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The Greasiest Spoon: Creative Essay
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Created: 02/28/08
Last Edited: 02/28/08
Views: 161
Appreciations: 5
Comments: 1
Fields: Prose
The Greasiest Spoon
By Meredith M. Bailey
"Two root beers with a glass of ice, 4 Cokes, 3 Iced Teas, Sprite
to-go please!" is yelled at me as my not-so-fast-enough hands grab
large, plastic, red glasses and plunge them into the ice bins. It is
my first day working at R&O's Pizza, my first day ever to step foot
behind the counter of a restaurant and all I've been told is to make
the drinks and get them out fast. It is the lunch shift and the line
of hungry, impatient people span around the corner.
"Look at them bitches out there flappin' their arms! Let 'em wait!"
one of the waitresses yells.
"Yeah, I'll hold that bitch's ticket up, that ol' goofy bitch!"
another one chimes in.
Horrified, I watch the middle aged woman they are talking about
circle the front door, waving her fleshy, sagging arms in the air,
dyed yellow gold hair glistening in the sun. She'll order an iced tea,
I predict. And she'll want her lemon on the side, with exactly two
equal packets and an extra glass of ice. Rodney, the pizza man,
shuffles out from behind the kitchen doors with a cigarette in one
hand and the keys to the door in the other. He lets them in, exchanges
a few words of civility and saunters back to his pizza table where he
will craft 12" thin-crusted delights.
"Hey new girl! Make me 3 Iced Teas, one with the lemon on the side
and a soufflé cup of Equal!" one of the waitresses orders, snapping me
back into the task at hand.
"I'm Meredith," I shyly introduce myself.
"Well hello there cutie, my name's Pie!" she introduces herself.
Her shoulder length long dark hair is pulled up into a messy
ponytail, her bangs almost hide her even darker eyes. Her freckles and
her smile is what makes her approachable at first, and when she
speaks, her thick, New Orleans Yat accent makes you feel like you've
known her your whole life. I'll come to learn later that her
11-year-old son, the spitting image of her pie-freckled face,
sometimes washes dishes in the back on Saturdays to stay out of
trouble.
"Have you been introduced to everybody?" Pie enquires as she balances
three cups of iced tea and a soufflé cup of equal between her nail
bitten fingers.
There's Jarid, a basketball player who's girlfriend Sam also works as
a hostess and bartender, Brian, the other male waiter, with a strange
fascination for Alice in Chains and a mysterious quiet disposition.
Behind the food line are Amber, Amanda, who's very much pregnant,
Bonnie, and two new guys that never seem to stay long enough for me to
catch their names. And of course, there are the Veterans, as I
coined, Sharon, Tammy, Mim, Pie, Emily and Carla. These women have
been here so long, some of them aren't honest about how many years
that they've actually worked at R&O's.
Carla is one of those women who constantly surprises you with the
trash that comes spewing out of her mouth. It would be wrong to call
her business practices shrewd, but she must be a little cunning to
have good business for 25 years. Her parents are the original owners
of the restaurant and her daughter owns another restaurant, Sami's
Deli, just a few blocks away. Carla usually wears ER scrubs to work,
with an R&O's baseball cap to match her brothers, Roland Jr, and most
of the time she's either sipping on a diet soda or working behind the
line, crafting award winning po'boy sandwiches, or trying to run the
register while Beth loudly protests. And of course, Carla smokes like
a chimney. She takes long, slow drags in between her storytelling of
previous employees making it in the bathroom or the time she had to
clean up human feces from the women's bathroom walls. She's something
else. And then there was Emily- the toughest waitress on staff.
Honestly, if I were her customer I'd be afraid to send back a cold cup
of gumbo or a wrong po'boy order for fear she might turn the table
over like the Incredible Hulk. Her bulldog of a face, hair tied low at
the nape of her neck, and fire-hydrant shaped body would always demand
a Diet Coke with light ice before her shift and asked for refills
about ten times during the night. No one on staff likes her; everyone
fears her.
