-but-greedy people who purchased or stole Africans, and worked them for profit in the above mentioned heat. Unbelievably, there are some people living here who still think that they are better than everyone else. This baffles me because the Union basically decimated the Deep South for being so ignorant and greedy. Therefore, I will describe a ultra basic break down people in the Deep South. You know who is going to be first. Rednecks.

I could describe what rednecks wear and how they act, but that has been done, although poorly, done enough already. Rednecks, disguise themselves these days with money and things. The true redneck is not to be glorified. They are a breed that should just die off. Steeped in bigotry, hate, and ignorance, they just need to go away. Rednecks are parrots. They repeat what is said over and over again without any thought to the words. Rednecks are mostly the remnant of generations of idiots. There are rednecks and there are country folk. Do not confuse the two.

Now I do believe that there is a difference between being a redneck and just being country. 
Four wheel drive, muddin', Pabst Blue Ribbon drinkin', country folk just want to have fun. Country people can be poor, middle class, and even rich. There are fake country folk as well. They dress up all country, and buy the right truck, and wear cowboy hats and bandannas. These may be cowboys, but I doubt it. Real country folk like to drink beer while they lean up around the bed of a pick up truck. They always have an old truck or a muscle car that they are "fixin' up". They usually have a four wheeler. They may have missing teeth from fighting at the local bar; this is a badge of honor. Clothing accessories include overalls, shirts with the sleeves ripped off, ball caps, and any type of work book.
Do not confuse rednecks with hunters, farmers, and country boys. These folk hate rednecks. Farmers are the salt of the earth. They breed country boys, who generally are the hunters. These are the people that you want to be near when the crap hits the fan. They will survive any catastrophe. They will have food and supplies when everyone else will not. They will shoot rednecks on sight. They have tractors, guineas, bees, okra, goats, lakes with fish, and boats. You can identify these wonderful group by watching then with animals. They know what every species of animal is; and if you present them with a crazed eyed snake they with say something like: "aw that ain't nuthin' buta hog snake; it's more skared of you that you are of it."
There are a lot of juvenile country folk that think that they are rednecks, but they aren't. They are just proud of where they come from, and happy that they are not city slickers.

 I went to school in the Appalachian Mountains. I think it has scarred me for life. In some ways it was very educational and developmental though. I also met plenty of "Mountain People" while I went to school there. I recall on specific basketball game in Rosman N.C.. What an experience it was. First of all, Rosman is located in Transylvania County; exactly. We took the old school bus down the winding two lane roads and after a spell pulled into the Rosman School parking lot. I could hear them already. Thump thump thumping like some ancient tribe. We were lead to the locker rooms where an awful orange paw was painted every three feet or so on the walls. Tiger this and tiger that was painted everywhere. I hate tigers; this has a lot to do with my "home town" being Columbia S.C.. Gamecocks hate Tigers as a general rule. I was in a Tiger hell hole.
We suited up and trudged up to the basketball court. Then I saw them; crazed eyed, moonshine drinkin', teeth missin', orange wearin' Mountain People. They had no where to go, and nothing to do, save stomp on the bleachers with rage in their eyes. The team was playing like they had all been injected with a mixture of moonshine and cocaine. They were everywhere, stealing the balls, and breathing their awful non-Listerined breath on us. Their socks did not match, nor did they stay up; they slid down, with mountain sweat, revealing the pasty white skin neglected of ultraviolet rays. I could not hear myself breath. I could not think. I saw Coach screaming incoherent directions at me. I took the shot. It went into the net with an awkward shudder.
This sent the frothing Mountain People into a rage. They stomped, they yelled; I saw the fire in their eyes. I could not wait for the buzzer to end this battle. We got killed. I scored four points. I was glad to leave the Mountain People to their stomping, and foaming, and incessant chanting of Tigers, Tigers, Tigers....

