Back to work

I headed in the direction of restaurants like a lost dog returning to its master. We are all creatures of habit. The familiarity of pain is preferential even to abused wives than the great-unknown abyss of recovery. Besides I can't type. And let's not forget that I was still an aspiring Thespian. I pounded the pavement and landed a job at Junior's Deli. Junior's is not the little mom and pop place that the name implies, but a famous deli and bakery big enough for its own zip code with an equally large diner attached. It is well known in the entertainment community, which is largely Jewish. As a kid in Southern California I would hear snippets in the news about anti-Semitism and wondered what the hell could they possibly be bitching about. From where I stood they were the luckiest people in world. Entertainment Jews were the only ones I knew and I'd have killed to be a part of that club. How many of you folks feel sorry for Tori Spelling? It was years before I understood the world-wide historical scope of anti-Semitism, beyond the heinous butchery of WWII. That having little bearing on my work at Junior's.

"How can they eat this stuff?!"

Trays of food offensive to my stunted American palate loomed in the deli's display case. Kreplach, gefilte fish, chopped liver, tongue, and something I'm still not over; flanken. Boiling beef may not be against Jewish law, but there must be some culinary advisory against it. To me it resembled a quivering slab of zombie flesh. Mmm! I am fully aware that the food of my own ancestry is just as horrid. Scotts and Swedes are best when they stick to cookies and milk chocolate. But there was nothing in my household that approached traditional cuisine beyond Swedish Christmas cookies or Scotch and soda. While at Junior's I stuck to cheeseburgers and egg creams.

An egg cream is a New York delicacy, basically chocolate milk with soda water. One of the waitresses taught me the secret to a really great egg cream. It's half and half. You put equal parts chocolate syrup and half and half in the bottom of the glass, fill with soda, and stir. I learned a lot more at Junior's than that. The primary lesson I learned was that waiting tables could be really hard work. Over all, schlepping plates is not as physically tough as it is often made out to be. Its widely exaggerated stress levels are mostly mental emotional stuff: i.e. resisting the urge to use that steak knife on an unsuspecting moron. People often surprise me with their thoughtless abuses of service people. Not because I don't know the world is full of a-holes, but the public doesn't seem to understand that some of the servers they are belittling are just a bit unstable. You might want to re-think your tone. We'll return to them later.

As I was saying, as long as you wear sensible shoes and you're in reasonably good shape, it's not that physically taxing; unless - you work in a diner. If you cross a diner with a deli, you've got a long night ahead of you. In a coffee shop or a diner, you make your money in volume not sales percentages. In other words, you need to turn all your tables three or four times in a station the size of Manhattan over an eight hour period, to make enough money to justify showing up. You also do virtually everything yourself. A busboy in a coffee shop does little more than swipe the pile of dishes off the table and wipes it down with a questionably clean rag. You are responsible for everything else including order interpretation, pouring drinks, delivering drinks, delivering food, getting condiments and side orders, ladling soup, making side salads and desserts, refilling coffee, and arguing with the kitchen. In a deli you add to this list about a hundred and fifty menu items that need to be sliced, diced, toasted, roasted, broiled, iced, dished up, heated up, or just plain located.

Note regarding the above to-do-in-a-deli list: ALWAYS make friends with the kitchen. This means up to and including sexual favors if you really find it necessary. This relationship can make or destroy your night financially and otherwise. The kitchen lives in its own little world back there. They work for a wage and if you piss them off, they will get even. I think the kitchen staff in most restaurants isn't really aware there are customers out front. They think we are ordering all this food and eating it ourselves just to annoy them. I think that's why waitresses have developed the grating habit of calling everyone, honey and sweetheart. It comes from working the kitchen.

"Honey, could you please cook this a little more; the customer wanted it charred. Thank you, darling! I knew you could do it. You guys are the best! Sweetheart, a bus with fifty Japanese tourists just walked in and they need to eat and leave in twenty minutes. Think you guys can manage? You know? I wasn't even worried. You guys are amazing! And you all look so macho in those black and white checkered pants. Thanks, sweetie!"

Now in Los Angeles, this situation is exacerbated by the fact that restaurant kitchens are run by Latino men. These are not guys that like to be ordered around by a bunch of women. A little flattery will go a long way. On the other hand, a little gringa screaming and shouting orders goes over like a wet tortilla. Everyone's ability to speak English suddenly seems to disappear. Oh, go ahead guys, call your counsel men! Like I'm making this up. And as for any feminists offended by this, I have a newsflash. This is the reality of dealing with real people in the real world. Not just men of any particular background, but everyone. And women are far easier to offend for no reason whatsoever, than any sub-group on the planet. It's all about getting through the night without any explosions.