"I think so." I say, interrupted by another drink order being hurled
at us from across the room. I'm still feeling uneasy in my crisp, red
polo shirt and black slacks with my hair awkwardly tied up high in a
ponytail. I haven't worn my hair high like this since my high school
cheerleading squad years ago, and I keep checking my hair out in the
mirrors behind the tall bottles of Skol Vodka and tarnished Virgin
Island Rum at the bar.
When I applied for the job, I already knew one of the waitresses very
well because she was my best friend. Stephanie convinced me to forfeit
my search for the perfect office job and come pour and serve drinks
with her.
'The money's good and you're gonna love these people," Steph
reassured, "they're Yat-astic!"
And so I got a little dressed up and walked confidently into the
restaurant for the first time that Wednesday evening before I started.
Mim, a "veteran waitress" with light blonde hair, crystal blue eyes
and a soft, pear shaped figure hiding in black shorts and a red polo
shirt hired me on the spot. I was to come in the next evening and work
with one of the bartenders, either Brittney or Melissa, both younger
than me who also attend the same university as I do.
I walked out confident that I would do a good job the next day. I
just needed to find a pair of black pants and black closed toed shoes
in my closet.
"Hey Pie?" I asked when she had a free moment to take a drag from her
cigarette in the vaccum and child's high chair corner. "How long have
you worked here?"
"Too long, baby, too long," she replied, stuffing out her butt in an
already crowded ashtray and returning to serve the last few of her
tables.
R&O's Bloody Mary
1 shot of Skol Vodka in tall glass with ice
Fill up glass with Roland's Bloody Mary Mix
Shake.
Toss two spicy beans, one olive,
wedges of lime and lemon and one red stirrer straw.
I am working with Melissa, a 19-year-old girl from Metairie who is
about the size of a red stirrer I am told to put into the Bloody Marys
before they go out. Her face is young yet elegant, nearing beautiful
as she'll go into her twenties. I feel lucky because she has been kind
to me since the start of my shift, explaining where the milk and cold
side items like olives and spicy beans go, how much ice to put in each
of the drinks, and how to mix an Old Fashioned.
"If you need to know how to make any other drinks, there's a little
book of cocktails back here," she explains.
Sure enough, tucked between the cocktail napkins and the tubs of
Equal sweetener packets was a little black book of how to make any
kind of cocktail.
"Of course, we don't have all the ingredients to make every drink, so
we just sorta make it up sometimes. It's really no big deal. Just make
sure you only pure a shot into every mixed drink. Two shots are
extra," she continues to explain.
"Oh and sometimes," she starts again, "before you're shift you'll
have to peel shrimp in the back. But everyone does it so…"
We take turns filling up the ice bins with a white trash can that is
wheeled back behind the kitchen to the main icemakers. As I am
pondering the quickest most efficient way to heave scoopfuls of ice
into the bin, I hear a rustling behind me. I turn around expecting a
small animal, but was surprised to see a man, dressed in tattered old
jeans and a white R&O's t-shirt with a matching baseball cap. His
eyes, rich and blue in color and tan skin make him an attractive man,
and judging from the weathered face, he has spent years under the sun
or behind a fryer.
"Eh, there, you're that new girl behind the bar, eh?" he exclaimed
sucking on the last of his cigarette.
Wide eyed I reply, "Yeah, uh yes sir, I am."
"Here, gimmie that scoop thing here so I can show you the right way
to get this shit in 'ere. No time to think in the restaurant business,
ya just do."
He takes the mini, metal shovel, and digs into the ice, cubes flying
every which way, hap-hazardly filling up the bin. He didn't grunt or
wipe the sweat off his forehead, just kept charging on until the bin
was full to the brim.
"There, nah see there? That's how we do this shit here. Don't worry
if you ever need any help you just lemme know baby. I do everything
here, every fucking thing and I swear these muthafuckahs should be
paying me fucking $1,000 an hour, my God."
