Apron donned.
Black and white penguin outfit cleaned and pressed.
Unsexy yet comfortable black flat shoes tied up and squeaky clean.
Hair pulled back into a pony tail.
Hands, twitchy.
It was with these ingredients in hand that I stepped into the waitressing world.
A world I was once very comfortable with during my uni days.
It all started en-route back from Melbourne. I got a call asking me to come in for a training night as they had a lot of bookings at the restaurant. It would give me a chance to see if I liked it he said. IE: to see if they liked me and to make sure I wasn’t prone to dropping red wine on the white shirts of customers.
Perhaps I should have clued them in on some of my more memorable waitressing nights.
It started out harmlessly enough, it wasn’t overly busy to begin with and eager to learn I wanted to get their way of doing things down pat. My inner journalist always comes out in these situations. I produce a note pad and took notes, asked a ton of questions and wanted to know everything there was to know so I’m wouldn't get caught out like a rabbit in spotlights.
I looked around the room and feeling bolder, I asked how the numbers ran for the tables, I couldn’t quite figure out the pattern. The maître de kindly informed me it was just up and down the length of the restaurant. My first Doh moment of the evening.
My second frank spencer moment was using the wrong steamer pipe for heating the milk. Instead of steam, I inserted boiling water into my milk, causing it to overflow on to the floor. Another waitress smiled and said, “It will get better.” as I stood over my foaming cauldron of milk.
Next I went over to help a family with a child who was on the verge of propelling himself out of the high chair and launching himself at every passer-by, pulling and tugging at sleeves. I took their order and escaped back to the counter. I never have been a natural with children the best of times, so a toddler on the brink is never going to be in my area of expertise.
In an attack of nerves at it being my first table, I forgot to put the table number down. I forgot to call out 'order in' to the chefs and forgot to write hard enough so the carbon copy could be read by the cashier.
This was not as easy as I remembered, but I took heart when I heard the bell for meals. As clumsy as I am, I’m quite comfortable with carrying multiple plates and cups.
But Friday night just wasn’t going to be my night. The doors to the kitchen seemed to have a will of their own, deliberately trying to trip me up every time I exited and entered, snapping at my heels.
So just an hour into the night, as I negotiated the doors, I had my first incident. A breeze caught the pappadums which accompanied the butter chicken dish I was carrying. They drifted and fell back against me.
I tried to stop them from falling, with my chin of all things and ended up poking myself in the face. The pappadums went belly up on the floor and fell apart. I picked them up and took them back to the chef, who quickly replaced them without a word. Door: 1, Me: 0
It was soon time to bring out food to the truculent tot and as I delivered his fish and chips he glared at me with a look of utter contempt and disdain that only a two year old can deliver. I turned my back cautiously only to have a lemon quarter and a couple of chips hurled at my hair. The lemon bounced twice and fell to the floor.
I graciously picked it up and moved on with a smile, teeth gritted.
As the night progressed I rolled with the punches, but they weren’t really punches, just jabs and prods which soon whipped me into shape. By the end of the night I was laughing with the rest of the girls and bar staff, joking with customers and once again reigning supreme as the queen of froth on the espresso machine.
Despite my little doh moments and wrestling matches with the swinging kitchen doors I passed the test and was asked to come back for more shifts. It appears they like their staff to provide comic relief as well as customer service.
There was something so satisfying about doing physical work rather than sitting at a computer screen all day. Yes I left smelling of coffee, left overs and the odd spilt wine, but it was a delight not to have to stress over every little detail, make urgent phone calls or write emails at all hours of the night.
I could visibly feel myself relaxing while I was working and throughout the shift, ideas for the book and characters kept popping into my head. So much so I snuck to the loo to write them on a piece of loo paper.
I left with a smile, which I seem to be doing so much more of since moving up here. That is, until I got to the bathroom and discovered the lemon seeds still stuck in my hair.
Til next time
X
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