I never thought greasy taquitos, burritos and nachos would be my calling in life – in fact, I hoped they wouldn’t. But it’s Friday at 11:30 a.m. and the manager unlocks the door to the Mexican restaurant at which I work – the reek of the dish pit hits me, masked by the smell of refried beans and oil-soaked corn chips.
I head over to the host stand and see we have six reservations booked between 11:45 a.m. and 12:15 a.m., which include parties of 16, 15 and 10.
We spend the afternoon swearing under our breath, cursing management and really just hating life. We rush from the kitchen to our tables and back, carrying away plates scraped clean of pulled chicken and rice, and running back with countless refills of free chips and salsa.
I have been serving at the restaurant for just over a year. My second shift on the floor, a small child pulled the fire alarm and when no one could figure out how to turn it off, half the restaurant cleared out. Looking back, I probably should have left too.
“Do you need help carrying that?” asked a young male server as I balanced a plate of guacamole and sour cream I am taking to the party of 16.
“I’m okay,” I replied.
“Yah, your boob looks like it’s doing a good enough job keeping it up,” he smirked, and seeing my hands are full, slapped my bum and walked away.
The party of 16 is having trouble making up their minds as to what they would like to drink. I run through our seven flavours of margaritas and then the six beers we offer on tap.
They want to hear what margaritas we have again. I can see the booth behind me drumming their fingers impatiently as they wait for me to come take their order.
After a couple more questions and a lot of time to think, the large party decides they shouldn’t be drinking, so it’ll be 15 waters with lemon and one diet Pepsi, bringing their total bill to $2.95 – what a great start.
But I’m all smiles as I head over to the booth, where the customers are tossing me impatient glances. They’re in the middle of ordering salads topped with ground beef that looks eerily similar to dog food when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
It’s an overweight man from the party of 16.
“Can we get some more chips and salsa?” he asked, waving an empty chip bowl in my face.
After their meal, the group of 16 tipped 8 per cent and left, casting guilty glances around the restaurant as they shoved their pockets full of mints from the host stand.
The restaurant cleared out around 3:30 p.m., and the servers are sent home. With an hour and a half to kill before we have to be back for the dinner rush, we head over to Boston Pizza for $6 triple rum-and-cokes. We bitch and gripe, but leave a big tip, as it is our duty as fellow servers.
We hate our job, every single one of us, but we are addicted. As a student, it’s impossible to turn down $150 in cold, hard cash in one night.
That’s why every Friday and Saturday night I make the long trek home after a painful night of spilt margaritas and corny jokes, picking hardened beans off my jeans as I walk.
I tell myself at least I’m not asking my customers, “Would you like fries with that?” Instead, I offer rice and beans.