The kind of thing I have to experience at my place of work is interesting, to say the least. Unsettling, to say it best. I've been to hell and I'll spell it brunch. I am a hostess at a restaurant downtown - and kids, I'll shit you not and tell you it's the place to go for your hangover with a side of breakfast.
But for me, I no longer have the privilege of weekend brunch. I won't be enjoying it; I'll be working it. Taking names and numbers and handing out pagers, constructing puzzles out of tables. I wear a smile well and often - I soothe the weary, the hungry, the cranky. I fluctuate so that you will have a wonderful experience. It may take a good deal of energy, but I'm usually brimming it, even first thing in the morning, if forced. The coffee helps a great deal, and honestly, I enjoy running around and chatting with people all over the restaurant. It keeps me busy.
But because I work brunches, I have to experience a loss. Beautiful breakfasty things slip away. Mimosas no longer have a meaning to me; they are transformed into a shiny orange bulbous tumors on a glass stick. The french toast is always burnt. The potatoes are over-fried. The company is cranky and hungry and the syrup-covered infant at the table next to you is shrieking. Pleasant.
So I run around and I hand out menus and then I pick up menus and I try to appease the servers by rotating the sections fairly and try to appease the customers by seating them in desirable sections and make small chat with the customers and try not to trip over the kids who are running around unsupervised while avoiding the plate of food that is being run out the door and the bosses who are either flirting or scolding or joking with the rest of the staff. It's a hectic place. I'm surprised so many customers want to deal with that. I wonder if, while stuffing a fat piece of our famous french toast into their fat greasy mouths, the customers are able to feel the pulsating energy that engulfs the places, seeping out of the mop closet in the back and sizzling with the pomme frittes in the deep fryer, gurgling along with the scalding coffees behind the bar or oozing out of the ketchup bottles. I wonder indeed.
I dream of going out to breakfast with friends. I cherish it when it happens. I never go to my restaurant, I never dream about work, but I dream about my friends at work. The other day I dreampt I was smoking a spliff with my boss. I wonder if he'd be interested. Maybe in the next dream I'll offer him some.
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2 comments:
Perhaps, perhaps. :) Hey, it really is a great place to work and to come to for brunch, lunch or dinner. I used to frequent the place before I worked there. But Sundays.... whoo-e. They'll kick the shit out of you!
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