Hiya, forkity fork fork forkers! Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Holly Fork. Nah, that’s not my real name. If I told ya my honest to goodness given name, why, you’d blush in all the wrong places. Let’s just say my parents were creatively crass little forkers when they named me.
So yeah, Holly Fork is my nickname. I got it from the rowdy BOH forkers at my restaurant. Come to think of it, my original nickname actually was Holy Fuck. I got that right gem of an a.k.a. on my very first shift many motherforking moons ago. I went back into the kitchen and yelled “holy fuck! holy fuck! holy fuck!” when I saw something I’d never— How do I describe it sanitary like? It was, well, it was— Ah fork it, let’s just move on. Best to leave some things to the imagination, as my nana used to say before she was retired to the Great Drawer in the Sky.
So anyways, everyone at the restaurant started calling me Holy Fuck after that stupendous day. “Steak up in the window – Holy Fuck, it’s so rare it’ll moo till Monday!” “Holy Fuck – two nuns seated at table sixty-nine!” We certainly had fun with it, until…
This bigwig executive, a real D.I.S.H. of a customer, if you catch my meaning. Apparently it was bring-your-daughter-to-work day, some white-collar ritual I suppose, and of course he comes to our restaurant for lunch with his daughter. I’ll spare ya the details, but, after that, my manager says we need a PG version of my nickname.
And that’s how I became Holly Fork. Granted, it did help that people just assume my last name is Fork because I happen to be a fork. Though, truth be told, I’ve never met a Fork fork before, swear to forking Christ. As for Holly, it does smack of spunky yet stylish waitress at a dumpy diner. So, yeah, I rocked my new nickname: Holly Fork.
Then one day it happened. A slow mid-shift. Only one 1-top in my section. A loner from out-of-town. Didn’t say a word to me the entire time outside of ordering and asking for the check. Up and leaves a 1,000% tip. A coworker meant to say “Holly Fork fucks” but accidentally said “Holly Fork forks.” And it took off like a rocket from there.
Everything soon was fork that, fork you, fork off, go fork yourself with your forking forked up fork of a forking fork face mother watching as she cries in the corner. You know, that sort of thing. And so the Restaurant Forkers were born.
People assume we’re all forks. Sure, many of us are. There’s Flo, a disposable fork; she may be missing a tine or two, but she’s a true server for life that the restaurant industry can’t seem to throw away as hard as it might try. Our bright-eyed, innocent busboy looks like a toddler fork, but he’s fifteen and has the pubescent fuzz of a desperate mustache to prove it. My bestie, Sterling, is a spiffy oyster fork who works fine dining cross-town (if only his boushie clientele knew he was raised by two humble salad forks).
But we Restaurant Forkers aren’t only forks. We’re an inclusive set and welcome all into our merry band of forking misfits. Our head chef is a salt shaker named Saul Tchaikovsky. His last name is too much for us forking degenerates, so we just call him Saul T. Which is appropriate because, well, obviously: He’s been working in kitchens for almost forty years. You can imagine his vocabulary, dirty as a three-day-old dump bucket. Best part is that you can really shake his shaker by telling him that a customer asked for salt for their food.
Our dishwasher, a foreigner from parts unknown, is a knife. Butter knife to be precise. No one has a clue of his background because he’s never spoken. Literally. Acts like he doesn’t even understand English, but we’re convinced he’s a Noble laureate in Shake-forking-speare. We call him Butter Cutter, naturally.
And then there’s my boyfriend. Sorry, boys, you can table your serveware, because this fork is taken. He’s a sous chef of a spoon at a Spanish restaurant. I’m fork over heels for my spoon. He may look all hard and steely, but he has a softy side – always wants to spoon after a good fork. Total sweetie.
What else should I share about me? I suppose I can answer the usual questions I’m asked.
Have I ever slept on an air mattress? Yes, but I swear it already had a hole in it. Don’t tell me you humans with your silky soft locks of hair have ever made it through the night on an air mattress that didn’t deflate. You shouldn’t a blamed my fork locks, Megan.
Here’s another one: With my complexion, do I tarnish easily? Not as easily as Sterling, who’s true silver, but I do try to keep a bottle of Barkeeper’s Friend handy. Especially if I’m going tanning at the heat lamp.
Then there’s the question that inevitably seems to be on male minds: Is it dangerous to get head from a fork faced fork? As a human girl with braces will tell ya, it’s all in the technique, you dirty little forkers.
But enough about me. I know why you’re really here. You’re here for my new blog: ‘Dishing with Holly Fork.’ We’re gonna have so much fun. I’ll share stories from the restaurant industry, crazy antics and all that. Tips of the trade. Urban legends. Gossip and innuendo. And, as I said, we’re inclusive, so even if you’re not from food service, you’re still welcome. Just don’t be a Karen. Fork Karen!
Fork me, it got late real fast, and I’m totally forked up. Truth be told, I’ve been playing a solo drinking game – I drink every time I type “fork.” Only bout a few sips of wine left in the bottle. Bottoms up: Fork! Fork! Fork!