He trailed off as he turned to grab the giant spoon to stir the
boiling cauldrons of pot roast.
I dragged the ice bin back to the bar, through the dishwashers and
past the salad station. Melissa stopped text messaging her boyfriend
and grabbed the bottom of the can, flooding the empty ice bins up with
mountains of sparkling cubes.
"Didya meet Roland Jr.?" she said with a coy smile.
"The old guy with the hat and the foul language?"
"Yeah…isn't he a hottie? I mean, for an old guy and all."
I look back at her, speechless.
"Well, I think so," she said, returning to the other side of the bar
to continue her conversation with her boyfriend.
"Melissa, how long have you been here? I mean working here?" I prod.
"Too long," she scoffs and she slips her cellphone back into her
oversized, designer bag.
Cosmopolitan
1 shot of Vodka
Splash of Cuantro
Splash of Rose's Lime Juice
1 part cranberry juice
Wedge of lime to garish in a martini glass
Long, strawberry blonde hair, fair skin sprinkled with orange
freckles and lime green eyes. She is thin, tall, alluringly innocent
and youthful. Beth speaks with hints of a lisp or device in her mouth,
which makes me curious as to why everyone can understand her more than
some of the dishwashers. Beth works the register and To-go counter
like a pro, expertly in time with the pace of the customers,
continuing the ebb and flow of the traffic between the phone lines,
line of hungry people and checks stacked to be cashed or cards to be
swiped. She is fast, thorough, a natural at what she is doing and
still has time to make fun of other waitresses.
After a few days of watching her work behind the bar, I asked her to
make change with a five-dollar bill. I said her name to try and get
her attention a few unsuccessful times, and had to resort to raising
my voice to a shout. She took the money from me and smiled. As she
turned away, punched some buttons and whipped open the door, I noticed
that she wore a rather large, tan, hearing aid in her ear. She pointed
to her ear and shook her head, as if to tell me it didn't work
anymore. She was completely deaf in that ear, and partially deaf in
the other and learned how to read lips as a young child.
My love for Beth continued to grow into a great respect and
friendship for her. She was a strong woman who had lost everything in
the hurricane and was living with Carla while she tried to establish a
new place to live. She asked me about my classes and my budding career
in writing and I would tell her about someday writing a book, going on
tour for signings, speaking at events, the big dream. She wanted to
know all about my dreams and hopes for the future. I wanted to ask her
what her dreams were. I wanted to know what made her want to get up in
the morning and face everyday with the challenges she must face.
Instead, I asked her when the customers protracted to a slow, steady
pace "How long have you been working here?"
"Too long," she replied, handing me back the change with a coy smile.
And then she turned to answer the incessant ringing phone set on high
volume to take another order for a Roast Beef dressed or a medium thin
crust pizza topped with Italian Sausage and Pepperoni, our two most
popular orders by far.
Cape Cod
1 shot of Skol Vodka
1/2 can of Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice
Wedge of Lime for garnish (if limes are in stock)
To me, first impressions are important. But if I went on
first impressions alone on my first day at the restaurant, I don't
know if I could have stayed working longer than one shift. The second
or third time I came into work, I was told that I needed to go back in
the kitchen and help peel shrimp. Before it opens, the kitchen reeks
with raw shrimp and slabs of bloody beef aromas mixed with a pinch of
old cigarettes and liquor. It was loud, blasting 70's rock tunes on
WRNO FM radio, and kitchen workers yelling and joking around like
family. And there, in two massive bins, were countless pounds of raw
shrimp on ice, just delivered a few hours prior, ready to be peeled
and butterflied. I slipped on some gloves and started plucking the
heads off the slimy bodies, nauseated from the bloody, yellow brain
matter that look too much like the ketchup and mustard the cooks smear
on po'boy bread.