I will resume my rant about the south at an undisclosed future date. Talk of Tigers has made me ill.

gf

Geocaching Mot's Bar-B-Que

Well it happened. I found geocaching  and Mot's Bar-B-Que, thanks to my son Alex. Geocaching is a grand global game of treasure hunting that uses a GPS. I like the fact that there are things hidden, often right under our noses, without us ever knowing it was ever there. It often  makes me wonder what else is hidden right under our noses with out us having any clue that it is there. Now I am hooked on this geocaching. It is an addiction. Another addiction I would have if I lived in Augusta Ga would be Mot's Bar-B-Que. Mot's is a lot like geocaching. You probably have not noticed it yet; but when you do find it, you could become addicted. 

Before Alex wheeled us into the parking lot; I smelled it. Hickory smoke. There is a smell that barbecuing over hickory provides that cannot be duplicated, or processed by giant food conglomerates. You just can't get it done with out wood, time, sweat, and persistence. This is the kind of cooking that requires a nice deodorant soap at the end of the day. You also have to have a good bit of "country" to pull it off as well. City folk just cannot get this done the same. No offense of course. This cooking is way to dirty and smelly for city folks to deal with.

The workers at Mot's made this place happen. I know that I can be loud and out there, but they did not care, and they answered all of my questions with a smile. Dallas stepped up to the plate and explained the deal, as all of the signage was confusing, and in need of revision. I would be willing to  come back and walk them though some ideas on how to fix this issue. That is, of course, for a plate or two of their fall off the bone ribs. Dallas directed me to the "board" with the "special" on it. I love this kind of marketing. Toss the menu to the wind in these situations. Listen to the staff, and get the special. These are not those slick sales people like you would find in a fancy restaurant. These are the salt of the earth restaurateurs that eat their own food every day.

I  ordered the "Sampler" combo plate that came with vegetables. I was apprehensive of the side vegetables as usual, but I ordered the turnip greens and black eyed peas. Paige slid the "Sampler" across the counter. It came with ribs, chopped barbecue, and barbecue chicken with a choice of sauces from mild to hot. The sauces were typical Georgia sauces, red  and runny. Nothing real new or exciting in the sauce department, which was disappointing. I always look forward to the special touches that a small barbecue place can do with sauces. Mot's should take a hike over to Little Dooey's in Starkville MS and check out their sauces. The smoked meats were right on the money. I thought that the ribs could have used a little more rib rub, but I had no complaints about the cooking. These meats were slow cooked over wood, and you could taste the slight smokiness in every bite. I was pleasantly surprised with the vegetables as they melted in my mouth. They may have even been fresh. The greens were tender and seasoned well with meat. They were a little sweet for me, but they were delicious. The Black eyed peas were off the hook, and cooked to perfection. Good vegetables in a joint means that they care.

We gabbed our food and found a table, which was not a challenge, as we were alone save one other group and a few to go orders. The joint was doing a brisk to go business as cars steadily drove up to the takeout window. I think this building was an old fast food restaurant and was set up well for this to go activity. Marketing seems to be a opportunity for Mot's, but it is a joint after all. Joint's do not do marketing very well. That is, except word of mouth. The signage out side was classic joint marketing. There was, first of all, the open sign. Take these signs down across America please. If you have a neon open sign in our window throw it away now. I would rather see the clock type sign on the door that says "We will be back at"... then refer to the clock. When I see a neon open sign I read "Almost Closed". Take it down. Now.
Other than that, there was a "Bar-B-Que" sign with a reference to hickory smoke. Accurate, yes, I guess you could say that. Mot's needs a sign person soon. I always liked Piggy Park's sign. First of all, it is huge. Then there is "Little Joe" the pig standing on the top. Thirdly there is a statement that they are the "World's Best Bar-B-Q", which is awesome. Lastly, if you look closely, the spell sandwiches "sandmiches".

The tables were sturdy and clean. The decor was a blend of cheesy country and signed pictures from friends and random obsolete NASCAR drivers. Then there was the 19" tube TV set on a basketball game. Really? No. Throw that away as well. The TV was just annoying, as was the clutter corner. Yes Mot's has the evil clutter corner. This stuff belongs in a closet. Vacuum cleaner, brooms, extra supplies, go into closets. If you like barbecue and you are an interior designer, please make friends with these folk; they need you. However, there were elements that I did like about the decor. The "Special" sign, yeah, keep that. One thing I like about these boards is when they run out of something. Someone's finger changes the menu in seconds. That is awesome.Then there was the local activity area, keep that as well.



