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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Note: The week before Christmas to New Years were frantic. That's life in hospitality. The notes below were made in the few brief moments I found for myself, in no particular order they're my attempt to catch up...
Friday, 18 December 2009 - White Gloves Girl
We're trying out a new hostess. She's big, blonde, young, perhaps 26 or so, in a tight fitting dress. She's of that pear shape, on top, everything is normal, but around the belly things begin to get out of control, she resembles nothing so much as "2 pigs wrestling in a blanket". She's pleasant enough, her job is to meet and greet the customers, take their coats, take them to their tables. Not too tough.
She's a bit dramatic. Checking into the washroom she comes out wearing a pair of white gloves. And when the customers have been sat and the lobby is empty she stands in the middle of the marble foyer and pretends to conduct the opera playing through the restaurant's sound system. The staff watch in astonishment.
Monday, 21 December 2009
The book looked slow on Saturday when we left, we had hopes business would be slow the final week before Christmas. Well, maybe not slow, but manageable. We were wrong. The restaurant is full, reservations pour in, the phone rings incessantly.
That night, end of service, about 9:00 PM, the owner and his son have it out. There are still tables in the restaurant, they can hear everything. Salty language, "Fuckin-a" and other assorted Italian curses, the son is being loudly chastised and then fired. The customers look at me, eyes wide, I'm keeping busy in the front of the house, it seems a good idea to avoid the kitchen...one of them asks if it's "Gordon Ramsey we have in the Kitchen", another if I intend on doing anything...I ask them if they'd like to go to the kitchen and try to patch things up, none of them offers.
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Nothing noteworthy, just damned busy.
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
The day starts with the owner going to and fro from his car, he's at the restaurant early, he's filling the private room with gifts. It's the last day of business before our Christmas break, we've had attempts from Customers who want to come in on Xmas Eve, Xmas Day, Boxing Day, it's with some glee we tell them we're closed, "yes, even waiters have lives, you should get one too....".
The owner, he's been of a mind to open Boxing Day, but it's too late, the plans have been made....
The private room, where small functions are held, is where he's dumping all the gifts. Loads of gifts, dozens of brightly wrapped presents. One for every member of staff...
We'll have our party between service.
We're crazy busy, get our cheques, I hasten to the bank to cash mine, it's "coming up Milhouse" today, they cash and clear it; I'll be able to pay my rent. Albeit a month late, but it reduces my Xmas stress considerably.
When the lunch has ended the owner calls me into the office, he needs to prepare a card for his customers. Something generic on the computer, he wants to send out best wishes, and I help him search for images....
He draws my attention to the screen; he's noticed various photos of nude women keep popping up during our searches, I hadn't noticed, I work enough on computers to not be too alert to other peoples problems, he insists that I fix it, and I purge the browser history, set it to delete on exit, and the images disappear.
But there's the problem of the search toolbar, common search phrases auto-populate, and as I test this out I discover that, amongst other curious phrases, my own name has been googled...and this is worrysome.
I'm a fan of freedom of speech, but knowing you're being googled, deliberately searched for, it puts a muzzle on it. Still. maybe it was only done before I was hired - not an ongoing thing, and how interesting am I, given the other, more interesting searches that could be, have been done....but still, it's censure, it's caution in updating the blog....
We have a break between service, open our presents. And even though I've just started, barely 2 weeks in, he's gotten me a present as well.
A box of chocolates, a Panatone (Italian Dessert Cake) and a nesting wallet set. I'm touched, I expected, needed nothing, but he's gone to some effort to see that every one in the restaurant has gotten a few gifts from him. He shows me how the wallet works, pulls out a hidden strap and swings it gaily from his wrist, I assure them that's a feature only the Italians would use...he pats the leather and says "nice" now, as if I was showing it to him, it's worth it for the show that accompanies it...
It's human, it's decent.
The night passes, long, but it's the final night of work before our 4 day break and so we struggle through - it's busy, always busy, there's loud crying and sobbing from the kitchen, too much wine at the staff celebration, but there are the 4 days off to be looked forward to...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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You wake up exhausted, but unable to sleep. It's the day off. The one you've been looking forward to, the end of the holiday season, the start of the slow season, there's a lot to do. New Years Day was a day off too, but that was spent cleaning the house, preparing to bring in the New Year, today will be spent with the boy, I haven't seen him since the holidays began....
By the time he arrives I'm almost asleep again, but force myself awake. He's got to open his presents.
Now I've been busy with work and all and haven't really had time to get him a proper present. A few stocking stuffers is all, a bottle of hand cream, some pink rubber gloves, a box of kleenex. It all sounds very suspicious but, believe it or not, it isn't. Really.
And the "Big Gift", one I know he'll enjoy, the padded toilet seat.
He's speechless. I take pictures.