Peeling shrimp and break time are the two times where I get to know
the staff members the best. We joke around, talk about the future of
New Orleans, share individual tales of evacuations, heartbreaks,
children and life in FEMA trailers. Most of the waitresses on staff
are single mothers. Their tips go to provide their children with
private or Catholic school educations. Their children come first,
before any cute outfit, new pair of shoes, drinks at a bar or a piece
of jewelry, things I usually waste my extra money on.
As I continued working as a bartender, my slightly neurotic,
over-organized personality began to clash with Melissa's carefree
attitude about making drinks and having them ready for the waitresses
to pick up. It became clear to me early to get on the waitresses good
side, after all, they are the ones who are the faces of the
restaurant. If I made their orders fast and right, they would be a lot
nicer to me and want me trained for the floor, where the real money is
made.
One afternoon, Melissa rubbed me the wrong way, asking me to slice
lemons for garnish during the heavy lunch rush. After days of being
annoyed by her incompetence and general lack of responsibility, and
doing my best holding it in, one unsuspecting person came to my
rescue, Emily the pro wrestler. She caught me in the hall about to
burst with anger, and amazingly, calmed me down. Between puffs from
her cigarette, she interrogated me about why I was upset with Melissa
and reassured me that everyone on staff thought she was a no-good brat
too. "Waste of space that skinny bitch is…" she drawled, through sips
of her Diet Coke. Later that day, she apparently told Carla, and since
then, Emily and I have a certain level of understanding. We developed
a routine. I say good morning to her when I arrive, she grunts, I make
her a Diet Coke in a go-cup with light ice and she cracks a smile when
no one is looking.
The other day I asked her how long she had been working at the
restaurant. She replied without hesitation, "Too long."
R&O's Margarita
1 shot of well tequila
Splash of Cuantro
Fill up glass with Sweet & Sour Mix
Add lime and Salt to rim glass for garnish
This is a part-time gig for me. Something to support my clothes
shopping habit and pay the few bills I owe each month. Beth gets to
hear about my dreams, I get to try and make them come true. I wonder
what it must be like to work as a server for 18 plus years, raise a
child on my own, and sacrifice hopes of going to college, living in a
dorm, being in a sorority, even splurging on an expensive pair of
shoes. It isn't that these women's lives are empty or vapid or even
half-lived, it's just that their paths in life took them in a
completely different direction then they had planned. Their order was
wrong, but they ate the food on their plate with grace.
I watch these women talk about their children during their break or
right before their shift starts and their children are the light of
their lives. Their children is what brings their life true meaning,
even though it's damn difficult raising a 12-year-old boy without a
real father figure, a limited income, and a work schedule that keeps
them away from PTA meetings and after-school recitals. I respect these
women in what they're doing, despite their tough speech and
kill-or-be-killed philosophy on life and wonder if one day I'll wake
up in my forties and be tarnished from pain and rendered numb from
personal conflict. I wonder if I'll ever live a day of my life for
someone else.
Eventually I graduated to taking ToGo orders with Beth on the
weekends and train with Pie to wait tables during the week. Learning
how to write tickets, hang them correctly, answer phones and swipe
cards was the easy part. Although I am generally a people person, I
feel as if I'm on stage behind the counter every time a customer walks
in to pick up their order. I fuss over my hair and eyeliner (the only
real makeup I regularly wear). I shift my posture from foot to foot. I
put on a bright smile and ask proudly in a put-on New Orleans voice,
"May I help you sir/ma'am?" Sometimes I get nice customers who put a
dollar or two in the tip jar and smile at me when I ask if they would
like ketchup packets and tiny tubs of tartar sauce. Other times I get
patrons who are in a hurry and couldn't be bothered with giving an
effort to be polite. And on rare occasions I get someone so rude and
so mean, it's a wonder why they are still an active member of society.
And on days when these customers get the best of me, when I am worn
ragged running back and forth from the counter to the kitchen,
stuffing hot sandwiches, cups of seafood gumbo and stuffed artichokes
into large paper bags, usually someone behind the food line or a bus
person will ask me, "How long have you been here today, Mere?"
