A/N: A couple of days ago, I read LukeandLorelaiBrucasfan's fic A Change Would Do You Good, and in one of the chapters, Sookie's time in the Berkshire's with Joe Mastoni (from season 3, episode 11) came up, and that incident just wouldn't let go of my mind. Come on, Bung, the Feldster... It had all the potential of turning into a nice oneshot. So, I sat down and let the gang talk to me. This is what they told me. It was sort of fun writing about someone working in a restaurant, gave me an opportunity to use some of the knowledge I accumulated during my four summers working as a kitchen assistant (read: slave) at a restaurant near my hometown. Rated T for suggested drinking and substance abuse. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or storylines recognizable from Gilmore Girls. That honor belongs to the ever-so-lovely Amy Sherman-Palladino.
The Deerhill Lodge Debacle
"St James! Sookie!"
I bit down hard. Damn that Stooge, as soon as he stepped into the kitchen he behaved like he was the Man, and not at all a total spazz from Nantucket. We called him Stooge because he, at any given point or angle, resembled the Three Stooges. Feldman, who worked one station over from me, gave me a smirk, and I wanted to hit him over the head with the damn chops, or maybe drown him in the bread dough he was kneading. It's not like he was doing much better than I was. And come on, Feldman had been a complete basketcase, just like the rest of us, about whether or not we were going to make it back to the Deerhill Lodge in time from our latest drunken orgy (which this time had ended in Hampden). This was our last gig before the summer ended. Some crazy wedding party, with the bride, groom and all of the guest dressed like knights and ladies. The parents were dressed up like kings and queens, and the bride looked like Lady Rowena's uglier sister. The interior of the dining room had been turned into a cheesy castle, with a big ass ice sculpture in the middle and an insane amount of white parakeets creaking so loudly we could hear it in the kitchen.
"Where are my lamb chops!" Stooge screeched, and I could feel the stress rising in my chest. "These were supposed to fly five minutes ago, where the heck is the lamb chops?"
I held back a pretty mean comment about Stoge and flying, and pulled out the tender lamb chops from the oven and hurried over to him with them.
I usually worked prep with Joe, but Bung, that poor idiot, had the worst hangover ever known to man (Hampden apparantly didn't take kindly too him), and he was still drunk when we got back. He said he just needed to flush his system (ew), and then he'd show up. This meant me and Mellon, who worked the dessert station, had to take turns covering Bung's station until he came back, and God knows where Mellon was now.
"You're attitude could make milk go bad," Feldman quipped, while Stooge meticulously sprinkled finely chopped parsley over the lamb chops before ringing the bell for the waiters to come. The entire kitchen groaned at the piercing sound of the bell, and even more at Stooge's yells when no one showed up to pick up the food.
"Bite me, Feldster," I hissed, and he laughed at me.
I returned to my station, where Joe feverishly chopped vegetables. Officially, him and me were on prep-duty for tomorrow, you know, making salads, chopping ingredients for the Lodge's famous tartar sauce (we called it torture sauce), and so on, but the fact of the matter was that we were Stooge's personal slaves.
Suddenly, the door to the kitchen slammed open, and Bung walked in. Okay, so walked is a mild exaggeration, but at least he wasn't on all fours anymore...
"Bung, man, what the hell?" Stooge yelled at him. "Do you know what time it is? Do you know what day it is today?"
Poor Bung, I actually felt a bit sorry for him. He squinted and ground his teeth. Stooge's voice must sound pretty darn vicious in his ears. He didn't say anything in defence to Stooge's accusations. He gave a grunt and trodded upstairs to change into his uniform.
"This can not be good..." Joe whispered to me.
"Are you kidding me? Bung is barely functioning, the Feldster is in one of those moods he always gets stuck in when he's barely sober, and you're not looking to hot either, Joey," I whispered back, giving him an appraising look.
Joe was sweating profusely, and even though the kitchen here could qualify as a cleaner, less brimstoney version of Hell, I suspected this was not all due to the hot kitchen.
"Note to self: Never trust a native of Hampden when he says the wine is fine," Joe groaned and swallowed hard.
