Food Fun, Bizarre Banter and Odd Observations

Over the last week I checked out a newish restaurant on the Boardwalk, espied some disturbing ads and wondered at the annoyingness of an annoying man; all the while listening to the increasingly deranged utterances of my co-workers. I offer you now another glimpse into the asylum which is KAF.

I’m Not Waiting on a Lady, I’m Just Waiting on a J

Every morning at precisely 0800, 5/6 of our regular breakfast crew meet outside our accommodations. We patiently await the arrival of the final fraction, otherwise known as J. He generally shows up a few minutes late. I don’t begrudge him his tardiness as, having shared a room with him for a couple of weeks, I understand that he has a vast array of unguents and hair products he needs to apply. L, on the other hand, is less charitable. The other day, as J wandered out to meet us, she exclaimed “We’re always waiting on you. You’re such a metrosexual. Figuring this means he’s somewhat stylish and takes care with his appearance I hopefully remarked “Hey, I’m kinda metrosexual too yet I’m out here on time everyday”. L looked me up and down, shook her head and laughed. Not sure what to make of that. Perhaps my singular ab, all beige wardrobe, haircut I’ve had since 1981, and my habit of peppering each sentence I utter with several variations of the word “fuck” detract from the sophisticated aura I’ve been cultivating.

Not the boss of J.

Conspiracy News Network

As J and I sat down to lunch at our usual time in the North Line, he noted that Christiane Amanpour was on the television. “She’s always on when we come here. Like she knows when I’m watching. And she’s so damn authoritative.You’re not the boss of me Christiane!” I nodded my support, looked down at my plate and finished my meal in silence.

Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

One the way back from dinner at the Monti last week, I noted that I felt like several of the 7 Dwarves…Sleepy, Grumpy and Dopey. M declared “I think I’m Grumpy”. “Ok, I guess I’m just Sleepy” I relented. “I’m Remorseful” came J’s plaintive declaration from the back seat.

That Damn 1% Wants It All

As is often case, the British version of Deal or No Deal was playing at Cambridge during dinner last night. (Oddly, J is unconcerned about Noel Edmonds‘ frequent appearances at our meals). The contestant was a sweet grandmotherly lady…or so I thought. “Look at those bloody earrings. Isn’t she posh! She doesn’t need the money!” declared L. M suggested that “maybe they’re cubic zirconia”. “I’m not ‘avin’ it! Those are not NHS glasses! She had to pay for those.”  I quietly removed my Ralph Laurens and slipped them into my pocket.

Workplace Safety is for Suckers

Driving into work a couple of days ago, J and I found ourselves behind a truck full of workmen that was trailing several metres of electrical wire which was seemingly attached to some kind of pump. I so very deeply wanted to drive onto the wire just to see what would happen. In an impressive display of restraint, I didn’t. I did manage to derive some amusement by noting that the end of the cord was just bare wires.This way they can plug it into any outlet and not have to worry about shit like voltage…cause we like livin’ on the edge in Kandahar.

Make Up Your Fucking Mind

Ok, DFAC people, what the hell is the deal with emptying our trays? Just a few days ago, I wrote about the new garbage sorting rules. Now everything has gone haywire. Every time we go to leave a DFAC, the procedure has changed. Here are the variations on the garbage dumping theme:
1. Put your garbage laden tray on the rack at one of the doors to the “bin” room and exit the other door.
2. Put your garbage laden tray on the rack in the “bin” room and exit through that door.
3. Dump your unsorted garbage into a random bin and put your tray on the rack.
4. Dump your unsorted garbage into a random bin and put your tray in the basin of disinfectant.
5. Dump your unsorted garbage into a random bin, try to put your tray in the basin of disinfectant only to be met with a vigourous Indian head waggle and exhortations to toss it on what you thought was a pile of clean trays.
6. Hand your tray to the guy holding the door. (Not sure if I was supposed to, but he took it).
7. Do it the way we’ve always done it. Dump your unsorted garbage in a random bin and put your tray on the stack of dirty trays.
8. Do what an apparently confused and frustrated DFAC customer did and toss your tray, garbage and all, on the floor.

Good luck figuring it out. I hate not knowing the fucking rules.

Helpful Breakfast Tips for Asshats

Oblivious Man looks around wondering where his unordered eggs are.

