I’ve been a waitress for seventeen years. That’s pre-pepper grinder, fusion cuisine, touch screen, and “Sparkling, still, or tap?” If you look me up on the chronology of food-service evolution, I’m right there close to the beginning, walking upright and sporting thumbs, but with a hump on my back and a heavy, weighted brow indicating a double shift on all-you-can-eat brunch Sunday. This month, this very year, I mark an anniversary. And I’ll tell you something about that. No one ever starts out thinking they’ll be a waitress for 17 years; it’s just something that sort of sneaks up on you. You start out that first year thinking to yourself, “Hey! This’ll be fun… for a summer! After that I’ll figure out what it is that I really like to do!” The next thing you know, you’re 34 years old, discussing the obvious merits of catfish “fingers” over chicken “fingers,” while wearing a nametag.
Please, don’t get me wrong. I’ll come clean—I like it. I like people, I like bustling around, and I really really really like to snack. If I had an office job, I’d be forced to stuff coins into a vending machine in order to snack on hard, dry kibble like a dog. Where I work, hors d’oeuvres fall like manna from heaven… fresh, hot, and plentiful. Mostly, I forgo the three squares in favor of a constant stream of tidbits. As far as I can see it, this profile leaves me with two career choices: socialite or waitress.
The other thing I like about working in restaurants is the people-watching. A café is the perfect place to see a demonstration of all kinds of mating rituals. On a Friday night, it can be like Wild Kingdom with high heels and hair gel. (Look how the double-breasted braggart preens and stomps to dominate the attention of the hollow-eyed Uptown warbler. Uh oh! Their plates are empty, let’s send my wait assistant Jim in there to clear the debris so we can get a better look. Be careful, Jim! They still look hungry!)
I like the theory that anyone can do restaurant work. It’s democratic. People re-entering society often get placed in food-service jobs because of this. Anyone can try. Three restaurants ago, I worked with a woman I’ll call Baby. Baby was in an outpatient treatment program after touring with several odd heavy-metal bands in a county fair circuit. Hey, it could happen to anybody. Baby, although beautiful, was unaccustomed to flirting while sober. During one shift, Baby asked a 40ish man in her section, “Sir, what would you like for lunch today?”
The man eyed her form filling out the snug uniform, and leered. “Oh, don’t call me sir.” He began laughing at his own joke. Baby laughed too, but with a hint of fear to it, not understanding what the hell the guy meant. I could smell Baby’s confusion from all the way across the dining room. After several tense seconds, Baby hit on an answer. “Um, okay, what would you like for lunch today, dude?” I was so happy for her I could have cried. Unlike an office, where someone else’s failure might mean your success, in a restaurant, you have to watch each others backs, because if the guy next to you goes down, you’re next. This creates kind of a pirate-ship mentality that all food-service workers past and present share.
Of course, there aren’t many lifer buccaneers. What about folks like me, who are working on their 20-year pin? I recall the words of an early career food-service mentor, Paul, a slight man who watched my back at Mickey’s Diner off and on in between writing western novels. “You know, Colleen, how people on the highway slow down to look at an accident while they are passing by? People slow down and stay in this business because they just have to see how it turns out!” I’ll keep you posted.
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