Waiting

I've worked in a corporate restaurant now for over a year. Let me share what it is like, or can be like at times.

I've waited on people who didn't speak english, couldn't read [not because of bad eye-sight], and one table even ate with their hands when they had knives and forks. I waited on a woman who had schizophrenia [conversations, quite audibly, across the table when no one was there]. I've served people who were stunningly attractive and others who were hideously obese [couldn't fit into a booth]. I've served people who tipped over fifty percent, and those who tipped nothing. I've been called a "yankee". I've forgotten to ring in entire orders, and had tables complain that there was too much ice in their drinks. Customers have confided in me their marital issues and employment setbacks. One guy drank 10 glasses [I counted] of Dr. Pepper. I've had to deliver food to a table as they were in the middle of a fight [verbally]. I've had women leave me their number. A man also.

They are random memories. Nothing more. But that's just the customers. The employees deserve a mention as well.

One of the advantages of working in the service industry, so I'm told, is the absence of drug testing. Safe to say, a fair amount capitalize on this perk, and have a good time in the process. They are an interesting bunch all things considered. One guy has scars on his arms from donating so much plasma. One waiter invited me to a gay bar [said I would be his meal ticket to free drinks. I politely declined]. Another woman I work with offered to give me a full body wax. Yes, you read that correctly. Wax me. All of me. Another polite no. And we always talk about the same things. How many tables you have. Any difficult, interesting, or attractive people at your tables. If you're making good money. What you're doing after work. We never really find anything new to talk about. The questions always the same, answers often different. So we keep asking.

Waiting tables forces you to be social with people you would otherwise never speak to. To smile when they smile and even when they don't. You thank them for coming in and eating, when in fact they should be thanking you. You pretend to care about food complaints, when the truth is you don't care whether the food tastes good, only that it looks good. You don't care if drinks are cold or well made. All that matters is the tip, and so you pretend to actually care because happy people tip well. Orwell describes this false kindness well in his book, Down and Out in Paris and London, when he was working as a dishwashing grunt in a hotel restaurant. He details how waiters verbally abused other employees and himself [quite aggressively, I might add] right up to the moment they walked out into the dining area. Then they were humble, helpful, polite, flattering. Nice to know that not everything has changed. It is still chaotic in the kitchen. Everyone running, yelling that they need this or that. Cooks yelling back. Orders being rung in, brought out, tables being bussed, dish being washed and run back to the kitchen, drinks being made at the bar. It all somehow works.

That's all I've got. There is more to write about, but I have said enough. And I have to go to work.

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More things:

You should read The Road. Quick, powerful, so simple. One of the best writers alive, and arguably his best book. Reminds me of Hemingway with how brutal he is with his writing. Dialogue is awesome too. Just read it.

Cleaned my bike a couple days ago. Bike training for this year has officially started.

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