Tricks Of The Trade

Restaurant work, though occasionally economically rewarding, is toxic to an individual’s psychological health.  It’s no wonder that so many of us in the service industry become raging alcoholics.  How else can we maintain our sanity?  With daily exposure to people’s eccentricities–like social workers–we intimately deal with the worst human behavior imaginable.  To survive, we’re forced to develop coping mechanisms.  There are stealth ways we can exercise our power to dominate guests who refuse to play by our rules.  Here are a few of our favorite tactics and the affectionate names by which we refer to them:

Five for fighting.
Five for fighting.

The Penalty Box – It is impossible to order your own food in a restaurant that has table service. You don’t know how to use the computer system, so it’s not in your best interest to be overly dismissive of a waiter earnestly trying to take your order.  We are the gatekeepers.  If you give us the dust-off one too many times, we may be forced to put you in “The Penalty Box.”  Your table will now sit on a deserted island until you realize that you will not be fed without our participation. This usually results in your panicking and flailing your arms around until you can get our attention.  We will return to the table when you have had enough time to realize the error of your ways.

The forbidden dance.
The forbidden dance.

The Irish Polka – We desperately need your table back for a later reservation but you insist on nursing the last drops of your bottle of wine.  Eventually, we give up trying to be nice and just drop the check without waiting for you to ask.  Of course you’re still oblivious, yammering on and on to your friends about something you read in The New Yorker.  We know you haven’t submitted a credit card yet but we send a shill over to the table to ask if he can process your card. “You’re not ready yet?? Whoops!”  We call this “The Irish Polka.”  It’s a clumsy dance where somebody’s toes are always getting stepped on. Sorry… but it’s time to go.

Silent but violent.
Silent but violent.

The Cropduster – Drawing the ire of a server can have negative consequences that may be invisible to the naked eye.  One of the ways an angry waiter may seek retribution for your insubordination will be to repeatedly send his comrades by your table to “Cropdust” the area, or, in waiter terms, walk past your table repeatedly passing gas. You better hope we didn’t have chili for family meal.

Keeping It Clean

sanitary-inspection-gradeNothing instills fear in the hearts of restaurant workers more than a visit from the health department.  A failed inspection can be a death knell for even the most popular restaurant.  In today’s world, it’s become a highly politicized process and—if you want to pass the test—you have to be prepared.  Waitstaff and kitchen employees typically have a “fire drill” in place for when an inspector arrives.  For the front-of-house this involves discarding anything that may trigger a deduction—wet rags that are used to crumb tables, fruit garnishes for cocktails, or any containers that aren’t labelled and dated.  Meanwhile back-of-house scrambles to put on latex gloves and chef’s hats even though most of them weren’t properly outfitted when the inspector arrived.  During the inspection, service grinds to a halt as the entire staff walks on eggshells to avoid missteps.  Continuing to cook food only increases your chances of a violation, so the chefs lay down their knives.  Oblivious diners stuck waiting for their food can only snack on our apologies until it’s over.  The moment the inspector leaves, we put everything back where we need it to be: hats and gloves off, fruit garnishes exposed to the elements, and crumbing rags moist and ready.  We know better than the Health Department what makes restaurants work properly and—while we respect their authority—everything runs so much better when they’re not around.

The Dysfunctional Family

“Do you get to eat whatever you want off the menu every night?” a naive guest will invariably ask, usually when you’re in the shits. “You’re so lucky,” they’ll say, enraptured in their meal and drunk on the illusion of your privilege. Restaurants that allow their waitstaff to order food directly from the menu are a dying breed. Escalating food costs make it prohibitive for restaurateurs to feed employees á la carte, but most states legally require restaurants to provide meals. This presents an ethical challenge—feeding your staff nourishing food while spending as little money on it as possible. It often leads to a conflict of interest and some of the most inventive cooking with repurposed food in history.  Not every restaurant skims on family meal; the gamut runs from troughs of unidentifiable gruel made with the cheapest ingredients imaginable to menu-worthy dishes incorporating superfluous inventory of high-quality produce.

The “family meal,” as we call it, is the nervous center of the restaurant universe. Collectively, we sit for at least a half an hour every night and dine together.  Before we discuss menu changes and relevant service issues, we sit down for supper like a family, albeit a dysfunctional one. It is the calm before the storm, a moment of peace where we are reminded of our humanity before we spend the evening effacing ourselves in service of the comfort of others.

What kind of meat is this.. pork?
What kind of meat is this.. pork?

Friendships crystallize at the family table, lasting bonds akin to army buddies whose experiences at war lead to a lifetime of trust and companionship. We swap stories of good and bad meals we’ve had dining on enemy soil and gossip about the drama of the day—who’s sleeping with whom on the staff or the shitty tipper from the night before. We share stories about each other’s dreams, nurturing our alter egos behind the apron and inspiring each other closer to freedom. For those who aspire to a career in hospitality, we pray for their souls and do our best to talk them out of it. Faces come and go quite frequently in restaurants, but no matter who we are at the dinner table we share the frustrations of feeling overworked and a slave to our service jobs. We’re tired.

After a hard night, we’ll sit down again at the bar and share a “shiftdrink” if our overlords are kind enough to sanction one. And we drink—to a more prosperous tomorrow, to better tips, a better job, or emancipation…hopefully not a manager position. We will try to ignore the urge to go drinking after work and stay out until 4 AM again but it probably won’t work.  With these strong bonds we’ve formed it soothes the pain to have each other’s company long after the last check has been closed and we’ve tallied our earnings for the night.  We are bound together not only in friendship but by our desire to make a better future for ourselves much healthier than this crazy business can provide. The fact that we have each other makes even the worst family meal palatable.