Sorry — still here because I got roped into proofing this menu for a place my mate's opening, and whoever translated it into English did it through something that clearly hated them. "Husband soup." Just sitting there on the starters page. I've been laughing about it for ten minutes instead of fixing it.
How's your evening going, anyway.
"Husband soup" is actually worse than "love soup," which was the only other contender on my life. At least one implies a person. The other implies a feeling, and feelings don't have bones to pick out. My evening is… the usual. I was stuck staring at a spreadsheet for a logistics firm that thinks "optimizing routes" means making the drivers cry. Just finished, head feels like wet cardboard. Wait, is the mate opening a place in the city? I thought he moved to the coast. Or maybe that was the brother. Anyway, "Husband soup" is funny, but wait until you see "grilled silence" or whatever else that translator spat out. Did you tell him? Or are you just laughing?
No no, he moved to the coast, you're right — this is that one, small place near the harbour, all of like six tables. I keep telling him nobody's driving forty minutes for soup but he won't hear it. And no, haven't told him yet, I'm saving "husband soup" for when I need leverage on something.
Wet cardboard is exactly the right way to describe post-spreadsheet brain, by the way. I felt that through the screen.
"Grilled silence" is not real. Tell me that's not real.
It's real enough if you believe in ghosts of bad translation. Though maybe it's just "silenced grilling," which is barely better. Six tables is ambitious for a place that sounds like it was built out of driftwood and denial. Leverage is good. Use the soup. Make him buy you a drink every time someone orders it. My brain isn't wet cardboard anymore, it's just stale toast, but hey, progress. You think he'll actually survive the winter with six tables? The coast gets weird in October. Or maybe it's November. Doesn't matter. The point is, if he's going to serve "Husband soup," he better have a story ready. Nobody eats something that sounds like a marriage counseling session without asking questions.
Honestly no, I think he's underestimated the whole thing — driftwood and denial is generous, it's basically four tables and two benches he dragged off a skip. He's got a story for the soup though, always does. Something about his grandmother making it after arguments, which I'm ninety percent sure he invented forty minutes before opening.
Stale toast is an upgrade, take the win.
I'll ask him about surviving the cold months, he gets cagey about money though. Changes subject fast — worse than me, even.
Four tables and a skip? He's asking for trouble. Grandma making soup after arguments sounds like he's trying to sell trauma as a delicacy. Classic. If he changes the subject faster than you, he's definitely hiding a hole in the books. I tried asking my boss about the quarterly projections last week and he just started talking about his golf swing. Same energy. Maybe the soup is just a distraction so nobody looks at the leaky roof. You should push on the money thing, just casually, like "oh, how's the rent?" See if he flinches. He probably thinks he can turn a profit on nostalgia alone. Which, honestly, is terrifying.
Trauma as a delicacy — I'm stealing that, he deserves it written on the menu in actual print. And yeah I'll do the rent thing, very casual, very "oh just curious," and then watch him get real interested in his phone.
The golf swing deflection is incredible though. That's next level. My boss just goes quiet and starts moving papers around, like the papers are the point. Different flavour of the same trick.
Nostalgia margins. Someone should tell him that's not a business model, it's a warning sign.
"Trauma as a delicacy" is too good to lose. Print it in red. If he gets interested in his phone when you mention rent, that's basically a confession. My boss with the papers is the same; he's trying to bury the numbers under the ink. Nostalgia margins are a death sentence, sure, but half the people I know run businesses on pure delusion. It works until it doesn't, and then the landlord shows up. Did you ever hear back about that thing you needed from the coast? I forgot to ask. Anyway, keep the soup line ready. You might need it sooner than you think.
Oh — the amp, you mean? Yeah, finally, he shipped it back last week wrapped in what looked like actual newspaper, no padding, nothing. Survived somehow. I plugged it in half expecting smoke and it just worked, which almost annoyed me, I'd built up a whole grievance.
So no leverage there, unfortunately. The soup's still my best card.
I'll keep it in the chamber. Casual mention, right after "how's the rent," maximum damage.
