I received a P45 a couple of weeks ago. My old workplace had closed. I wasn’t surprised, it had been struggling for a while and this was exacerbated by the cost-of-living crisis and energy bills. Strangely, I wasn’t even as gutted as I thought I would be. It felt like another chaotic chapter of my life was firmly closing. On to the next.
I’ve had a most of this blog in my drafts for a few months- but I couldn’t really shoe-horn in other posts. It would be too difficult to write a chronological account of everything that happened at the restaurant- and it would be horrendously boring. So here’s a collection of anecdotes that have been swirling round my brain.
--------
When we first opened, we were only taking card as we didn’t have a float (spare change). One relatively elderly couple I served were mildly amused at the card-only inclination. As if this was a new fad and not the 21st century. The lady gave a chuckle and said I don’t know about that. Some ladies might not have their own debit cards, may have to come to a certain arrangement with the manager. They won’t be happy about that. It is no longer the 1960s, thank goodness. Most women have their own bank account and don’t have to rely on their husband. I dare to admit that some women even have their own personalities now, the world is truly changing
--------
One week, I was trying to stand up for one of the kitchen porters, who my colleague had dubbed ‘moody’. “He’s not moody with me”, I protested. “And you know why that is?” J responded, “because you’ve got boobs and a bum”. Firing up an airy defence mechanism, I said: “Really? I thought it was my dazzling personality”.
But it keeps coming back to me. Is that just it? No matter how hard I work at this service job, despite my academic credentials, I’m just a two-part anatomy. Boobs and a bum.
I would like to believe that the male species are more complex than this, the #notallmen. But recently it’s hard to believe.
I’ve been leered at as one of “the pretty girls behind the bar”, to which my manager on shift commented “it could be worse- it could be the ugly girls behind the bar”. Missing the point entirely. Regardless or what I look like or my gender, I should not be beckoned and treated like a dog for some guy who is compensating his large wallet for his #smalldickenergy
--------
You often get the feeling you’re being watched in hospitality. You’re flowing and moving through the restaurant and bar area, serving drinks or collecting glasses. Sometimes it’s the unnecessary touching at the waist when you’re trying to squeeze past people get to the bar and take a tray of drinks, sometimes it’s just a look, a smirk.
I hate the feeling when a customer looks at me. Their eyes, loaded and staring, stripping off my uniform and dissecting me with their gaze. It’s disconcerting because I can never tell if it’s good or bad. And it’s not something you can hide from- I still have to finish my shift on full display.
-------
I’ve been Told to smile, waved at, beckoned, called ‘babe’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘darling’ and ‘good girl’.
And, wait for it, “not a very vegetarian arse’”. I’ve been patronised and grabbed at. But is it worth it for the tips? You can’t choose your clientele, but they can choose you alright.
The head chef has also asked me how I have sex if I’m a vegetarian.
Frenchman has jabbed me in the ribs, grabbed my shoulders and shaken me, and pulled on my belt straps. He is a 60-odd year-old French man. I find him very endearing if not quite sexist and chauvinistic in his attitude.
Why do I put up with it? Simple. I don’t want to lose my job. The effort of trying to convince him on wrongdoing is a weight on my time which would not go anywhere.
In the bizarre cases, I’ve been personally thanked for ‘looking after a table’ I didn’t even serve; or even handed a large tip after only one round of drinks.
-------
One time, I was clearing plates from a table with two gentlemen in about their late-50s. J, one of the chefs, was sat in front of them having a beer. Knowing this, I asked them what their favourite plate was. One man responded: “I mean, your eyes”. He had previously commented on my eye makeup before, but this was nauseating. I can still feel the pang of anxiety and cringe-iness viscerally. Made worse by the fact that J had overheard it. There’s not much coming back from that.
-------
I’ve noticed I always seemed to be assigned the restaurant section. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy it. In the early days it would make me nervous as more could potentially go wrong. But as you find your feet with any job, it quickly becomes second nature. Like I said, it doesn’t bother me so much now.
Sexism in hospitality isn’t just social, it’s in the very psyche of the industry. A new, brightly burnt orange sofa was installed to replace some of the precariously high bar chairs. One of the owners directed to GM that it was important to get ‘pretty girls’ on those table. The seats were (coincidentally) directly in view of the doorway, and the logic being that people (read: men (read: men with money and a high libido)) walking past would want to come in. Sex sells, and conventionally attractive customers are free advertising.