And I reply with a sigh and a wipe of my forehead, "Too long."
By Meredith M. Bailey
"Two root beers with a glass of ice, 4 Cokes, 3 Iced Teas, Sprite
to-go please!" is yelled at me as my not-so-fast-enough hands grab
large, plastic, red glasses and plunge them into the ice bins. It is
my first day working at R&O's Pizza, my first day ever to step foot
behind the counter of a restaurant and all I've been told is to make
the drinks and get them out fast. It is the lunch shift and the line
of hungry, impatient people span around the corner.
"Look at them bitches out there flappin' their arms! Let 'em wait!"
one of the waitresses yells.
"Yeah, I'll hold that bitch's ticket up, that ol' goofy bitch!"
another one chimes in.
Horrified, I watch the middle aged woman they are talking about
circle the front door, waving her fleshy, sagging arms in the air,
dyed yellow gold hair glistening in the sun. She'll order an iced tea,
I predict. And she'll want her lemon on the side, with exactly two
equal packets and an extra glass of ice. Rodney, the pizza man,
shuffles out from behind the kitchen doors with a cigarette in one
hand and the keys to the door in the other. He lets them in, exchanges
a few words of civility and saunters back to his pizza table where he
will craft 12" thin-crusted delights.
"Hey new girl! Make me 3 Iced Teas, one with the lemon on the side
and a soufflé cup of Equal!" one of the waitresses orders, snapping me
back into the task at hand.
"I'm Meredith," I shyly introduce myself.
"Well hello there cutie, my name's Pie!" she introduces herself.
Her shoulder length long dark hair is pulled up into a messy
ponytail, her bangs almost hide her even darker eyes. Her freckles and
her smile is what makes her approachable at first, and when she
speaks, her thick, New Orleans Yat accent makes you feel like you've
known her your whole life. I'll come to learn later that her
11-year-old son, the spitting image of her pie-freckled face,
sometimes washes dishes in the back on Saturdays to stay out of
trouble.
"Have you been introduced to everybody?" Pie enquires as she balances
three cups of iced tea and a soufflé cup of equal between her nail
bitten fingers.
There's Jarid, a basketball player who's girlfriend Sam also works as
a hostess and bartender, Brian, the other male waiter, with a strange
fascination for Alice in Chains and a mysterious quiet disposition.
Behind the food line are Amber, Amanda, who's very much pregnant,
Bonnie, and two new guys that never seem to stay long enough for me to
catch their names. And of course, there are the Veterans, as I
coined, Sharon, Tammy, Mim, Pie, Emily and Carla. These women have
been here so long, some of them aren't honest about how many years
that they've actually worked at R&O's.
Carla is one of those women who constantly surprises you with the
trash that comes spewing out of her mouth. It would be wrong to call
her business practices shrewd, but she must be a little cunning to
have good business for 25 years. Her parents are the original owners
of the restaurant and her daughter owns another restaurant, Sami's
Deli, just a few blocks away. Carla usually wears ER scrubs to work,
with an R&O's baseball cap to match her brothers, Roland Jr, and most
of the time she's either sipping on a diet soda or working behind the
line, crafting award winning po'boy sandwiches, or trying to run the
register while Beth loudly protests. And of course, Carla smokes like
a chimney. She takes long, slow drags in between her storytelling of
previous employees making it in the bathroom or the time she had to
clean up human feces from the women's bathroom walls. She's something
else. And then there was Emily- the toughest waitress on staff.
Honestly, if I were her customer I'd be afraid to send back a cold cup
of gumbo or a wrong po'boy order for fear she might turn the table
over like the Incredible Hulk. Her bulldog of a face, hair tied low at
the nape of her neck, and fire-hydrant shaped body would always demand
a Diet Coke with light ice before her shift and asked for refills
about ten times during the night. No one on staff likes her; everyone
fears her.