 Geocaching requires some running around and searching for hidden "treasure". When you find the hidden cache and open it you may find semi-worthless stuff inside. There is a log book that is to be signed letting other geocachers know when you were there.You are encouraged to leave a small "treasure" or swap one. This activity is really not understood until you actually grab up a GPS and go to geocaching. This is a web page where you can register a screen name, and download a map of all of the caches. On this Saturday we found about eight of these caches. The sizes ranged from an ammo box to tiny vials that were placed in hidden places ever so cleverly.
There are a host of rules for where these caches can be hidden. Private property requires permission from the property owner. No graveyards, bridges, and other sites where it would be inappropriate for one reason or another. Aside from those, and a few others, the imagination is the only limit. I found one under a brick, behind a reflector, under a walking bridge, in a gazebo, and in a bed of pine straw in the middle of the woods. I had a lot of "good clean fun", and enjoyed time with my son.

Geocaching can burn extra calories. If you find yourself geocaching in Augusta Georgia, stop by Mot's, and tell Dallas, Paige, and "Bubba" gf said hello, and to keep up the good work.



gf

The End of The World

Well, it is official. The world is toast. Kaput. So, what now you ask? Glad you asked, because I believe I have figured most of that out.

The Aztecs or the Mayans figured all of that timing thing out as you know. All we have to do is figure out what we are going to do with the time that we have left. This will depend mainly on your character; but amazingly enough, for some, character goes bye-bye during a crisis. The first thing some people do, during a disaster, is steal a flat screen TV. But this will not work in the end of days. Satellites and cable services will be the first to go, and most disaster thieves have not considered this critical error.

There will be the Army type that will board up their house. They will stock two years of groceries in the basement and hoard lots of guns and bullets. This will not work either. Yeah, it sounds good, but there are major flaws in this thinking. First of all, no one really cares about you and your little house. The crazed thieves are going for the bigger houses, with the pools and the chicks in bikinis. Duh. Secondly, with the earth opening up and swallowing everything, being stuck in your hut may not be the best thing to do.

Right. Rob the bank. This is stupid, dumb even. Money is not going to be worth anything; it is barely worth anything right now. This individual would assume that businesses are going to be open and selling something. No; they will have left. They will be trying to figure out what they are going to do with the time that they have left. They are not going to be at work.

I propose that if you want to rob something, you should rob a whole person. Steal a Hollywood star. They have all the stuff. All you would have to do is convince them to show you a good time. They have a cool houses, and they are fun to hang with; that is unless you picked a real boring star. They have good food, wine, chefs, butlers, horses, polo sticks, and arcade games. Are there still arcades? Not sure about that.

People will kill themselves in a panic. Good. These are the dumbest ones; and if they want to kill themselves, then go ahead. We really will not have time to pamper these people, and talk them out of their stupid decision. That is, unless they are a good friend or family. We will just shake those folks real hard, slap them several times, and tell them to snap out of it. It will be time for that whole survival of the fittest thing to kick into high gear.

There are going to be plenty of revivals and religious groups raising all kinds of cane. I can truly appreciate all religions thinking that they are the right one. However, during the end of the world the last thing we all need is somebody knocking on our door hassling us to be in their group. There also will be "False Prophets" a go go. Slicker than owl crap, these "Prophets" are going to derail plenty of people. The Jews and the Muslims are going to "get it on" no doubt; I mean after all, they have been fighting for how long now? Oh yeah, from the beginning of time. Not sure what the Buddhists will do. They will just chill probably. Then again, they may be Ninja like. Eating raw fish and digging tunnels like in Vietnam. Sneaking up on folks and attacking when least expected. A sneaky and clever religion.