Truer words had never been spoken, at least not since the disaster trip where we ended up in some deadbeat town in Maine, where Mellon got busted for indecent behavior and had to promise never to set foot in that town again. Not that it would be a challenge. I had been fairly sober that time, and I can't remember the name of that town.
Bung returned, taking over his station. At the same time, Mellon returned from outside, looking slightly green. Well, that explained why I had to bend over backwards to cover both for Mellon and Bung.
"Well, this is nice, the whole gang finally in one place," Stooge goaded. "Can I trust that each and one of you will be on your best behavior? This is our last big catering gig for the season, this could mean serious good rep for us, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah..." we mumbled. Stooge always gave speeches like these. It empowered his abnormally big ego, and though we (meaning the Feldster and Mellon) could've crushed it in three seconds flat, Stooge worked better with his ego intact.
"Now, we're halfway through, and by God if something happens that screws up the second half, I will personally..."
"Cook us, fry us and serve us to your Dobermann," we all finished in one voice. Yeah. We'd heard that one before.
"Glad to see we're all on the same page. All right. Feldman, Bung, you're with me."
"What?" Bung slurred, looking over at Stooge.
"Our waiters seem to have disappeared, and we need these lamb chops out now. Bung, you take one platter. Feldman, you take the second and I'll take the last. Come on, chop chop!"
We all snickered at Stooge's unintentional wordplay, and watched as Stooge took pointe followed by the Feldster and Bung, who swayed alarmingly. I realized I kept my fingers crossed, because this had all the potential of turning into a disaster. I turned back to Joe, grabbing a couple of red onions to chop.
"So, what are you gonna do, you know, when summer's over?" Joe asked, scraping his chopped capers into a large bowl.
"I don't know, really," I replied, keeping my eyes on the onion. The last thing I needed now was another "Sookie"-incident. I was a regular klutz, and had depleted the Lodge's first aid kit within my first week here. "I'll probably go back to Connecticut, see if I can't get a job there. What about you?"
"I might actually stay here," Joe replied.
I looked at him, flabbergasted. The only thing any of us ever talked about was how long until we could get the hell away from the Deerhill Lodge. Or how long until the shift ended so we could wash away the day's hardships with leftover wine.
"Seriously?"
"Hey, someone needs to keep an eye on Bung, I heard he's staying the entire year this time."
We snickered. Good old Bung. You could always count on him for a good time. Unfortunately, you could also always count on Bung to make things get out of hand.
We had been chopping no more than a few minutes when there was a loud clank from the dining room, followed by a loud, collective gasp and a piercing shriek. Joe and I looked at each other, eyes wide.
"Bung," I said.
"Feldman," Joe countered.
We let go of our knives, rushing out of the kitchen, bursting through the doors to the dining area. The scene before us was so surreal, it would've given Dalí some serious inspiration. There were lamb chops all over the place, one even on top of the groom. The bride stood screaming at Bung, who was tearing away at that freaking ice sculpture. The Feldster seemed to have a rather heated argument with someone who appeared to be the bride's mother. Stooge stood right in the middle of it all surrounded by people and squaking parakeets, looking like a shellshocked goldfish.
Bung finally managed to rip off a big chunk of the ice sculpture, and I'm pretty sure both me and Joe began to mimic Stooge's expression. Joe tugged at my arm.
"We need Mellon... now," he murmured.
Mellon, although occasionally stuck up (because she was related to "those Mellon's"), was the only one who could even remotely reason with Bung. Mellon was always the one who could talk us into and out of things, but she seemed to have some special sway over Bung. She could always convince Bung that it was time to call it a day, or night. Mellon and Bung were always the last ones to leave the bar, Bung almost passed out, Mellon hauling his ass to Joe's van.
As such, we ran back into the kitchen, looking for Mellon.
"Mel?" Joe yelled, checking each station to see if Mel was hiding somewhere.
I went outside to check, seeing as Mellon was pretty green just minutes ago. No surprise, I found Mellon barfing in a trash can just around the corner.
"Mellon?" I called to her.
She grunted in answer, pulling herself up from the can.
"Huh?"
"Mellon, we have a situation. Bung and the Feldster are about to go Braveheart on the bridal party, and Stooge is about as useful as a fork in a bowl of soup."