"I think so." I say, interrupted by another drink order being hurled
at us from across the room. I'm still feeling uneasy in my crisp, red
polo shirt and black slacks with my hair awkwardly tied up high in a
ponytail. I haven't worn my hair high like this since my high school
cheerleading squad years ago, and I keep checking my hair out in the
mirrors behind the tall bottles of Skol Vodka and tarnished Virgin
Island Rum at the bar.
When I applied for the job, I already knew one of the waitresses very
well because she was my best friend. Stephanie convinced me to forfeit
my search for the perfect office job and come pour and serve drinks
with her.
'The money's good and you're gonna love these people," Steph
reassured, "they're Yat-astic!"
And so I got a little dressed up and walked confidently into the
restaurant for the first time that Wednesday evening before I started.
Mim, a "veteran waitress" with light blonde hair, crystal blue eyes
and a soft, pear shaped figure hiding in black shorts and a red polo
shirt hired me on the spot. I was to come in the next evening and work
with one of the bartenders, either Brittney or Melissa, both younger
than me who also attend the same university as I do.
I walked out confident that I would do a good job the next day. I
just needed to find a pair of black pants and black closed toed shoes
in my closet.
"Hey Pie?" I asked when she had a free moment to take a drag from her
cigarette in the vaccum and child's high chair corner. "How long have
you worked here?"
"Too long, baby, too long," she replied, stuffing out her butt in an
already crowded ashtray and returning to serve the last few of her
tables.
R&O's Bloody Mary
1 shot of Skol Vodka in tall glass with ice
Fill up glass with Roland's Bloody Mary Mix
Shake.
Toss two spicy beans, one olive,
wedges of lime and lemon and one red stirrer straw.
I am working with Melissa, a 19-year-old girl from Metairie who is
about the size of a red stirrer I am told to put into the Bloody Marys
before they go out. Her face is young yet elegant, nearing beautiful
as she'll go into her twenties. I feel lucky because she has been kind
to me since the start of my shift, explaining where the milk and cold
side items like olives and spicy beans go, how much ice to put in each
of the drinks, and how to mix an Old Fashioned.
"If you need to know how to make any other drinks, there's a little
book of cocktails back here," she explains.
Sure enough, tucked between the cocktail napkins and the tubs of
Equal sweetener packets was a little black book of how to make any
kind of cocktail.
"Of course, we don't have all the ingredients to make every drink, so
we just sorta make it up sometimes. It's really no big deal. Just make
sure you only pure a shot into every mixed drink. Two shots are
extra," she continues to explain.
"Oh and sometimes," she starts again, "before you're shift you'll
have to peel shrimp in the back. But everyone does it so…"
We take turns filling up the ice bins with a white trash can that is
wheeled back behind the kitchen to the main icemakers. As I am
pondering the quickest most efficient way to heave scoopfuls of ice
into the bin, I hear a rustling behind me. I turn around expecting a
small animal, but was surprised to see a man, dressed in tattered old
jeans and a white R&O's t-shirt with a matching baseball cap. His
eyes, rich and blue in color and tan skin make him an attractive man,
and judging from the weathered face, he has spent years under the sun
or behind a fryer.
"Eh, there, you're that new girl behind the bar, eh?" he exclaimed
sucking on the last of his cigarette.
Wide eyed I reply, "Yeah, uh yes sir, I am."
"Here, gimmie that scoop thing here so I can show you the right way
to get this shit in 'ere. No time to think in the restaurant business,
ya just do."
He takes the mini, metal shovel, and digs into the ice, cubes flying
every which way, hap-hazardly filling up the bin. He didn't grunt or
wipe the sweat off his forehead, just kept charging on until the bin
was full to the brim.
"There, nah see there? That's how we do this shit here. Don't worry
if you ever need any help you just lemme know baby. I do everything
here, every fucking thing and I swear these muthafuckahs should be
paying me fucking $1,000 an hour, my God."
He trailed off as he turned to grab the giant spoon to stir the
boiling cauldrons of pot roast.