-------
Some early classics. One of my most embarrassing moments was serving a table of 11 engineers. A lady had come in the week before, inquiring after the menu and informing us that BAE had just recruited a plethora of engineers from Japan to work on their new projects. This menu was perfect, and a taste of something different to Lytham’s classic Mediterranean-bistro-gastropub style. After taking a drinks order, I (rather *too* confidently) held a tray of seven pints and was passing them round the table. Number six is biblically the devil’s number and that is what screwed me over. The tray flipped and I dropped two pint glasses, spilling both pints and shattering one glass, all over one side of the table and the engineers. They flew backwards and paper towels, mops and a sweeping brush was all rushed forward. Horrendously embarrassing, I then had to continue to serve the table for the rest of the evening.
B told me a story once of how he spilt a glass of wine over a customer who was, initially, very forgiving, and then proceeded to attempt to get him fired. So it could have been worse.
-------
I once told an elderly couple that the chocolate fondue (the fondue kind that rich people go on skiing holidays to taste, or normal people go to Thornton’s for a budget version), was a cake. When questioned by the old GM what I had told them, I simply replied “I just panicked”. He laughed in my face, and all was forgiven.
-------
I don’t profess to be a romantic person, but what warms my cold heart is the simple kindness of strangers. Whether it is someone holding the door open for you, picking up something you have dropped, or paying you a compliment. Goodness still exists, the earth rotates on its axis and there is peace again. There was a moment like this. I mean LIKE this. Taking payment from a table, a couple in probably their mid to late thirties, I began chatting to them. The gentleman, let’s call him toby, (in reality you could see him being christened Tobias), kept trying to get me to join Lytham tennis club. Saying there was a jolly good team there and they have a good bit of fun. The lady, lets call her Rachel (as all good generic women are known). Bless Rachel she took pity on my sob story that I had just moved to the area and didn’t know anyone, abnd offered to give me her number top meet up. Ladies and gentlemen, DAY MADE. It was the sweetest thing. She texted me right there and then to make sure I had it. Alas, as all Rachel didn’t return to my reply so she shall always be the one that got away. What was a simple act of kindness from a stranger ended up being a token gesture from a drunk lady. Who had a few
-------
Personal Displays of Affection. That old chestnut. Occasionally, there would be customers that come in for a drink then sit quietly in a corner and eat each other’s faces off. There cheekier couples try lead their partner by their hand to the accessible toilet.
Some couples cannot possible let go of each other hand throughout the course of the evening, afraid something awful might happen and their partner runs out the door. Or worse, holding hands constantly means they’re really there, and not just a figment of their hopelessly romantic imagination.
Being in love and all that jazz, fine. But it baffles me how people can come in for a civilised after work drink, neck each other off for 15 minutes, then leave after with drinks still half full. We see you.
There are wonderfully endearing couples who have a bit of sparkle about coming out for a meal together. A rare treat. One of my last evenings, there was a couple in incredibly stylish sunglasses (large, coloured frames). Every time I wandered over to check-in, they were taking a photo. Sweet.
On the other hand, there’s always a bit of drama when there’s a couple that don’t get on. You can spot it a mile off. M was standing behind the bar and peering out of the window when he said: “Do you think table 35 are on a date?”. I looked over. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I asked him what made him think that. He said they were quite awkward with each other, and the conversation seemed forced. When I brought them the bill, the guy made a weird comment about being being the gentleman and "forced" to pay for the date. To which the woman replied: "you should be grateful for my sparkling conversation," before taking a big swig of her glass of wine.
Dear reader, it was horrendously awkward to have to stand and wait in that deafening silence as the guy paid the tab. I don't think there was another date.
-------
One of the team I haven’t written about so far is (as he would like to be known) 007. Upon arrival at The Grove, I learned that there were codewords in hospitality to reference things. 007 being ‘good looking customer’.
Part of M’s training/application to the navy was to complete a timed test online. Just straightforward things like functional skills, numeracy and literacy. M somehow thought that a quiet day at the office meant this was the perfect time to complete the test. It was with much frustration and alarm that were slowly realised that, once started, he had to complete the test. As 007 kept demanding that he took a break M rebutted him with ‘I’m clocked out and I can’t leave’.
I really enjoyed 007’s company. Especially our Sunday night closes. He was chatting to a Scottish couple whilst I was quietly polishing cutlery and setting the restaurant tables for the next day. They were asking about the character of Lytham. Clearly, it’s a very wealthy town. He responded with its very much a showy, promenade town. He pointed to a fancy Landover on the street opposite, outside Spago restaurant. “See that car?”, he said. “That’;s the owner of Spago’s car”. The couple nodded and politely marvelled at such a sleek vehicle. “He lives in a nice flat right above the restaurant”. More congeal murmurings. “So,” 007 continued, “he has no need for a landover like that. He lives right above where he works. Rarely ever drives it. It’s all for show and for a status symbol”. As if 007 had revealed a magic trick., the couple murmured in a mixture of delight and surprise at his insight. They gave 007 a kind tip and thanked him for his company. After they left, 007 said “See, they tipped me a tenner and all I did was chat to them all evening. I love this job”.