"Soup... Oh, God..." Mellon grunted and bent over to barf again.
I grimaced, but stepped up to her, ignoring the putrid smell of puke.
"Come on, bud. You know how those two get. We need you, now."
"Fine..."
"And I swear to God, Mellon, if you puke on me, I will not hesitate to chop you to bits."
We staggered in through the kitchen, and found Joe peeking out into the dining room.
"How bad is it?" I asked him, trying to sneak a peek through the small window in the door that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
"Oh, it just got bad..." Joe replied ominously. "Bung hit the bride."
"He what?" Bung hitting the bride was enough to get Mellon out of her hangover.
"He hit the bride with a piece of the ice sculpture. Feldman got into a fight with the bride's mother, then the rest of the inlaws. Stooge had to pull them apart. I think the mom's calling the police now," Joe summarized, and glanced over at Mellon. "You better get out there, before Bung goes for round two with the bride."
Mellon shook her head, muttering: "This was not what I signed up for..." before disappearing through the door. Joe and I stood watching through the window, following the events as they unfolded. Mellon got hold of Bung, who after some debate threw away the piece of ice sculpture he had left. Unfortunately, he threw it at the rest of the ice sculpture, hitting it in a way that made the entire thing crack and fall apart. The groom got upset, the bride began to cry, Feldman said something and the entire bridal party seemed to convey on him. Mellon sent Bung away, and Feldman tried to follow him. Unfortunately, both Stooge and Mellon noticed, and hauled him back. Bung came through the door, looking peeved, and continued through the kitchen and out the door. The bride's mother returned, and began having another heated argument with Feldman. Feldman looked surprised, and seemed to repeat the same thing over and over. When that lead nowhere, the mother turned to Stooge, who looked like he'd been cornered by a pack of hyenas. That was a pretty fun sight.
The cops showed up ten minutes later, at which time Joe and I decided we wanted to actually hear what people said. We slid out the door and into the dining room. The volume had risen even more, and personally, I blame the parakeets. Guests were shouting, the bride was still bawling her eyes out. The mother stood yelling at one cop, pointing at Feldman and Stooge. Stooge spotted us, and waved us over.
"Here we go..." Joe told me, and smiled, as we made our way through the chaos of cops and guests.
"Thank God, you're here!" Stooge exclaimed. He both looked and sounded like he'd blown a few gaskets.
"The flooginshorts! Floo-oginshorts!"
Feldman was yelling at the bride's mother, who yelled back, albeit in English.
"Sir, can you tell me what has happened?" one of the cops asked Stooge.
"Believe me, if I knew, I'd tell you, officer," Stooge replied meekly, looking pleadingly at us for help.
"Flooginshorts!" Feldman yelled again, pointing at the bride this time.
"Sir, we don't understand you," the other cop told the Feldster, and it took all my restraint not to break down in fits of laughter. Flooginshorts, really, Feldster?
"Oh, please, he's from Canada, the damn parakeets are more exotic than he is," Stooge told the cops, glaring at Feldman.
If there's one thing you can say about the Feldster, he is consistent. He kept going on about his damn flooginshorts, and though it was clearly a made-up word, the entire party took great offense, and one of the uncles tried to conk him over the head and called him un-patriotic.
"Flooginshorts..?" Feldman replied, with a sufficiently clueless look in his eyes.
The cops shook their heads, and returned to questioning the bride's mother and Stooge.
"Get. Him. Away," he hissed at us, and nodded towards the Feldster.
He didn't need to tell us twice. Joe took hold of Feldman, who happily chortled on about his flooginshorts all the way to the kitchen, where he returned to kneading his bread doug. I followed them in, shaking my head. Bung chose that opportunity to return, and stood watching us.
"What'd I miss?" he asked, as he had not at all been part of the insanity that was still going on in the dining room.
"Feldman, seriously," Joe said, full of laughter. "Flooginshorts?"
"Flooginshorts?" Bung asked, furrowing his brow.
"Flooginshorts." The Feldster nodded affirmingly, snickering at his own private joke.
"Did you score something in Hampden that we should know about?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to know. God, I could use some of that god-awful wine they served here...
