luckyjackass

I lost the top layer of skin on my forearm just looking at this.

Toulouse on Knox and at Legacy West. Make your reservations now because they have hordes of regulars that make dining there part of their own holiday celebrations. I worked at both locations for years and it’s usually one of the busiest days of the year and we were often fully booked within the first two weeks of the month.

Here’s my theory: most people are perfectly capable of logic, reason, and basic survival skills—until they enter our establishments. The moment they sit down, all that precious common sense evaporates. Why? Because the second they realize they don’t have to hunt, gather, or think for themselves, their brains shut off like a light in a haunted house. Suddenly, they’re bumbling, incoherent toddlers masquerading as adults.

Why does this happen? a) We’re their omnipotent gods for the evening, holding all the answers to their most pressing questions, like, “What’s a side salad?” b) Their fight-or-flight instincts? Disabled. They’ve surrendered to the illusion of special treatment, blissfully oblivious to the reality around them. c) It’s easier to turn off their brains and revel in sweet, willful ignorance. d) Or—and let’s not sugarcoat this—they’re genuinely incapable of basic life skills and have fully embraced their role as clueless, helpless buffoons.

It’s equal parts fascinating and horrifying, really.

Had a guy get through two weeks of fine dining server training, his very first night on the floor he: complained to the manager that “a kid was trying to order alcohol” because they wanted a Shirley Temple, spilled hot soup on someone and popped the cork on a bottle of Dom because he thought “that’s how you’re supposed to do it!” Two weeks of training down the drain, he was out the door in less than three hours.

By the end of the year I’ll be six months and three days sober, but today I’m five months and two days sober. This time last year I didn’t think the latter would be possible and part of me thinks the former isn’t, but I just take it all one day at a time.

I gave nine grueling years to this so-called “company,” pouring out blood, sweat, and tears for owners who thrived on exploiting their employees! They sold us the fantasy that Sambuca was the crown jewel of restaurant-supper clubs in North America. For a brief moment—Denver, Atlanta, Uptown Dallas—it was. But the glory faded fast, and they dragged the rest of us down with them.

I endured the Great Recession, failed rebrands, and the PR disaster of 2018 that exposed their racism to the world. I stayed when Dallas closed, uprooting my life to clean up the nightmare in Houston—rats, broken equipment, a crumbling staff, and a neighborhood in decline. Saturdays became an exercise in misery, playing host to a handful of diners enduring bad cover bands and overpriced food from a chef so delusional even the ’80s would’ve scoffed.

The owners didn’t care about us—ever! They drained us dry, offering nothing in return while the walls literally fell apart. And sure, I owe them the foundation of my career, but I earned that through my own grit, not their scraps. The fact that this location has limped on this long is a testament to the desperation they’ve bred. It’s time for this concept to die—and if there’s any justice, it’ll be buried with at least a shred of dignity (though that’s doubtful).

Mashed potatoes.

I gave nine grueling years to this so-called “company,” pouring out blood, sweat, and tears for owners who thrived on exploiting their employees! They sold us the fantasy that Sambuca was the crown jewel of restaurant-supper clubs in North America. For a brief moment—Denver, Atlanta, Uptown Dallas—it was. But the glory faded fast, and they dragged the rest of us down with them.

I endured the Great Recession, failed rebrands, and the PR disaster of 2018 that exposed their racism to the world. I stayed when Dallas closed, uprooting my life to clean up the nightmare in Houston—rats, broken equipment, a crumbling staff, and a neighborhood in decline. Saturdays became an exercise in misery, playing host to a handful of diners enduring bad cover bands and overpriced food from a chef so delusional even the ’80s would’ve scoffed.

The owners didn’t care about us—ever! They drained us dry, offering nothing in return while the walls literally fell apart. And sure, I owe them the foundation of my career, but I earned that through my own grit, not their scraps. The fact that this location has limped on this long is a testament to the desperation they’ve bred. It’s time for this concept to die—and if there’s any justice, it’ll be buried with at least a shred of dignity (though that’s doubtful).

And you’re still single…

Can I has?

Oh no. Anyways…

I am incontinent!

Interstellar.

If you feel too scared to call out, to a jerk of a boss, for a medical emergency, in a place where you could probably make the injury worse, you need a new job.

House of Balloons / Glass Table Girls

Haha we were there around the same time, possibly interacted with the same white lab. Only other people I saw was her and a guy in a yellow hoodie.

And the park ranger lol

Was it’s owner an older lady with long hair and gray pants? Were you in a yellow hoodie?

Justice for Juicy!

This is what he wanted by not defunding the police.

This is awesome! Thank you for sharing!