Our produce purveyor at work sent us a memo about tomatoes escalating in price over the next month or so; stating that it was "an act of God". Why does God get blamed for everything, especially pricey tomatoes? I was sure that I read in the Bible that Satan was sent to the earth to roam about and cause havoc. I think we should take that saying "act of God" out of our vocabulary. Change it to "an act of Lucifer". God can be blamed for other things in the universe, like a random gamma ray pulverizing some way off solar system that we cannot even see. Give God a break during the end of the world; blame the Devil.

Spend more time with your family. I honestly think that this is the best thing to do. Matter of fact, I think that a barbecue would be called for. Tailgate the end of days. This sounds so American, but I think it has a healthy heaping of merit. This is obviously the safest way to do the end of times.
You really do not want to do something that you may regret even at this late moment in the earth's existence. One fellow told me that he would go to LA and hang out at the Playboy Mansion. Not a bad thought altogether; but what if you had a great evening at the Mansion, and you were winding down, smoking a pipe like "Heff", watching the evening news, and you hear..."Archeologists reported today that they have misinterpreted the Mayan calendar altogether. The end of the world date was 12/21/22012. The academy of Archeologists deeply apologize for misreading the ancient text, and for any subsequent inconvenience that it may have caused."

It snowed again today in Georgia. Definitely the end of times; I am sure of it.

gf

Rats

I am at war with rats. I know, this is concerning, but I should have the situation under control in a short span of time. I am currently at stage two in my rat warfare. Stage one, reconnaissance, has been completed. I have had help with my reconnaissance. Guests at my home, children, and animals have all reported in. I will report back when I am successful. I am a skilled rat killer, and I have been through many years of different rat killing scenarios. Yes, I will share some of those with you now.

When I was a young lad I had a fine head of curly hair that drove the ladies crazy. Well, at least that is what I thought at the time. I had been told that I favored Dave Starsky from the Starsky and Hutch TV show. Well, maybe I was not quite as handsome as Paul Michael Glazer, but after all, he was a movie star. You can decide who is more Hollywood worthy yourself. Like my own children, when I was young I could sleep though anything. I was not waking up until I had to wake up. One night a poor mouse fell off of the window valance in my bedroom into my hair. It was thrashing about scared to death, when I subconsciously grabbed it, and threw it against the wall. There it lay until the morning, my first rat kill. Greg one; rats zero.

Several years later I found my self working in a rat hell hole. The restaurant I was managing was fifteen years old or more and was right dead in the middle of a rat Mecca. We kept the restaurant very clean, but unseen, behind the restaurant, there was a rat condo. These were Mafia rats. They did not scare easy. I often think that they came with the dumpsters, which were owned I found out by potentially real Mafia. Once after having a heated complaint about the garbage pick up service, the owners set up a meeting with me to discuss, in person, the garbage situation. They arrived in a six door stretch limo. The short Boss got out, and then two "helpers" got out and stood next to him. They were in suits and sun glasses, and stood about six foot eight. They were three hundred fifty pounds each if they were an ounce. The Boss then asked, in a strange Northern Italian accent, "so are we's OK with everything?" I am not real smart, but I am not completely stupid. I responded with my friendliest "You guys are doing a great job!" They smiled, then they left. However, I do believe I saw them let out several Mafia rats as they drove off.
Reconnaissance started when one of my servers was opening up the store one morning. "L" was stocking a back station drawer with supplies when a Mafia rat poked it's head out of the drawer when she opened it and allegedly growled at her. I could not get "L" to go into the back room for a week. I suspected that the "Short Boss" had been up to no good. I investigated the dumpster area that evening to see what could be found. When I poked my head around the back of the dumpster, which was a tight squeeze, there it was, the Mafia Boss Rat. It stood up on it's hind legs and growled at me. This Mafia rat was the size of an overfed raccoon. I never new that rats could growl until then. Worse yet, I had to apologize to "L", because I called her crazy for telling me she saw a huge rat that growled.
Help was called immediately. The exterminators were out that night; then they called for back up. We had to cut down fifteen shrubs that were around the dumpster; all the time looking for Mafia rat homes. Later that evening, when the entire region of exterminators arrived, we found the Mafia rat condo. The exterminators baited a thirty foot square area that was the Mafia rat condo. Holes riddled the ground. I never new that rats had condos. Greg two; rats zero.

