Fuck You, Francisco, You Graves' Diseased Piece of Mexican Shit
Andrea and I have been applying to a number of restaurants for the past couple of months, and still nothing. I don't get it. I really don't. She and I have years of experience in the restaurant business. Fuckers.
Then last Tuesday came.
I received a callback from a manager named Francisco at this Mexican place called Manuel's, which is near the Arboretum. He wanted me to come in for an interview at 4:30. Andrea and I went over there after class.
When we got there, a Mexican male server with a heavy Mexican accent came up to us. I told him that I was there to meet Francisco for an interview. He told us to have a seat at the bar, and he'd go get him. So, we did as we were told. The bartender asked us in a heavy Mexican accent what we wanted to drink, but we informed him that we were just waiting.
And we did wait. Nearly thirty minutes. No one ever came up to us to tell us Francisco's status, whether he was coming or not, what he was doing, ETA, nothing. Mistake #1.
Finally, an older Mexican guy walked out of the kitchen and was looking everywhere. I assumed he was the manager because he was dressed in khakis and a button-up shirt. I rose from my seat, asked him if he was Francisco, and told him who I was. He nodded and told me, no surprise here, in a heavy Mexican accent, to sit at an empty booth on the other side of the restaurant while he went back to the office to get my application. What the hell? He should've had it already when he came out. Mistake #2.
He came back and sat across the table from me. I was instantly drawn by his ugly, bulging eyes and beak-like nose.
The following conversation is what was said during the interview. The text in red is what I wanted to tell him, but didn't verbally say. And no, there are no typos on my part for his dialogue. He spoke in broken English in a thick Mexican accent.
F: "So, tell me 'bout your work experience in food business."
M: "I worked for Chili's for three and a half years. I was a very versatile employee there. I waited tables, I did to-gos, I expoed, I hosted, and I trained new employees."
While I spoke, he motioned his hand at me to hurry up with my answers. I wanted to cut his hand off and poke his eyes back inside his head with his fingers. Don't ask me a question if you don't want to know the answer. He did this throughout the entire interview. Stupid asshole.
F: "So, that's it?"
M: "Excuse me?"
"You only have three years?"
"I have three and a half years, right." What do you mean only three years? That's a lot. I'm sorry that waiting tables isn't my career.
"That all you have?"
"Well, unless you want to consider working at fast food places when I was younger as working in the restaurant business."
"Ya, those don't count."
F: "Do you have many familiar with tequilas?"
"To be honest, I'm actually not very familiar with different kinds of tequila. My knowledge is pretty limited based on the fact that I don't drink often. Basically, the only knowledge I have is what was served at Chili's, and that wasn't very much."
"Ya, they don't have a lot of tequilas."
"Right." That's what I just said, you dumb fuck.
"K, how 'bout wine?"
"Again, I'm not very familiar with the different kinds of wine. I know your basics. I can distinguish a red from white wine. Chili's didn't have a very extensive wine list. They just had Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Shiraz, and White Zin."
"You no drink wine either?"
"No. I don't drink alcohol very often."
"But it's wine, not alcohol." What the hell? Wine's a type of alcohol...even I know that.
"Okay...but just because I don't know a lot about alcohol, doesn't mean I can't learn what alcohol goes well with a certain dish, or what kind of alcohol you offer here."
"Okay, but do you have familiar with de Mexican culture?"
"Other than growing up and living in Texas, not really."
"What? You are Mexican."
"No, actually...I'm Filipina."
"But your last name..."
"I know, a lot of Filipinos have Spanish last names." (I have to explain this all of the time.)
"So, you don't know 'bout Mexican cultures?"
"Well, like I said, I'm not Mexican. I didn't grow up Mexican; although, the Filipino culture is similar to the Mexican culture. I grew up Catholic, I have very traditional..."
"Not the same. You don't know Mexican culture."