--------
Another disturbing character trait of Lytham is everyone knows everyone. This was made plain to me one time by a gentleman coming into pay and D (one of the chefs) coming down the stairs. An exclamation of recognition from either one and the typical lad-ish higs and slaps on the back ensued. How are you doing mate, good yeah you, what has been happening etc etc. Moving about from restaurant to restaurant, changing businesses etc, After initial friendliness and a wee catch-up. The gentleman went on his way. D laughed and said “I’ve known that guy for years and I have no idea what his name is”.
-------
One of my favourites is an elderly gentleman (R) who’s surname is from one notorious Scottish city and is actually from its rivalled other. Ordering a latte (and, if he’s feeling naughty, an ash tray), he sits and reads the paper. When I get a minute, he’s great to chat to about his previous life and his wide collection of well-travelled friends. R once recollected a part he went to in his wild London days where a gentleman boasted that he had a Victoria and Albert, to which all the ladies in the room immediately demanded that they could see it. After teasing us the dinner menu with his nephew, he came in to pay for the drinks bill and confessed he was moving on elsewhere. My manager and I joked that we weren’t his favourites anymore, and he had forgotten about us. R outstretched his arms in a dramatic fashion and said, “I could never leave you, lovely ladies”. I gave him the side-eye and said “yeah, yeah- that’s what they all say”. My manager chuckled endearingly and said she liked that one, and she’ll use that next time. Result.
-------
Joy comes in the small moments: me an L dancing behind the bar on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
-------
Starting off as bone-straight, my hair often gets progressively wild throughout the shift. It’s a nervous tick of mine to play with my hair, or even pull it out when I’m anxious. My manager would joke, “Oh- her hair’s tied up everyone! She’s already getting stressed”. Up and down, up and down. When my hair is not newly washed, it tends to hold position when I take both hands by either side of my head and lift it up. Frenchman said I look like a sad poodle.
-------
Walking home one night from a shift, it was probably gone midnight, I saw a light on in a flat above one of the Highstreet shops. As I walked closer to the flat and on my way home, I could hear Pulp’s ‘Do you remember the first time?’ playing, along with two folks enthusiastically (albeit out of tune) singing along. Catching my eye, I could see hands thrown in the air and curvy dancing. It was the only sound in such a sleepy street. Now that’s how you end a Saturday night.
------
A couple of months ago, I told my favourite grumpy old man (the “have you tried a life of crime?” customer) that I was considering doing an MA in Journalism. His response was to lean back slightly in a surprised fashion and declaratively state: “You’re not pushy enough to be a journalist”.
One time he came in, it was busy, and I couldn’t give him enough attention immediately. He was awkwardly stranding round waiting of a table to be cleared. I gave him a warm welcome and he bossed me about with “I’ve been waiting ages”, “no one has come out”, “what are you all doing”, “clear that table for me”, “I want a menu and an ash tray”, and “that lady’s desperate to order a drink while you’re at it”. I gave a bemused smile at his outrageous character and rushed off. My colleague attended to him whilst I was sorting things out elsewhere. I gave him an ashtray 5 minutes later and he blurted out “I didn’t mean to upset you before”. I was stunned at his half-apology. This outrageous man, who’d been actually barred from other restaurants in the locality for being rude and making waitresses cry, actually apologised to me, “I hope I didn’t offend you”. Laughing it off, I said that it was really sweet of him but he was alright. We were just busy, but I don’t take anything he says seriously. I was quite touched that he seemed to have a soft spot for me.
Luckily enough, he came in for an early tea on my last shift at The Grove. When he came into pay, my AGM (R) was teasing him that she’ll ban him from coming in if he stays grumpy. He explained that he’d been barred from several restaurants in the area for being rude and making waitresses cry. Tragically comical? Or comically tragic. He’s a 71-year-old man with a wicked sense of humour. When R mentioned it was my last day, he appeared crest-fallen and a little stunned. He halted slightly. I explained I was moving to London (ish) to do Journalism, after all. He flicked me a tenner and said, “Enjoy London”.
I may not be “pushy”, but I pay attention.
Comments