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There's a game that customers play when they want to ingratiate themselves to the waiter. It's the "What Celebrity do you most look like" game.
So far I've had one Benicio Del Toro, one Rupert Everett (I've had him before) and 3 Lyle Lovetts. Now Lyle Lovett isn't a celebrity that you should attribute to your waiter if you're trying to ingratiate yourself to him. Although I have to say there's a slight resemblance...SLIGHT is the operative word, perhaps more a shared expression of "What am I doing with this haircut", but that's where I'll end it. As for Rupert Everett, well, slight again, but I find him rather bland. And while I'd be the first to acknowledge that Benicio Del Toro's a very handsome man, there's absolutely no resemblance whatsoever apart from the bags under the eyes and his rather natty dress sense.
If I had more time I'd patch them all together and find the resemblance. But I don't.
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There's a long list of things I need to start the New Year.
New Socks. Every pair I own, bar one mismatched set, has at least one hole in the heel or toe, most have several. And while I've entrusted my daughter with the task of buying me new socks for Christmas it's best to be safe and I really can't wait any longer and so I buy some for myself.
Then there are shoes. My old shoes, they're fine, but there are superstitions that suggest one should start the New Year in new shoes. And so I've kept my eyes peeled on my infrequent trips to the Women In Need and have finally found 2 pairs of appropriate black dress shoes. The old shoes, with their smooth leather soles, were crazy to walk on, especially given the weather. The new shoes have textured rubber soles, normally I'd disapprove but have come to appreciate the practicality in our rather unpredictable climate.
A couple of new sweaters, just because I found them and liked them and at a couple of dollars each couldn't really leave them.
A couple of pairs of jeans, used but brand new, which I bought, size 30 waist but I figured I should be able to fit into them, I'm slim, aren't I? But all the feasting on scraps at the restaurant has put a couple of pounds on me and they're tight enough that I can't breathe or bend properly, my New Years resolution to lose a few pounds and save myself searching for some new jeans.
And then there are the boxer shorts. Men's briefs. The old ones I have, some several years old, have finally given out, the waistband has stretched, the seams have broken, there are holes where my bits fall out and they're an embarrassment. It's a new year, and, goddamn it, it's time I treat myself to some new underwear!! These can't be bought used, shouldn't be bought used and so I head off to a department store where I can hopefully find some at a hopefully not unreasonable price.
And I'm looking and the selection is OK, not great, there are the briefs, a silhouette of a mans torso with these fruit-of-the-loom type Y-Front on the front of them. Nope. More for the IT nerds who still live at home. There are the bikini-briefs with a color photograph of a man's torso, but I'm definitely not a bikini-brief sort of guy, unless they come in Leopard skin or Zebra prints.
Finally there are the boxers.
Now it's a big section, this underwear section, and the boxers, alone amongst all the briefs, have these full body and face pictures of the male models on them. And every one of them has got a "Aw, shucks Huckleberry ya' caught me now whaddya think we oughta do...." look on their face, sort of a coy, blushing, boyish embarrassment....
I'm looking through them, trying to find my size, a style that I like, and I notice other men standing beside me, also checking out the selection, there's that awkward moment that men share like when they're in a public urinal together standing side by side not talking because everyone hates to be talked to by strangers while they're fucking taking a piss...
You can't help but notice the models, you have to look at them, they're the only indication of what the boxers are going to look like when you get to put them on. The boxers, that is, because there's no way in your wildest dreams you're going to end up looking like the models with their finely ripped abs and too-toned bodies....
It slowly dawns on me as I'm perusing the selection, taking my time, trying to make the RIGHT choice because one day I just might be seen in them, that the others, the invisible men beside me that I haven't looked at because there's that peculiar sort of men's room etiquette in play that gives others their privacy as they shop for their undergarments and there's the mutual unacknowledged embarrassment of having to stare at naked men to buy your underwear; that the others buying underwear are taking their time too, poring over the illustrations, edging closer, and it finally occurs to me that I've stumbled into a gay cruising zone...
Of course, the homoerotic illustrations on the Hanes Packaging should have been my first clue.
"Still", I muse as I quickly make my selections and get out of there..."Gay men have impeccable taste..."
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It's the longest night of the year.
Obviously. It's not light outside until past 8:30, then dark again before 5:00. The sun's just rising when you leave for work, and long set when you return.
And it's long because it's work, work, work, every dollar earned applied towards bills and debts, the institutions, the people, a tiny bit grafted from the top for cigarettes and liquor, the fuel of these 16 hour work days....
But knowing, somehow, that it's the longest night of the year, that the nights will grow shorter and the the days will lengthen, that the Christmas rush is almost over and the workdays will shorten, that money may someday in the distant future be used freely to ones own ends, it gives you hope...