I dragged the ice bin back to the bar, through the dishwashers and
past the salad station. Melissa stopped text messaging her boyfriend
and grabbed the bottom of the can, flooding the empty ice bins up with
mountains of sparkling cubes.
"Didya meet Roland Jr.?" she said with a coy smile.
"The old guy with the hat and the foul language?"
"Yeah…isn't he a hottie? I mean, for an old guy and all."
I look back at her, speechless.
"Well, I think so," she said, returning to the other side of the bar
to continue her conversation with her boyfriend.
"Melissa, how long have you been here? I mean working here?" I prod.
"Too long," she scoffs and she slips her cellphone back into her
oversized, designer bag.
Cosmopolitan
1 shot of Vodka
Splash of Cuantro
Splash of Rose's Lime Juice
1 part cranberry juice
Wedge of lime to garish in a martini glass
Long, strawberry blonde hair, fair skin sprinkled with orange
freckles and lime green eyes. She is thin, tall, alluringly innocent
and youthful. Beth speaks with hints of a lisp or device in her mouth,
which makes me curious as to why everyone can understand her more than
some of the dishwashers. Beth works the register and To-go counter
like a pro, expertly in time with the pace of the customers,
continuing the ebb and flow of the traffic between the phone lines,
line of hungry people and checks stacked to be cashed or cards to be
swiped. She is fast, thorough, a natural at what she is doing and
still has time to make fun of other waitresses.
After a few days of watching her work behind the bar, I asked her to
make change with a five-dollar bill. I said her name to try and get
her attention a few unsuccessful times, and had to resort to raising
my voice to a shout. She took the money from me and smiled. As she
turned away, punched some buttons and whipped open the door, I noticed
that she wore a rather large, tan, hearing aid in her ear. She pointed
to her ear and shook her head, as if to tell me it didn't work
anymore. She was completely deaf in that ear, and partially deaf in
the other and learned how to read lips as a young child.
My love for Beth continued to grow into a great respect and
friendship for her. She was a strong woman who had lost everything in
the hurricane and was living with Carla while she tried to establish a
new place to live. She asked me about my classes and my budding career
in writing and I would tell her about someday writing a book, going on
tour for signings, speaking at events, the big dream. She wanted to
know all about my dreams and hopes for the future. I wanted to ask her
what her dreams were. I wanted to know what made her want to get up in
the morning and face everyday with the challenges she must face.
Instead, I asked her when the customers protracted to a slow, steady
pace "How long have you been working here?"
"Too long," she replied, handing me back the change with a coy smile.
And then she turned to answer the incessant ringing phone set on high
volume to take another order for a Roast Beef dressed or a medium thin
crust pizza topped with Italian Sausage and Pepperoni, our two most
popular orders by far.
Cape Cod
1 shot of Skol Vodka
1/2 can of Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice
Wedge of Lime for garnish (if limes are in stock)
To me, first impressions are important. But if I went on
first impressions alone on my first day at the restaurant, I don't
know if I could have stayed working longer than one shift. The second
or third time I came into work, I was told that I needed to go back in
the kitchen and help peel shrimp. Before it opens, the kitchen reeks
with raw shrimp and slabs of bloody beef aromas mixed with a pinch of
old cigarettes and liquor. It was loud, blasting 70's rock tunes on
WRNO FM radio, and kitchen workers yelling and joking around like
family. And there, in two massive bins, were countless pounds of raw
shrimp on ice, just delivered a few hours prior, ready to be peeled
and butterflied. I slipped on some gloves and started plucking the
heads off the slimy bodies, nauseated from the bloody, yellow brain
matter that look too much like the ketchup and mustard the cooks smear
on po'boy bread.
Peeling shrimp and break time are the two times where I get to know
the staff members the best. We joke around, talk about the future of
New Orleans, share individual tales of evacuations, heartbreaks,
children and life in FEMA trailers. Most of the waitresses on staff
are single mothers. Their tips go to provide their children with
private or Catholic school educations. Their children come first,
before any cute outfit, new pair of shoes, drinks at a bar or a piece
of jewelry, things I usually waste my extra money on.
