My mother was nice enough to take me shopping for the uniform that was required of me. 100% cotton, button down oxford shirts were surprisingly expensive, and just one wouldn’t do. We had to have them dry cleaned, and so you had to have at least three to get by. Some people tried to go on two or even one, but they always looked like shit. Stained and wrinkled. They got yelled at for that. We were also required to buy all-white all-leather tennis shoes. I certainly didn’t have a pair of those in my closet, so those had to be bought new, too. After being hired I was told I was to start the very next day.
My first shift was on a Friday night, the second busiest night of the week, competing only with Saturday. I was scheduled in at 5 pm as a "runner." I had no idea what that meant, but I knew I at least had the shoes for it.
I came in that night to find a manager who introduced himself and showed me how to clock in. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and he had to wear a big shoe to balance it out. I say this only because this guy was a first-rate asshole, and I knew it always came back to the leg. And that he was very short. Anyway, he handed me a dark, forest green apron and pointed me in the direction of the kitchen. I straightened my Winnie the Pooh tie (wretch, I know), knotted my apron and headed for the florescent glow.
There was another girl who started her first shift that same night. She was a TSU student with gorgeous eyes (thanks in no small part to her olive green-colored contact lenses) and a complicated weave. Her name was Lia. We were both scheduled in as "runners," and all we knew so far was that we had to be in the kitchen. We stood nervously next to one another, mostly quiet, watching the swirl and hustle of servers and cooks moving all around us as if we didn’t exist. For about half an hour. That is when Burt arrived.
Burt was the expediter, a fit former Marine with the haircut to prove it. He introduced himself, then gave us a short list of directions: stay out of the way, pay attention and always, always come directly back to the kitchen. It was as if they didn’t want us seen around actual customers.
Our job that night, Lia and I, was to deliver food to the tables in the dining room. Burt would take the plates from the cooks on the other side of the line and arrange everything. He’d add a sprig of parsley to each entree, fetch salads that were waiting on "the cold side" and set up each tray according to who ordered what. He could tell this based on the order in which the items were rung up. Each table–all 110 of them–had a starting point, designated on the floorplan, found on page 12 of my server information packet. The starting point is the chair in which Person #1 (he who gets his plate first) is sitting. Plates are delivered in order from there. Unless, there were women or elderly patrons at the table, in which case you served them first, then went back to the proper rotation. We had to know all of this on night one. I don’t know when Lia got hired on, but for me it had been the day before. I had to cram.
The task that night was a fast and furious one. I got sweaty. It was hot in the kitchen, especially in a starched shirt and tie, but I enjoyed the quick pace. Made the time go by fast. At least at first.
The only real snag of the evening were the large trays, the ones that must be carried on the shoulder or above it. These giant, oval trays that could hold 4, 6, even 8 plates were too much for me too handle. I was petrified of dropping an entire table’s meals. I had to get the tray onto your shoulder, balance it there and have someone follow you with a tray jack. I had to carry it far, far away from the kitchen down a narrow hallway or up some stairs, for heaven forbid, up to the always packed bar. Did I mention that the West End Cooker had 110 tables? The place was enormous. There were two kitchens!
I noticed Lia was also avoiding the trays. I could hardly blame her. I tried as hard as I could to time it just right, but the large trays were unavoidable. Burt set one up with a few entree bowls, salads and a basket of bread, when I caught Lia eying me nervously.
"Girl, I can’t do this," she looked at me, wiping her wet brow.
"I know, my heart is racing. I’m so scared I’m gonna drop it," I confessed.
Burt interrupted us. "That’s your problem, ladies," he said. "You’re scared. You have to own the fucking tray, okay? Make it your bitch. Saddle it up, grab it real good and take off. Don’t let it intimidate you, ladies."
I loved how he called us "ladies" all the while cursing like George Carlin. I immediately liked Burt.
I didn’t drop any trays that night, which is a perfect miracle. The next day I came in early, loaded up trays with empty plates and practiced.
