To me, working in a restaurant is like acting in a play. The rhythm, the ambiance, the spectacle — the cast and crew has to work together to make something worth sharing.
In my time as a server, “Hey y’all, welcome in!” was the opening line to every scene in my eight-month-long production. To me, that phrase meant showtime.
The waiters and bartenders were the actors, interacting with the audience and keeping them entertained as they showcased the creators’ art: the food.
Of course, like any display, there were complex dynamics involved. In the way a duck looks like it’s floating serenely in a lake with its flippers flicking frantically beneath the surface, upholding the facade of calm in a restaurant is imperative to success. It is also incredibly exhausting.
Despite the agony of the constant balancing act, working in the food industry was one of the most valuable experiences of my life — the lessons I learned, the people I met, the skills I acquired — and something all people could benefit from. It is why everyone should wait tables for a few months in their life.
Now, to set the scene: I worked at a Mexi-cali cafe, a descriptor that elegantly disguised that we primarily served up Caesar salads topped with taco meat, among other dishes. The employee uniform was a black company T-shirt, dark jeans and non-slip shoes. Look a bit closer, and one could see splats of salsa on the white parts of my sneakers and the bleach stains along the hem of my shirt from cleaning the floors at closing. Another symptom of the tediously fragile equilibrium my boss paid me to maintain.
Writing down orders and carrying platefuls of foraged mushroom quesadillas and cauliflower street tacos was only one part of the job description. Dare I say, the easiest part of the job.
Remaining calm in the midst of chaos is effectively a requirement in the trade. It is also a requirement for life and its many curveballs and teachable moments. The restaurant setting is a controlled environment where people can learn how to handle intense moments—one of the many reasons why anyone can benefit from a job like mine.
After a couple of months of working, I arrived at work on a Saturday night to discover that all of the other servers and bussers called out, and I was the only one working. Predicting how crowded a restaurant could get on a given night is difficult, but weekend nights are almost always busy.
Around 5:00 p.m., groups of people started streaming in, and it immediately became clear that I would be serving a full house by myself. Crumbling under the pressure is not an available option. My perfectionistic tendencies and personal issues did not exist at that moment — it was about survival.
I did my best to multi-task, seating tables as I took orders and dropping off silverware at one table while I dropped off dessert at another. I worked as hard as I could that night, and that simply had to be enough.
I implore recovering perfectionists to step into a role where perfection is impossible. No matter how hard I tried that evening, not everything went to plan. It forces pivots and recovery in a rapid timeframe that necessitates a short memory for mistakes and a long memory for the good. There is much to be gained from that mindset.
What surprised me was the overwhelming patience of patrons on a night that, even in hindsight, I can only describe as a living nightmare. Sure, some customers were difficult, asking why I had not refilled their soda seconds after they finished it or seating themselves at a dirty table. However, for the most part, they extended a gentle empathy. Sometimes, they would add a “but, no rush” when they finished ordering or ask for the check as soon as their meals came out to allow me plenty of time to get the ticket while they ate.
Those brief exchanges of kindness kept me going that evening. However, I had little choice but to continue.
When I was not working alone (on a weekend, with a full house), collaboration was key. Yet again, another skill that translates to the real, equally scary, world. At the beginning of each shift, we servers would divide the dining room into sections, each covering one part of the restaurant to minimize overlap. Of course, some sections would inevitably become more crowded than others, so the servers in the less busy sections would swing by and offer refills on chips or drinks.
In my life post-restaurant, I still find myself asking how I can help people when I have a free moment. It is a skill that coworkers, parents and friends appreciate and a trait that would not be as natural if not for those late shifts making sure that customers were happy.
The other symbiosis was between the kitchen and the front of the house. A language barrier made this relationship require a little extra effort. Most of the kitchen spoke Spanish but almost no English, and most of the front of the house spoke English but almost no Spanish. Two of my coworkers and I spoke Spanish fluently enough to act as translators, but it was rare that the three of us worked together at the same time. Generally, the job fell in one person’s lap, communicating customers requests to the kitchen and settling heated disputes between the manager and the cooks. The latter occasionally ended in screaming and the realization that employment lawyers might actually deserve to make as much money as they do.
While translating was an enormous task and well outside my pay grade, I can now mediate in two languages. Like many of the skills I gained in my time at the barely-Mexican Mexican restaurant, it has proven exceptionally helpful. Certainly, the demands of my waitressing job tested my patience, strength, will and ability to roll silverware. With every struggle, I learned something new, as hard as it was.
Everyone should work in a restaurant. It taught me resilience and patience without compromising kindness and hospitality. Those lessons did not come easily, but their value is unmatched. I use these skills daily, but even more than that, these skills allowed me to connect with people.
The industry is not all horror and strife. There are endless positive stories I could tell from this period of my life, ones with no morals. Those stories are all about people.
The story of Cillian, the Irishman who owned a pub down the road, who would have a beer and a shot of whiskey every morning. Carlos, the chef who took a glass bottle of Coca-Cola home with him every night with a wink and the flash of his golden tooth. Casey, my scientific twin flame, who would talk esterification and titration curves with me while I made lime cordial behind the bar. Henry, the waiter turned bar back turned DJ who told me to never stop telling stories from the time we worked under the glow of trendy neon signs, lying to people that pimento cheese is as good as queso, and learning lessons we could not learn anywhere else.