Welcome back to Behind Closed Ovens, where we take a look at the best and strangest stories from inside the food industry. This weekend, we’ve got a quickie special edition of BCO: restaurant sex stories. As always, these are real e-mails from real readers.
I’ve been wanting to run this BCO for a very long time. Unfortunately, in the entire time I’ve been doing this job (over a year and a half now), these are the only submissions I’ve received on the subject (unless we count the navy guy fucking the bread dough—which maybe we should, actually). I’ve got a grand total of four stories here, which is why this is running on a Saturday rather than as a full Monday edition.
Seriously, what gives? Restaurants are supposed to be a hotbed of illicit sexual liaisons, even if I’ve never actually witnessed it myself. You guys are disappointing me. I implore you to send more bonkers sex stories.
I slaved my way through college and a few years beyond waiting tables at an overpriced chain restaurant before finally managing to land myself a job where I wasn’t treated like pond scum on a daily basis, so I wasn’t actually there when this happened. This was a place where the managers shared how to steal liquor unnoticed, one of them was carrying on a relationship with an underage hostess, and another drunken, off-duty manager jumped over our restaurant’s bar after being cut off and punched a bartender—and didn’t lose his job. So when I heard that one of the servers got fired (and she was really good at her job), I knew it must have been good.
It turns out that she had been cheating on her husband with two cooks at our restaurant and several other men beyond that. But that morning our kitchen and assistant managers were doing their opening prep and checking inventory when they opened the door to the walk in fridge and found her and one of the cooks sans pants. She was braced across the doorframe and he stood behind her, interrupted before they could start. No one said anything, they just grabbed their clothes and walked out. None of were surprised that they were screwing around in the restaurant, just that they decided the fridge was a good place to go at it despite the shrinkage.
To my knowledge, that one still tops that restaurant’s list, just above the guy who dug a hole in a bag of butter and had his way with it before being caught in the act.
I worked downtown in my city in a hip area, with a nightclub open next door on Friday and Saturdays. As such, I’ve seen some very—unfortunately—memorable things. But nothing compares to the couple having sex in the parking lot IN FULL VIEW OF THE RESTAURANT. It was a rather sad display, and I’m not sure if they were a couple or if she was a hooker, but there was some undeniable back door action and serious erectile dysfunction. The entire staff just stood there in shock, I mean the windows were open and everything, they could hear us yelling! It was like watching a car crash—it was so horrible and yet I could not peel my eyes away! But that didn’t deter them…
I had to walk past on my way to my car. But I saw them FINALLY getting arrested as I drove home.
The pub I was working had multiple locations, as we were working at the new location; they sent their head bartender/bartender manager from Boston to our location to train the Bar Staff. The head bartender also had a wife who sometimes visited whenever she could. In between those visits, the BM was hooking up with one of the female bartenders who worked at the establishment.
How I found out: one morning, while doing cleanup, I found a cellphone behind the bar and went through the texts to figure out whose phone it was. The first text conversation I found was from the previous night, verbatim (because it’s etched in my memory):
Female Bartender: :)
Male Bartender: Up for a little slap and tickle?
Female Bartender: Isn’t your wife coming into town.
Male Bartender: No
Male Bartender: Even if she was, I’m hurtin’ for you.
Female Bartender: Okay :D You know my rules ;)
Male Bartender: :) Usual spot?
Female Bartender: Any spot ;)
(the rest of the texts were mostly cheesy stuff like this, and him telling her how much he loved being with her)
So being the immature jerk that I was, I eventually turned the phone in, but not before showing the other dishwashers and busboys the texts. It was very clear through the texts that they were doing it somewhere in the restaurant, so we also made a plan to try to catch them in the act, because we were dickheads. We didn’t have to wait too long, either.
A few nights later, well after midnight, it was dead as per usual. One of the busboys burst into kitchen to notify us that he overheard the two bartenders saying that they were going for a “smoke break,” but they seemed to be headed for the staff bathrooms. Sensing opportunity, a fellow dishwasher and I, along with the busboy, headed off to the bathrooms only to find it locked. I pressed my door to the ear only to hear the continuous flushing off a toilet, which was really strange. The busboy jimmied the lock open with a credit card, which he was apparently skilled at.