This rat hell hole was not done. More surprises were to come. I was in full stage reconnaissance after one Sunday afternoon lunch. Every Sunday at three o'clock a local church reserved our back room that sat about one hundred twenty five. These church goers were real nice, and wore nothing but white. I am not sure why they wore white, but I thought it was pretty cool. No one got too uppity about what they wore to church because it was going to be the same as everyone else, except for the hats that were worn. That is good leadership in my book. Anyway, on with the rat story. I was counting money in the office when I got a call on the phone to come out quick, there had been a rat sighting. Halfway to the front of the restaurant, a hostess told me 'Grandma' had fainted and was in the foyer. "Call 911 now" I instructed. Upon entering the foyer I saw the grandson. He was not happy. He was real big. Grandma looked fine, but I let them know that help was on the way. I proceeded to the back room where much there was shouting and much commotion. Several large ladies were standing on chairs when I entered the room. Shouts of "Jesus!!" "Oh Jesus help us!!" were afloat in the air. There was a fifteen foot circle of worshipers shouting at a small mouse which was running in circles on the floor. I grabbed a 4" 1/6 pan and a small toy broom and walked into the circle to face the mini rat. He cruised by me and I plopped the pan over it. I then eased up one side of the pan, and as he poked his head out, pop! Right on the head with the end of the toy broom. Greg three; rats zero.
I did have to buy one hundred and thirty meals. Twice. I was at war with the mini rats.

We still noticed small messes on the tables in the mornings. Sugar was all over tables and sugar packets were strewn in an odd fashion on some tables. I suspected more mice. More mini rats. I did not realize how many mini rats I was fighting though. I decided one night to wait, and see if I could see where they were coming from so I could trap them. I turned out the lights and waited sitting in the dark perfectly still. After about twenty minutes the floor was moving with mice. I again called for backup. The exterminators came and assured me that it could not be that many as they came out regularly and took care of all the pests; "guaranteed". They left me several sticky pads to catch the mice with. I caught nineteen mice the first night. I called the exterminators back, and again, they brought backup. I had started recording how many mice I had caught by drawing mice on the wall in the office; similar to a WW2 pilot marking the side of his plane with pictures of bombs or skull and cross bones. They second day I caught seventeen; the third day thirteen, and so on. The "guaranteed" exterminators came and set traps. I told them about turning out the lights and waiting in the dark to find the mice. They decided to try this procedure out that same night. This is when we saw "Master Splinter". We found "Master Splinter" scurrying around and chased him into a corner. This just so happened to be the same corner that the sugar packets were chewed on regularly. He headed straight for the corner; then POOF he disappeared. Vanished. We pulled back the carpet in the corner and revealed a four inch square hole that had been chewed through solid concrete. This discovery sent the "guaranteed" exterminators into high gear. Hundreds of traps were set out; doors were resealed, cracks were caulked, and traps were put into the ceiling (These later revealed mice skeletons to repair men venturing up there years later.). Over a period of several weeks the mice count on the office wall, although full, was not producing any new mice pictures. Greg four (hundred); mice zero.

The last mice story always bothered me. How could so many rodents be right under my nose, for so long, with out me knowing until it was an epidemic? I would ponder this often and be slightly depressed for my unawareness. But then the following story of another sister restaurant's mice escapades would erase any thought of me being inadequate. The restaurant across the river had mice also. They were being invaded. They were being attacked, but they did not know it.
The restaurants had a high vaulted ceiling with an air conditioning vent chase running right down the center of the dining room. This was the mice highway during one Friday nights dinner service. A customer spotted the mouse tip toeing along the edge of the chase right in the middle of the dining room. The idiot manager, wanting to be a hero mouse killer like myself, thought it would be a good idea to get a broom and snag the intruder. "There is a time and a place for everything." my father used to tell me. This was neither. The manager successfully swept the mini rat into the hair bun of a middle aged woman eating macaroni and cheese and chocolate chip cookies. Idiot managers zero; rats one.

I will report when I have eliminated my current rat. Good hunting.

gf