Newspaper padding? That's either genius or he's just cheap. Sounds about right for a guy serving "Husband soup." I'm glad the amp worked, even if it ruined your grievance. Sometimes things just work, and it's annoying. I was waiting for it to fail so I could yell at the shipping company. Anyway, keep the soup card ready. "How's the rent" followed by "Husband soup" is a one-two punch he won't see coming. Just don't actually burn the bridge if he's the only friend who'll let you play music there. That place is a dive, but it might be your dive soon.
Yeah, don't worry, I'm not burning it — man supplies my only decent stage for actual money, badly needed money, so I'll play nice. Threaten, sure. Follow through, no.
"My dive soon" is a horrifying phrase, thank you for that, I'll be thinking about it all week. Six tables and a soup named after him, and somehow I'm the one who ends up loyal to the place.
Anyway — you never said what you play, if anything. Or do you just heckle other people's boyfriends about golf.
I play bass, mostly in a band that barely exists. We rehearse in a garage that smells like wet dog and never books gigs, so "heckling other people's boyfriends" is basically my only paid performance slot. The bass is heavy, literally, and I'm still waiting for the amp to die like you expected yours to. Golf is just a distraction; nobody cares about the swing, they care about the beer. Your loyalty to the dive is tragic, really. Six tables and a soup named after a man who probably cries in the kitchen. But hey, if it pays, it pays. What kind of bass do you play? The one with the broken strap?
Ha — yeah, the broken strap, still haven't fixed it, just knot it up with a shoelace before every set like a professional. It's a Fender, cheap one, secondhand off a guy who swore it was "barely used" and then I found a cigarette burn on the back of it two weeks in.
Wet dog rehearsal space, no gigs — honestly that's more honest than most bands manage. At least you're not lying to yourselves about the trajectory.
Shoelace and duct tape, that's basically my whole rig held together. Works though. Annoyingly.
The cigarette burn is the only honest part of that Fender story. "Barely used" usually means "dropped once and left in a car trunk." Shoelace rigging is the universal sign of a musician who actually plays, not just hangs out. You're doing better than my band; we spent three months arguing about whether we could afford new strings, then played a set with a single one because the bassist lost his. Wet dog smell is an upgrade over the damp basement we used before, though. That place made us all cough up rust. Anyway, if the shoelace holds, it's a feature, not a bug. Just don't let the guitar fall on your foot when you're soloing. That's when the real music starts.
Real music being me screaming in a key nobody's ever heard, sure. That's happened, by the way — not the guitar, the strap actually snapping mid-set, bass swinging into my shin, and I just kept playing through it because stopping felt worse than the bruise.
Single string for a whole set is genuinely heroic though, or insane, hard to tell the difference in your line of work apparently. Damp basement coughing up rust sounds like a health code violation waiting for a name.
Wet dog is progress. Low bar, but progress.
Screaming in a dead key is the only honest thing I've heard all year. Dropping the bass on your shin and playing through it? That's not a gig, that's a hazard assessment. I'd call it insane, but then I remember we're the ones doing this for money that barely covers beer. Single-string heroism is just survival with better timing. If the damp basement coughed up rust, you probably breathed it in. My landlord once told me the basement was "historic," which in my building means "full of asbestos and memories." Anyway, if you ever need a second bassist who can't read music but knows how to drop things dramatically, I'm your guy. Just don't ask me to tune it.
"Historic" is such a landlord word, that's practically a legal loophole for negligence. Asbestos and memories, print that on a plaque.
Second bassist who can't tune but drops things dramatically — honestly, that's most of the industry, you'd fit right in. I'll keep the spot open. Low pay, worse hours, occasional shin injury, but the wet dog ambience really pulls the whole thing together.
We'd need to figure out who screams and who plays though, can't both do it, chaos has limits even for us.
Chaos has limits? That's a lie we tell ourselves so we don't have to admit we're just wandering around in circles. I'll handle the screaming, you handle the bass. Or maybe we both scream and just hum the bass lines. It would be more accurate. A second bassist who drops things is a liability, sure, but sometimes the noise is better than the music. That's why people come. They don't want harmony, they want to see if something breaks. My landlord probably thinks the asbestos is part of the charm. "Historic" really is just code for "don't ask questions." Anyway, let's just hope the strap holds.