But, back to my chronology. I know I said I had restaurant experience, and I did . . sort of. I had been through a three-year maze of revolving doors; hostess here, cashier there, with about eight actual weeks of working "on the floor." What I had actually acquired was the ability to bullshit my way in the door. The waitresses at Junior's were like Marines, and they were all about a hundred and fifty years old. My trainer, the baby of the group, was forty something. She was a cheerful, Jewish gal who took extreme pleasure in explaining to me the uses of various animal parts in Jewish food and laughing at me when I turned green. I dutifully followed her around during my training period watching stupidly while she did twelve things simultaneously and at top speed. Training as a waiter is always a little embarrassing, but never so much as when you actually need it. And to make matters worse I have always looked a lot younger than I am. At thirty-five this is wonderful. At eighteen it sucks. So, smartly clad in brown polyester uniform and sporting a perky blonde ponytail, I followed this woman around the restaurant like a needy two-year-old. I could not have felt sillier had I been doing the bunny hop. She talked a never-ending stream of instructions peppered with bits of gossip about the customers.
"That's Mr. and Mrs. Goldblum over there, make sure he's looking at you when you speak because he's stone deaf. He always has brisket with the gravy on the side. We are going to Mr. and Mrs. Palisades table now and we'll get out of there as quickly as possible. They are going through a nasty divorce. She always has a chef salad, no ham, no tomatoes, extra turkey, with dressing on the side. He likes the pot roast, but he changes sometimes."
She rattled on and on about customers. She showed me where things were, where to look if they weren't where they were supposed to be, who was nice, who was possessed by Satan, all at what felt like a dead run. I was panicked. I knew as a matter of absolutes that I could not do this job. At one point she turned to me and asked me how many plates I could carry. She didn't have one on her head, but she seemed to have about five of them laid delicately across the span of her arms, like a pageant princess with a bouquet of roses. I felt certain she could have managed a float wave if she was asked.
"Two," I said quietly. To this day I can still only do three, four in an emergency with lots of prayer and dribbling sauces. A shadow passed over her face. Then she brightened.
"That's okay. You'll be working the counter for a while anyway."
I looked across the room to the counter. There was a row of hunched backs being served by the only other girl my age I'd seen so far.
"That's Candice," said my trainer. "You'll be working with her tomorrow."
I nodded dumbly. I went home a little dazed and returned the next day to train at the counter. Candice was a pretty blonde of about twenty one or so. She seemed more than glad to have a new ally. The counter faced the window to the kitchen line. The cooks' heads bobbed up and down, smiling at the new waitress a little too largely. With the distinct lack of women under forty in this restaurant, I just knew I would encounter few problems with the kitchen. Below the window was a work area with three kinds of soup, bins of bagels and breads, a cutting board, steaming bins of things like kashka (cooked grains with bits of noodle), a salad bin full of iceberg lettuce, ice cream and shake maker, refrigerators full of salad dressings and borscht, and a soda machine. Under the counter itself were rows upon rows of condiments in need of marrying, napkins, silverware, and salt and pepper. The counter would be easier than the floor, but it was still a lot of work. Candice told me it didn't matter that I couldn't actually wait tables because I would never get off the counter anyway.
"The other waitresses have been here forever I think some of them are already dead but they just keep showing up," she said, "and they don't like new waitresses so watch your back."
She said these things and pretty much everything else in conspiratorial whispers. I felt like we were in prison and the warden was always around the corner listening, just waiting for us to step out of line. I trained with Candice for a week, getting the hang of writing tickets and slicing bagels. I managed to slice my finger open with the bagel knife. It was lethally sharp and I felt the serrated edge grate on the bone. I stared in wonder at the inner workings of my finger before I went into a dead faint. At least I assured the other waitresses that I was no threat to their jobs.
Finally my training was over and I was placed on swing shift, lunch through early dinner. Candice and I would work lunch together, then I would be alone. Candice finished her side work and got ready to leave.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she said. "Watch out for the counter creatures."
"Counter Creatures?" I asked. "What the hell is that?"
"You'll see," she said and flounced out the door toward home where she moonlighted as a phone sex operator.
No comments:
Post a Comment