"Flooginshorts," Feldman replied, dragging out the o's.
"Where's Mellon?" Bung asked, since the subject of Feldman wouldn't go any further.
"I don't know," I said. "Probably giving Stooge some moral support. Or maybe barfing on the cake."
"Anyone wanna bet how long it will take Stooge to fire us once the cops have cleared?" Joe smiled, picking up his knife.
"I say ten seconds," Bung wagered. "He's gonna go on a rant first, then tell us if we're getting sued and then he'll fire us."
"I don't think he'll fire us," I countered. "He'll just tell us that we'd better not return next year. Sorry, Bung."
"There are plenty of other places that need someone to flip their dead animals," Bung reasoned with a shrug.
Slowly, we returned to our duties. We all kept an eye on Feldman, just to make sure he wouldn't slip something into the bread. Bung checked the reservations for tomorrow, and checked if anything needed to be ordered. Me and Joe kept prepping the torture sauce. Mellon snuck in about ten minutes later, not saying a word, not even when Joe asked if she barfed on somebody or something. This could only mean Stooge was on his way.
Sure thing, half a minute later he stormed through the door, and we all stopped what we were doing. Stooge paced in front of us, throwing angry looks at each of us, but didn't say a peep for the longest time.
"You'll be glad to hear they won't press charges," he finally said between gritted teeth. "The entire wedding party turned on each other, two parakeets cut lose and relieved themselves all over the bride and groom, which they took as a sign, and the uncle that almost conked Feldman in the head got into a fight with his counterpart from the bride's side of the family. The police only left after we promised them they could confiscate the parakeets and that they never again had to get summoned here again for a brawly wedding."
"That's good, right?" Joe ventured, offering a small smile.
"Good? Is it good? It's a disaster, the like of which this establishment has never seen!" Stooge exploded, his eyes so wide it looked as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. "I'm in a good mind to fire all of you, but I haven't yet decided if that's a good idea or not."
"So... what are we supposed to do until that?" Bung asked, unfazed.
Stooge took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, probably trying to find his inner zen or something like that.
"Take whatever leftover wine there is, and pray it's enough to erase this entire day from your minds. Isn't that what you do best?"
We all stared at him. It's not everyday your boss tells you to do the thing they normally discourage their staff from doing. Stooge always gave us a deathglare when we got onto our shift, clearly hungover or generally tired. He gave us crap if we woke him up when we returned from wherever our stupor had taken us, and I understand why. Joe's van is not the most silent vehicle out there.
"Scoot! Shift's over. Crawl into that van you all travel in and get out of my sight before I change my mind."
That got us moving. We dropped everything we had, rushed upstairs to change into our civilian clothes. Mellon and Bung finished first and disappeared to raid the wine cellar for half empty bottles, while me, Joe and the Feldster hurried out and into Joe's van. It took surprisingly long for Bung and Mellon to return from the wine cellar, but when they finally came out the door we all knew why. They had really gone all out. Bung was carrying three cases of half empty bottles, while Mellon carried two.
"What?" Mellon asked when they jumped into the van, bottles clinking dangerously. "We took everything we found!"
"He said, and I quote: 'take whatever leftover wine there is'," Bung added with a grin.
I shook my head. This was gonna be a pain in the butt tomorrow... Joe started up the van, revved the engine and we all took off, heading absolutely nowhere as per usual.
"This is so awesome," Feldman suddenly said, when we'd gone about five miles.
Joe and me both turned to look at him, it was the first intelligible thing he'd said since before the wedding debacle.
"Flooginshorts is awesome?" Mellon questioned, cocking an eyebrow. "Complete embarrassment is awesome? High probability of losing your job is awesome?"
Feldman laughed, picked up a bottle, pulled out the cork and took a swig.
"Flooginshorts!" he called out, raising the entire bottle in a toast.
Feldman... He was a nut, but he was a fun nut. Not even Mellon could stay angry with him. We all took a bottle each, corked it and toasted, snickering "flooginshorts" as we clanked the bottles together.
"Feldman..." Joe began, looking at him in the rearview mirror. "We're never ever going back to Hampden again."
A/N: So... you like? Flooginshorts me a review and I'll be really happy! :)