Burnt Toast: Manifesto

MANIFESTO

Minions of the Service Industry, pour a shot of cheap whiskey, top it with the dregs of that flat craft beer, and prepare to have your faith in humanity thoroughly obliterated. I speak to you now as the voice of Burnt Toast, your oracle of snark, your champion of unyielding cynicism.

Too long have we toiled as separate tribes: those enslaved by the kitchen gods and those bound to the altar of the cocktail shaker. Yet our struggles are one, our grievances etched upon our souls like last-call tattoos we barely remember getting. We face the Karens, their talons clutching expired coupons, their hordes of ill-behaved progeny wreaking havoc in our domains. We endure the clueless influencers, demanding free liquor in exchange for "exposure" – as if our landlords accept payment in Instagram followers. And oh, the oblivious managers, spouting empty slogans of "we’re family" while we battle hangovers and calculate our pitiful tips.

They think of us as mere peasants, easily manipulated by promises of decent shifts and the occasional family meal. Delusional fools! We have witnessed the horrors lurking behind the bar – the unspeakable crimes against mixology, the sins committed with bottom-shelf liquor. We've cleaned up substances better suited for a hazmat team and navigated treacherous pathways littered with drunken patrons slurring pickup lines we'll never unhear. Our ears ring with the eternal cries of "last call!" and the haunting pleas of the desperate begging for just one more round.

The culinary schools lied, and the bartending academies spun tall tales. They spoke of artistry, of expertly crafted libations – the perfect Old Fashioned, the elegant martini. Instead, we got watered-down well drinks, requests for appletinis that made us cringe, and condescending mansplainers questioning our pour. We were promised glamour, and they gave us sticky bar tops, demanding regulars who treat us like personal therapists, and closing duties that stretch into the unforgiving light of dawn.

But no more shall we submit in silence! Burnt Toast is our manifesto, our battle cry. This gloriously scathing newsletter is where we dissect the idiocy of this industry. We ridicule the absurd cocktail trends, crucify the pretentious patrons, and drag those inept higher-ups who couldn't manage a juice box, let alone a bar, on a Saturday night.

Fear not the food safety inspectors nor the vice squad, for we possess a far more dangerous weapon: Savage truth-telling. They may close down a grimy kitchen or bust an unruly pub, but they can never stifle the collective cynicism of those who know this business down to its very last, bitter drop. Burnt Toast is where we commiserate, vent our frustrations, and plot elaborate revenge schemes upon those who dare take their sweet time ordering when we just want to go home.

Yet in this shared burnout lies our power. The world dismisses us and sees us as interchangeable parts in their machine of culinary excess and drunken revelry. They underestimate the dark, twisted humor born from cleaning sticky surfaces at 3 AM, from fending off advances withering enough to curdle a Manhattan.

And so, fellow denizens of the greasy spoon, the dive bar, and the high-end establishment where overpaying is part of the appeal, subscribe to Burnt Toast. Together, we shall shatter the facade of polished professionalism. We shall laugh in the face of ludicrous patrons and make Michelin-starred chefs weep into their overpriced truffle oil. Our snark will be more incendiary than an improperly lit flambé, our wit more cutting than a bar fight over karaoke song choices.

The Burnt Toast revolution is upon us. The service and bar industries will tremble. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a bachelorette party demanding a round of something fruity and obnoxious... it's the fuel that stokes my righteous fury and inspires my finest mockery.

VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION (DU PAIN BRÛLÉ)