"I know a lot from being raised and living in Texas and from school. I took years of Spanish and took a seminar on Mexican-American literature where we studied the Mexican culture's influence on America. But if you're asking me if I know it from personal experience, no."
"Ya, so no knowing of Mexican culture." What the fuck? I know that the Mexican culture consists of illegally coming to the States, mostly to do stoop labor. I know that your restaurant more than likely employees a few illegals. I know about the hierarchy in Mexican families where the man is the head simply because he has a penis. I know about machismo. I know that Mexican men are typically lazy and smell bad. I know about cholas. I know that they're all gangsta girls.
"Do you know the main ingre...ingred...ingrade..."
"Ingredients?"
"Ya, ingredients in Mexican cooking?"
"No, I'm not familiar with the ingredients in Mexican cooking either, I suppose."
"I see you have a degree. You go to school?"
"Yes."
"Oh, well...you don't need school for this job."
He just looked at me with those fucking Pekingese eyes.
"K, well...I have a lot of people coming for applications and interviews. I'm calling the ones that I think are good for this server job. It will take me a some time to pick which one I want for this job because there are so many people. If you don't hear from me, that mean I went a different way and chose someone else."
"Well, I certainly hope that's the case."
And I got up, and we left.
He degraded me the entire time. He tried to make me feel inadequate, as if I wasn't capable of performing the responsibilities as a server at a Mexican restaurant, simply because I'm not Mexican. You don't have to be a fucking Mexican to work at a Mexican restaurant. Mexicans aren't the only ones that eat at Mexican restaurants, especially in that nice area, and especially for that overpriced menu. I can guarantee that I can communicate with the customers more effectively than anyone who currently works there.
So, fuck you, Fransisco, you ugly Black-Moor-Goldfish-lookalike. How dare you tell me that I'm not good enough to serve tables. I have experience and an education. If anything, I'm over-qualified.
Then last Tuesday came.
I received a callback from a manager named Francisco at this Mexican place called Manuel's, which is near the Arboretum. He wanted me to come in for an interview at 4:30. Andrea and I went over there after class.
When we got there, a Mexican male server with a heavy Mexican accent came up to us. I told him that I was there to meet Francisco for an interview. He told us to have a seat at the bar, and he'd go get him. So, we did as we were told. The bartender asked us in a heavy Mexican accent what we wanted to drink, but we informed him that we were just waiting.
And we did wait. Nearly thirty minutes. No one ever came up to us to tell us Francisco's status, whether he was coming or not, what he was doing, ETA, nothing. Mistake #1.
Finally, an older Mexican guy walked out of the kitchen and was looking everywhere. I assumed he was the manager because he was dressed in khakis and a button-up shirt. I rose from my seat, asked him if he was Francisco, and told him who I was. He nodded and told me, no surprise here, in a heavy Mexican accent, to sit at an empty booth on the other side of the restaurant while he went back to the office to get my application. What the hell? He should've had it already when he came out. Mistake #2.
He came back and sat across the table from me. I was instantly drawn by his ugly, bulging eyes and beak-like nose.
The following conversation is what was said during the interview. The text in red is what I wanted to tell him, but didn't verbally say. And no, there are no typos on my part for his dialogue. He spoke in broken English in a thick Mexican accent.
F: "So, tell me 'bout your work experience in food business."
M: "I worked for Chili's for three and a half years. I was a very versatile employee there. I waited tables, I did to-gos, I expoed, I hosted, and I trained new employees."
While I spoke, he motioned his hand at me to hurry up with my answers. I wanted to cut his hand off and poke his eyes back inside his head with his fingers. Don't ask me a question if you don't want to know the answer. He did this throughout the entire interview. Stupid asshole.
F: "So, that's it?"
M: "Excuse me?"
"You only have three years?"
"I have three and a half years, right." What do you mean only three years? That's a lot. I'm sorry that waiting tables isn't my career.
"That all you have?"
"Well, unless you want to consider working at fast food places when I was younger as working in the restaurant business."
