I took my identity as a superb waiter very seriously. People used to call me the GOAT. Of course I wasn’t, but you know I loved that.
The biggest place I ever worked is iconic. We would set up those crowd-sating carving stations for big events, each hosted by one of the restaurant’s line cooks.
For some such wedding or film premier, I was assigned to assist O with his carving station. O had a history of being drunk and trying to kiss the staff.
I wasn’t thrilled with the assignment, but self-sufficiency is my secret sauce. At some point during the show, O carved into his own hand instead of the cooked tenderloin.
There was blood on the knife and the board, so, as O pressed his apron into his palm, I carried the spoiled food stuff off the floor, towards the broken glass station.
He followed.
By the time he caught up behind me, I had the knife in my hand.
His knife.
You know chefs and their knives. Then again, you may not, so let the intensity of a threatened sense of ownership fill the space around us.
The scent of liquor poured out of his heavy heaves and over to me easily across the billowing steam from the dish pit. He reached out his meaty, blood-covered hand.
At a separate event of a different nature - a seated retirement dinner perhaps - a guest stabbed me in the palm with a steak knife as I worked to clear the table.
My smile stayed planted and my eyes brightened with the painful pleasure of my position. He was trying to help.
One of the chefs poured what looked like gunpowder into the gash to stop the bleeding, and I served the dessert course with an offering of coffee or tea.
Trying out coffee joints in the area and each has impeccable pastries. My teeth have been sugar coated going to sleep most nights and I am a little more rotten in the morning.
We have been taking turns with the small talk inherent to placing a coffee order, but when we are safely back in the car, we remark that, again, we had to remind the barista to get us “… our drinks! & … Also! the pastries - & if i can just grab the … cinnamon roll! ooP! yeP! Thanks!”
Service is our unifier, identity a result of conflict. Maybe now we have none.
That gunpowder stuff stings like heartbreak, but stitches are for bitches. Loved this piece!
such a captive writing