It’s after 4pm and I park the car hoping to dodge the car guards who spring out of no where brandishing their minute metres. True to her profession, one is standing right next to me as I park. It’s a game they play – hide and spring up on them! I hand over the money while thinking, it’ll be 4:30 soon, what’s the point of paying for like 20 more minutes? It sounds selfish but paying for parking everyday for this week bothers me. I make my way to the social bar and other thoughts quickly replace the previous one. Will I survive tonight? This place is like a triangle whose vertices I have to visit: the floor, the kitchen, and the bar. At which point will I be tonight? The thought scares me a little because I have no experience. That is pointless thinking, I tell myself. You wanna be a waiter, you gotta learn. Tonight I am shadowing another waiter, a veteran the others call him. I quickly get started by setting the tables and lighting candles.
The evening starts off slowly. Hmmm, I think, are there always this few people here compared to the place across the road? As the night progresses, people trickle in. A couple walks in and occupy a corner of our section. I calm down a bit as the couple look agreeable. If I spill their drinks, I don’t think they’ll shout at me. The ten rules of service dictated to me earlier run through my head when my trainer lets me bring the couple their order. I am so nervous I knock over the tiny tub of tomato sauce for their french fries. The man helps me with the sauce. They are nice after all, they seem to understand.
The evening drags. Suddenly the place is packed. When did this happen? A girl flags me down for a glass of water. I place the order at the bar as instructed. Isn’t it strange to place a water order at the bar. I could just fill a glass at the bar and quickly take it to her. More people are walking in, the place is buzzing with excitement. Food and drink sail between kitchen/bar and tables ferried by waiters. Some of it goes back to the kitchen half-eaten, some of it untouched.
Suddenly the diners are gone. The kitchen starts to close up, the waiters start to cash up. A slow process. We clean the floor – check for food waste under the tables, place the chairs on the tables, collect the candle holders. I am so glad the night is over and don’t want to think about tomorrow. “Tomorrow you will be in the kitchen,” says the manager. I guess I’ll find out then what happens to the half-eaten food.
The kitchen. Today there is a chef showing the cooks how to make mayo for the prego roll. My, he is a slim chef. What is it they say, “Don’t trust a skinny chef”? In this case I do. His aioli is so good. Chef Slim tenderises a beef steak for the roll. The end product is a winner with the owners. I end up washing dishes the whole night and slice my index finger on a broken glass. Occupational hazard. The following night I spend in the kitchen. I am terrified again when the managers says I will be at the bar tomorrow night.
The bar. Bursts of activity happen at the bar: a bunch of drinks orders come in; a few moments later we are standing around again. I learn to eat cherry tomatoes with Tabasco sauce. Mmmm, yum, why didn’t I think of this? My time at the bar is short because tonight, again, the kitchen is flooded with orders. Dishes and glasses need to be quickly washed and made available to the waiters. I don’t think I want to wash dishes again tomorrow night.
Working in a restaurant is both fun and frustrating. I learned that customers are observant and they know what they want. And behind the scenes the cooks and waiters are working really hard to meet customer needs. I also learned I’m not cut out to be a waiter. There’s too much waiting around, which I could fill with something.