Hey, you. Yeah, you,Oblivious Man, the one texting on his goddamn IPhone in the North Line egg line! Here’s a tip. Pay the fuck attention! When the cook looks up and asks for your order and J says “Hey, buddy, your turn” and points to the cook in such a way that his arm blocks your view of your tiny little screen, rather than groggily looking around with your dead eyes and then going back to your fucking texting…give the cook your fucking order! And don’t act all confused and put out when you get up to the cook and he has nothing ready for you as he serves me and J our eggs. You’re an oblivious idiot and I hate you.

Love,
Kafoodie.

Define “Fun”

“What the fuck is that?” was a common refrain.

As promised, J, D, L, M, K, JA, and I went out to Food Fun last Saturday. The menu, which contained furrin-sounding words like “paranthi” and “roti”, caused a bit of concern to the less adventurous in our bunch. I was more concerned by the fact that the order taking guy is the same one who used to work at the Asian Style Food before it was shut down by the KAF Health Inspector. L informed us that “he said this one has a different owner” to which I cynically replied “Yeah, but probably the same cleaning rag”.  

A butter chicken extravaganza

Most people opted for the Butter Chicken and the reviews were all mildly enthusiastic. I had what was purported to be the Lemon Pepper Chicken. It was what chefs like to call a new twist on an old classic. The twist being the absence of any lemon or pepper flavour. I’d also asked for it spicy but, despite the order taking guys enthusiastic “Make that lemon pepper chicken spicy” call out to the cook, it was anything but. I was not amused. The paranthi is a potato flatbread with onion that is pretty good if you like greasy, oniony, potatoey things. M seemed to enjoy his kebabs although the absence of any skewers and/or skewer holes in the meat seemed to imply that it was really just chunks of chicken.

At least we knew how to throw out our garbage.

So, I thought the food was adequate and some thought it was pretty good. But what about the fun? Meh. We did get to have our little picnic outside so it was a nice change from the DFAC. Upon my asking if everyone was having fun, D weighed in with “The napkins are fun.” I looked at the seemingly regular paper napkin. “Huh?” I asked. “I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about”, he admitted, “I guess the most fun is trying to eat rice so far from my mouth.” I took a picture to commemorate our night of food and fun. As I write this blog, I notice that the only one smiling is JA but it’s not thanks to Food Fun’s butter chicken…he was going on leave the next day.

Oh bugger, I thought it was something else.

I’m Washing My Hair that Night

Yeah, it’s boring here. I guess it’s a good thing that there are such a myriad number of disparate activities to participate in. But, come on…this is starting to get stupid. Ok, so I Googled “cornhole” with SafeSearch on and now realize it’s just a silly beanbag game…but can you blame me for being a little disturbed upon seeing this sign?

Nuthin’ god likes better than songs about hos.

I think you’d have to combine a cross fit class with a game of cricket to come up with an evening that would drive me into the arms of Satan faster than “Behind Hip Hop”.  I considered going until I read that “All is invited”. At first I thought that meant everyone, including hellbound atheists like me, but upon noting the use of the singular form of the verb “to be” I became confused. Who is this singular “all”? Is it some kind of Hip Hop Christian Borg to which you must be assimilated in order to be welcome at this bizarre event? I decided that my time was better spent investigating what the Backstreet Boys’ repertoire can tell me about Odin’s plan for mankind.

Bathroom Brouhaha

So, I got cc’d on an email from the folks we rent our accommodations from. Note that the accommodation blocks referred to are not ours.“…People were using paper towels in the toilets instead of toilet paper – this has caused the toilets to be blocked and overflow. To prevent further problems with this we have asked the contractor to remove all paper towel from (X) and (Y) Block.  Toilet paper now available for people to dry their hands and this will continue for the next couple of months….To properly flush the toilet individuals need to Push Down on both buttons on top of the toilets to get rid of the Toilet Paper and any other excrement (i.e. feces, poop, shit)…Over the last couple of weeks it has been noted that people are blowing their noses in the Sinks and Showers and leaving the little gifts for others to deal with – DO NOT DO THIS…”

Ugh…

And you thought I was making this shit up. But it gets better. A couple of days later, two of our three toilets are clogged with paper towel (and shit). I guess there are some folks who just can’t take a shit without cleaning up with paper towel so they snuck into our block to clog our toilets and leave us a little present. Then, it turns out that, in the absence of paper towel, these assholes (haha) are wiping with entire rolls of toilet paper and trying to flush them as described in the next email.

8 out of 12 toilets were blocked with complete rolls of toilet paper.   This must stop immediately.”

I can only imagine what is going through the mind of the poor manager that has to write these emails. I bet it sounds something like “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Bottom Line

Are we getting weirder or is it just me?

“‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ said Alice. ‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the cat. ‘We’re all mad here.'”- Lewis Carrol

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