"Ya, those don't count."
F: "Do you have many familiar with tequilas?"
"To be honest, I'm actually not very familiar with different kinds of tequila. My knowledge is pretty limited based on the fact that I don't drink often. Basically, the only knowledge I have is what was served at Chili's, and that wasn't very much."
"Ya, they don't have a lot of tequilas."
"Right." That's what I just said, you dumb fuck.
"K, how 'bout wine?"
"Again, I'm not very familiar with the different kinds of wine. I know your basics. I can distinguish a red from white wine. Chili's didn't have a very extensive wine list. They just had Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Shiraz, and White Zin."
"You no drink wine either?"
"No. I don't drink alcohol very often."
"But it's wine, not alcohol." What the hell? Wine's a type of alcohol...even I know that.
"Okay...but just because I don't know a lot about alcohol, doesn't mean I can't learn what alcohol goes well with a certain dish, or what kind of alcohol you offer here."
"Okay, but do you have familiar with de Mexican culture?"
"Other than growing up and living in Texas, not really."
"What? You are Mexican."
"No, actually...I'm Filipina."
"But your last name..."
"I know, a lot of Filipinos have Spanish last names." (I have to explain this all of the time.)
"So, you don't know 'bout Mexican cultures?"
"Well, like I said, I'm not Mexican. I didn't grow up Mexican; although, the Filipino culture is similar to the Mexican culture. I grew up Catholic, I have very traditional..."
"Not the same. You don't know Mexican culture."
"I know a lot from being raised and living in Texas and from school. I took years of Spanish and took a seminar on Mexican-American literature where we studied the Mexican culture's influence on America. But if you're asking me if I know it from personal experience, no."
"Ya, so no knowing of Mexican culture." What the fuck? I know that the Mexican culture consists of illegally coming to the States, mostly to do stoop labor. I know that your restaurant more than likely employees a few illegals. I know about the hierarchy in Mexican families where the man is the head simply because he has a penis. I know about machismo. I know that Mexican men are typically lazy and smell bad. I know about cholas. I know that they're all gangsta girls.
"Do you know the main ingre...ingred...ingrade..."
"Ingredients?"
"Ya, ingredients in Mexican cooking?"
"No, I'm not familiar with the ingredients in Mexican cooking either, I suppose."
"I see you have a degree. You go to school?"
"Yes."
"Oh, well...you don't need school for this job."
He just looked at me with those fucking Pekingese eyes.
"K, well...I have a lot of people coming for applications and interviews. I'm calling the ones that I think are good for this server job. It will take me a some time to pick which one I want for this job because there are so many people. If you don't hear from me, that mean I went a different way and chose someone else."
"Well, I certainly hope that's the case."
And I got up, and we left.
He degraded me the entire time. He tried to make me feel inadequate, as if I wasn't capable of performing the responsibilities as a server at a Mexican restaurant, simply because I'm not Mexican. You don't have to be a fucking Mexican to work at a Mexican restaurant. Mexicans aren't the only ones that eat at Mexican restaurants, especially in that nice area, and especially for that overpriced menu. I can guarantee that I can communicate with the customers more effectively than anyone who currently works there.
So, fuck you, Fransisco, you ugly Black-Moor-Goldfish-lookalike. How dare you tell me that I'm not good enough to serve tables. I have experience and an education. If anything, I'm over-qualified.
Fuck You, St. Edward's
My last day of class was today, but finals start up on Monday. What the hell? St. Edward's doesn't have "dead" or reading days. I haven't taken an actual final in about four years. How could you not have "dead" days?
Fuck you, St. Edward's for not operating like a normal university.
Fuck you, St. Edward's for not operating like a normal university.
Fuck You, Swine Flu
I'm just stretching for things now.
All right, well, I suppose that's it for this week. I apologize for this week's sucky content.
Back to studying.
All right, well, I suppose that's it for this week. I apologize for this week's sucky content.
Back to studying.
