Starting a small Tavern in rural Northern California. Barley and Hops Tavern catalogs the trials and tribulations of the restaurant biz, and teaching wine country to love beer.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Hungry Hungry Hippos!

That's what you all are. It's not enough that your humble narrator has given up every minute of free time to create the best pub in the greater Occidental metropolitan area; you, the voracious reader demand more blogs. "How else, but through your self-important blogging, wouldst I know which beverage to quaff?!" you ask. So, as put so eloquently by Whitesnake, "Here I go again..."

In reverse chronological order, some of the highlights and lowlights follow.

Our very good friend, HH, has left for brighter pastures in some state that's far away where there are things like non-Russian rivers, and everyone wears feather boas or something. Anyway, as I've blogged about in the past, HH was a smoker, so for a month I had to not shave and he couldn't smoke, and Mir had to dye pink streaks into her hair. Well let me tell those of you who do not sport beards about having a month of hair on your face. It's like having your face attacked by scotch-brite pads. It's itchy and uncomfortable and awful and not rad. But I did it, and he didn't smoke, and Mir's hair is still pink. Which is kinda nifty-- unlike quitting smoking, which I can only imagine sucks, being a non-smoker myself-- because she looks good with pink hair. And blue hair, but that's a story for another day. Probably a Wednesday. Blue hair is more of a Wednesday sort of thing, don't you think? Well maybe you should then, jerko.

Next we had Thanksgiving. Now, we've had a few interesting Thanksgivii lately. When we first moved, we ended up at the buffett... buffet... bufett... Smorgasbord. They had turkey, and by turkey, I mean the poor teenage girl was carving a chicken breast because they were a) out of turkey; or b) thought nobody would notice. Everyone there seemed to be upset at crazy aunt Margaret for exploding the kitchen and burning the bird. I just assume that everyone has a crazy relative who can't cook, but tries. We thought the whole scene was hysterical, in a dark comedy sort of way. Then, there was the "Nobody loves me Thanksgiving" which we hosted for a group of friends that had families too far away to make the trip. That went beautifully because we cook everything perfect, and our friends are cooler and more attractive than your friends and family. By far.

So this year, the best thing we could think to do was to escape for a minute. A lot of things have been said by a lot of people about the restaurant business, but one thing I can tell you with certainty, is that if you aren't bone-tired exhausted at the end of each and every day, and without sufficient sleep each and every morning, you will not be successful. So we headed to the featherbed railroad (obviously... this would be your first inclination as well, yes?). What the hell is a featherbed railroad?

Find out tommorow. This is a 2 parter, because I have to head out to work. Bone-tired. But at least you hungry hungry hippos have something to nibble on today.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

HH here.
Yes, I have ventured into new southern pastures. However, I do greatly miss my Camp Meeker residence and the Occidental watering hole I regularly frequented. There is something about this pub. Whether I walked in to hear unexpectedly one of Ranger Ricks bewildering tales or sat in for an improvised jam session; Barley and Hops was always a home away from home. I would like to wish Noah and Miriam the very best and I'm sure that the future will bless them in all they do.

~HH