Entries from January 2007 ↓

Day 26: Project 365, originally uploaded by brittney.

A day late.

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.

I was listening to NPR on the way to work, which is typical, when I heard a story about Kevin Federline’s newest commercial for an insurance company that has angered some in the restaurant industry. Steve Inskeep called him a "rap star," which I think is really generous of him. Anyway, once the K-Fed piece was over the NPR crew tagged out with a healthy portion of his song "America’s Most Hated."

I lost my shit laughing.

Day 25: Project 365, originally uploaded by brittney.

I like that font.

Day 24: Project 365, originally uploaded by brittney.

New mattress and bedding.

I pulled onto West End Avenue and headed east. I drove past an attractive bistro that spelled its name with art deco lettering. It captured my attention, but looked too fancy for a first timer like me, but I did keep it in mind. The next restaurant I came upon was the highly popular Houston’s. I know that, because Cal told me, it was best to apply for work in the downtime between lunch and dinner–between 2 and 4 pm. Even at 2:15 the place was still on a wait for seating. So, I looked diagonally across the street at a strip mall. There was a Honey Baked Ham store, a posh hair salon and a chain restaurant called Mozzarella’s. I parked, slid on a shade of too dark brown lipstick and hit the double doors.

Once inside I was quickly greeted by a server whose first words to me were, "One?" It took me a second to realize he was asking me if I would be dining alone. I told him I was interested in applying for a hostess position. The young, clean cut waiter who was terse with me at first broke out into a huge grin.

"I don’t know if we are hiring, but let me get you an application," he said, his head buried in the stand that held the menus. He came up with an application that he presented with a flick of his wrist.

"The manager isn’t in until 6, but you should definitely fill this out and leave it here," he informed.

"Will do," I assured him and made my way back out to Piece of Shit car.

"No, seriously, you should come back," he almost pleaded with me. I laughed and swore that I would.

I left my car in the lots and walked the 50 feet or so to The Cooker. I was greeted by a lovely blonde who said, after I asked, that they were always hiring. I was glad to hear it at the time, but looking back now, that should have been an enormous red flag. After filling out the extra long single sheet piece of paper I sat smoothing out my new skirt and waiting to talk to a manager. After half an hour or so he asked me to join him at a table in the middle of the dining room.

He looked over my application for what felt like forever, just nodding. He sat silently for the better part of ten minutes.

"You live in Ashland City," he told me, like I wasn’t aware. I nodded at him.

"You have your own car?" He eyed my suspiciously. I told him that I did.

"What happens if you get stranded in Ashland City? Don’t expect to call in just because you don’t have a ride. We schedule you and we expect you to be here. We expect you to act like an adult," he said in a distinctly assholeish manner.

"I think I could handle it," I said, snubbing my nose. This ass wasn’t going to get gruff with me without me at least being on the clock. And I wasn’t yet on the payroll.

He cocked a lip at me in a pitiful excuse for a smile. He wanted to make sure I had a little bit of fight in me. He didn’t have to push too hard to find out.

"We have some host positions open, but we could really use servers. I’ll take you on, but only as a waitress. What do you say?"

"Sure," I blurted, knowing the money was infinitely better than what hostesses made.

We shook hands and he left me to look over copies of the menu, all the bar drinks and their descriptions and an outline for rules and dress code. Flipping through the papers I realized that he’d handed me about 75 pages of information.   

I worked at a video store during the last part of high school and for my first semester at college. It was late November when I decided to quit the video store and look for a job as a hostess at a restaurant. I was dating a guy, Cal, we’ll call him, who worked as a server at O’Charley’s. He was 24, and I had just turned 18. I thought he was incredibly worldly and intelligent, although it turns out I was wrong about that. Anyway, our first few weeks of dating consisted of me hanging out after hours around the bar where he worked while he finished up and clocked out. We’d drink white zin and screwdrivers while his managers looked the other way. I liked the atmosphere there. It was obviously lax and even sophisticated for a girl who grew up in a city in a dry county. I’d learned from Cal that hostess jobs were easier to come by than server jobs, and that as long as you are at least 18 and female you could get on pretty easily. Lucky for me I was both.

One day I decided to skip all my classes to go out and look for that hosting job. The night was spent at Cal’s house, holed up in his room, just like most every night. I was going to school (barely) about an hour and half away. I transferred the following year, but for a while I was putting some serious mileage on my Piece of Shit car. And getting virtually no sleep. I remember driving back to college once from his house and thinking, in what seemed like a completely rational manner, "I can just close my eyes for a second. Just for a second. It will be fine." It’s a wonder I didn’t kill myself on the road to and fro, lo those years ago. On one drive I distinctly remember having a dream while driving! Not good. I was very lucky and incredibly stupid at 18. But, I digress.

I decided to blow off school for a valid reason for once, I thought. I was going to make a career move. I was going to ditch my dead end clerk job at Movie Gallery in Ashland City, mere minutes from where my parents lived, and find a job at a hot little eatery downtown. Something hip.

I awoke that morning and put on the thing I thought looked best on me. A ribbed turtleneck and some holey jeans that one belonged to my stepfather. When I twirled on Cal’s bed showing him my outfit he just shook his head.

"I think you ought to dress up more. Sure, it’s a restaurant, but you want to make a good impression," Cal told me, softening the blow with a smile. His tone really said, "You dumb bitch, what are you thinking with that on?" Looking back, I can’t blame him.

I drove over to Stones River Mall to look for something suitable to wear. It was easier than going all the way back to Ashland City where all my clothes were. You see, by this time I’d lost my scholarship (long story, not quite as bad as it sounds) and had moved back home with Mom and Stepdad. Dorm life in Clarksville was over. I cried, but it was no huge loss. I’d be transferring the next year anyway.

Oh yeah, Stones River Mall. It is still in operation, and may be the worst mall in the great state of Tennessee. There’s a cookie store, a meager bookstore, a J.C. Penney’s, a Sears and that’s about it. I think I ended up buying a skirt and top from the only store worth looking into really (at that time), American Eagle. I came out looking generic as hell, but at least there weren’t holes in it.

I needed to find a job close to home, but on the way to Cal’s house. So, I hopped in my Piece of Shit car and headed to Nashville. West End. I’d just get off on the exit at 440 and start at the top. I was newly adult, wearing a brand new corduroy skirt with matching blouse, and ready to take on the city.

[This is installment one in a retrospective series I’m starting about working in the restaurant industry.  It will attempt to tell the tale of my ten year stint "in the trenches" as one of my bosses used to say. (Constantly.) Names and other minor details will be changed to protect the not-so-innocent. But the rest is totally true. Or at least that’s how I remember it. To read just the installments in this series, click on The Restaurant Chronicles in the category cloud on the right-hand column.]

Day 22: Project 365, originally uploaded by brittney.

We rearranged the furniture.