As I continued working as a bartender, my slightly neurotic,
over-organized personality began to clash with Melissa's carefree
attitude about making drinks and having them ready for the waitresses
to pick up. It became clear to me early to get on the waitresses good
side, after all, they are the ones who are the faces of the
restaurant. If I made their orders fast and right, they would be a lot
nicer to me and want me trained for the floor, where the real money is
made.
One afternoon, Melissa rubbed me the wrong way, asking me to slice
lemons for garnish during the heavy lunch rush. After days of being
annoyed by her incompetence and general lack of responsibility, and
doing my best holding it in, one unsuspecting person came to my
rescue, Emily the pro wrestler. She caught me in the hall about to
burst with anger, and amazingly, calmed me down. Between puffs from
her cigarette, she interrogated me about why I was upset with Melissa
and reassured me that everyone on staff thought she was a no-good brat
too. "Waste of space that skinny bitch is…" she drawled, through sips
of her Diet Coke. Later that day, she apparently told Carla, and since
then, Emily and I have a certain level of understanding. We developed
a routine. I say good morning to her when I arrive, she grunts, I make
her a Diet Coke in a go-cup with light ice and she cracks a smile when
no one is looking.
The other day I asked her how long she had been working at the
restaurant. She replied without hesitation, "Too long."
R&O's Margarita
1 shot of well tequila
Splash of Cuantro
Fill up glass with Sweet & Sour Mix
Add lime and Salt to rim glass for garnish
This is a part-time gig for me. Something to support my clothes
shopping habit and pay the few bills I owe each month. Beth gets to
hear about my dreams, I get to try and make them come true. I wonder
what it must be like to work as a server for 18 plus years, raise a
child on my own, and sacrifice hopes of going to college, living in a
dorm, being in a sorority, even splurging on an expensive pair of
shoes. It isn't that these women's lives are empty or vapid or even
half-lived, it's just that their paths in life took them in a
completely different direction then they had planned. Their order was
wrong, but they ate the food on their plate with grace.
I watch these women talk about their children during their break or
right before their shift starts and their children are the light of
their lives. Their children is what brings their life true meaning,
even though it's damn difficult raising a 12-year-old boy without a
real father figure, a limited income, and a work schedule that keeps
them away from PTA meetings and after-school recitals. I respect these
women in what they're doing, despite their tough speech and
kill-or-be-killed philosophy on life and wonder if one day I'll wake
up in my forties and be tarnished from pain and rendered numb from
personal conflict. I wonder if I'll ever live a day of my life for
someone else.
Eventually I graduated to taking ToGo orders with Beth on the
weekends and train with Pie to wait tables during the week. Learning
how to write tickets, hang them correctly, answer phones and swipe
cards was the easy part. Although I am generally a people person, I
feel as if I'm on stage behind the counter every time a customer walks
in to pick up their order. I fuss over my hair and eyeliner (the only
real makeup I regularly wear). I shift my posture from foot to foot. I
put on a bright smile and ask proudly in a put-on New Orleans voice,
"May I help you sir/ma'am?" Sometimes I get nice customers who put a
dollar or two in the tip jar and smile at me when I ask if they would
like ketchup packets and tiny tubs of tartar sauce. Other times I get
patrons who are in a hurry and couldn't be bothered with giving an
effort to be polite. And on rare occasions I get someone so rude and
so mean, it's a wonder why they are still an active member of society.
And on days when these customers get the best of me, when I am worn
ragged running back and forth from the counter to the kitchen,
stuffing hot sandwiches, cups of seafood gumbo and stuffed artichokes
into large paper bags, usually someone behind the food line or a bus
person will ask me, "How long have you been here today, Mere?"
And I reply with a sigh and a wipe of my forehead, "Too long."
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