We made our way into bathroom, doing our best to contain ourselves, hearing the unmistakable sounds of grunting and flushing coming from the lone stall. As there was no way to climb over and look, the other dishwasher motioned for me to follow his suit, and get on the floor and slide under the stall to take a look at the action. Clearly this view did not suit the busboy, no sooner had we slid our heads under, mechanic-style, the busboy kicked the stall door open and yelled “there’s a line!” The two were bent over the toilet and looked at the busboy with the most embarrassed looks I’ve never seen replicated.
Some years ago I was working at this higher-end (but not stuffy or pretentious) joint in a touristy part of Florida. The restaurant offered al fresco dining on a lovely elevated deck that people liked to water watch from during the day and have sunset dinners on, but after sunset it got pretty minimal patrons. The owner of the joint was too cheap to hire a real staff, so we all basically had to be our own bartenders, bus our own tables, and shoot over to the host stand to seat people in between taking care of our guests. It sucked when we were slammed, but during slower times it wasn’t bad, since it kept you from getting bored and you didn’t have to tip anyone out at the end of the night, so you got used to it. But during slower times you were working the deck you were probably the only staff member who would go out there.
One weekday evening after sunset, there were only two couples dining on the deck. I was working the deck, so taking care of both of them was my only task for the moment. I’d done well during sunset dinner, so I was happy to have it slow, and they were both good tables. They were friendly, low-maintenance customers who were ordering expensive meals and nice bottles of wine, so I was expecting a good tip for pretty minimal work.
Which is why I was surprised when, in between my trips to check on them, the gentleman from one of the tables came inside to find me. I was expecting some sort of usual tourist bitching, but he pleasantly stuns me by being very friendly and telling me that they’re having an amazing dinner and he wanted to thank me for taking care of them. After working there a while, I came to learn that the kind of person who goes out of their way to thank you before the meal is over is the kind of person who is about to make a ridiculous request, but I was young and naive and didn’t know that yet. So I told him it was my pleasure, I was glad he enjoyed it...yadda yadda...let me know if there’s anything else I can do for him. That’s when his request came.
To set the picture, this was a big, probably 6’3-4, guy with a super think Australian accent. He was the kind of guy that looked like he probably lifted weights and would be in good shape, except that he also probably drank daily. He had a white oxford shirt on and had chosen to leave the top few buttons undone, brandishing his graying chest hair. He was probably 40ish, and his date was a true blonde bombshell probably at least ten years his junior.
He said, “Well there is one thing you can do, if it’s not too much trouble, mate.”
“Sure,” I said.
“It looks like that other couple on the balcony with us is about to head out,” (they were), “And I was wondering if after they leave you could not have anyone else seated outside so we could have a bit of privacy.”
I told him that I can’t not seat someone there if they come in and want the deck, but that the outside is usually slow this time of night on weekdays and they would likely have at least some time out there alone.
He looked back me and said,”Well I kind of need some assurances, mate. You see, mate, I’ve talked her into it. And if we can get some alone time we’re gonna [*clicking sound-*squeaking sound* while pounding his fists together]. Right out there. On that balcony.”
I assumed this was some sort of Aussie humor and laughed, telling him, “Well, I don’t know that we really allow that here, but like I said you should have a few minutes for a romantic moment alone.”
That’s when he looked at me and said as non-nonchalantly as someone asking to sub fries for a baked potato, “I’m serious, mate. I want this to happen. Can you help me out?” Then he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and offered it to me.
Now, a hundred dollars is a hundred dollars anytime, but this was the late 90’s, so a hundred dollars was really a hundred dollars. I paused for a second, taken back, and then asked him, “You’re serious?” He said he was. He said he only needed fifteen minutes, really only ten for a “quick shot” but fifteen just to be safe, and concluded his spiel with, “Are you my man, mate?”
You couldn’t see the deck from anywhere in the inside dining room, or really anywhere else, and I really wanted that Benji since it was like a pile of gold to someone just barely old enough to drink. So I took his money and told him, okay, I could give him fifteen minutes, the clock started as soon as the other couple left the deck, and if I flicked the lights (again, it’s candles outside after dark) he should abort immediately. He was stoked. I wa definitely amused to be part of his caper—my fresh $100 bill was a big part of that.
There were only two other servers working the floor that night, so I brought each of them aside and told them (because I was a young jackass) that this guy had tipped me $50 to have the deck to himself for a while and not to seat anyone else out there, and I’d give them each $10 to go with it. One of them didn’t really want to and was like, ‘Well we can’t just do that, the owner could get pissed, blah blah.” Thinking on my feet, I said I think this guy is going propose, and all he wants is fifteen minutes (Editor’s Note: Smooth move there, slick). That did the trick, and we all agreed not to sit anyone outside until I gave the all clear. Soon the other couple on the deck left and I basically went and stood guard at the path out there to make sure no one went outside.
I’d like to say we then had a bunch of “Three’s Company”-style antics unfold to protect the deck, but that wasn’t the case. Nobody wanted to go on the deck, so it was a non-issue. What did happen was even crazier.
In general, this restaurant was fairly quiet and had the mood of romantic whispers and intimate dinners, so when the fifteen minutes was almost up and the woman started moaning like a porno starlet, the whole dining room could hear it even through doors and wall. There was a pretty unmistakable, “Oh God, I’m cumming” in there somewhere. I was frozen, as stunned as everyone else in the joint for a moment, and then I rushed to frantically begin flicking the light switch to the outside.
Just moment later, the couple came sashaying inside to the dining room (which you have to pass through to leave). The whole place was hear-a-pin-drop silent, with all eyes on the couple. The woman was basically hiding behind the big Aussie, flush red. The Aussie just bellowed in his loud Aussie voice to the whole dining room, “Well, I guess you folks heard that did you?” Dead silence and stares. “Right. Well, would you believe it wasn’t what it sounded like?” Dead silence and stares. “Right. Well, I can fix this, no problem.” He then raised his voice from a bellow to a near shout, “A round of whatever everyone is drinking on me!”
There was another brief moment of silence, but then one table let out a cheer of, “Yeah!” and started clapping. The whole dining room quickly joined in applauding and cheering free drinks. Of course, the commotion had brought out the manager (who was actually a good guy, took care of problem customers immediately and helped the floor whenever we needed it, but lazily hung in the back fucking off on slow days). He had a look of confusion on his face, and I did not want him to start digging deeper. I rushed over to him and asked him if he could man the bar while we servers grabbed everyone’s drink orders since we were about to get a round for everyone. He shrugged and headed to the bar, and just said, “Make sure this guy can pay for it.”
I go over to the Aussie. He’s got a shit eating grin, which is contagious, so I couldn’t help but get one too. I said to him, “You know that’s gonna be a huge bill, right?” We were the kind of place that served expensive wine and whiskies that were $20 a dram, even in 90’s money.
He said, “Well had to do something now didn’t I?” He then reached to his billfold and pulled out a stack of hundreds and handed it to me. “Will this cover what I owe?” It wasn’t very crowded, so even with the round for everyone, I was certain it would. I told him as much and asked him to just wait for all the drinks to get put in and I’d get him his change. He told me to keep it for my trouble (which, after we totaled their meal and all the drinks, still left me $120 on top of the $100 he’d already given me, though this time I did the right thing and split the $120 with the other servers).
I thanked him for the tip and the interesting evening and said I hoped it was worth it for him. He laughed and says he told his date (who at some point scurried out the front) they had to be mellow, but she was a moaner, so what could he do. He said, “But hey, now she owes me one, and we’re going to Disneyworld later this week so [*clicking sound*-*squeaking sound*],” and he gave me a wink. I laughed, expecting him to leave, but he just stood there, seeming to want some kind of a response. So I said the only thing that came to mind: “Well, every Floridian knows that the Haunted Mansion is the best place for hand stuff there.”
He kinda squinted and in his big Aussie voice said, “Right!” Then he gave me a thumbs up and headed out the door.
And that is the only time I’ve ever seen someone in real life buy a round for everyone in a joint.
Do you have a crazy restaurant or other food-industry story you’d like to see appear in Behind Closed Ovens (on ANY subject, not just this one)? Please e-mail WilyUbertrout@gmail.com with “Behind Closed Ovens” in the subject line (or you can find me on Twitter @EyePatchGuy). Submissions are always welcome!
Note: I do not want poop/vomit stories. Please stop sending me poop/vomit stories. Also, if your stories are not food-related in some way, I am unable to do anything with them. Sorry.
Image via HLPhoto/Shutterstock.
Contact the author at WilyUbertrout@gmail.com.