It’s that time of year. Summer: the deadest time ever for my restaurant. So deadly in fact, that my restaurant is closed completely for renovations. Putting me out of a job for the first time since I moved to New York.
It snuck up on me like those ten extra pounds during the holiday season. I think we where all in denial. But just as promised, the restaurant closed down and sent all us servers scurrying into the streets to find a new home. I was forced to suck it up and pretend I really wanted to wait on tables somewhere else.
Lets be honest folks. I didn’t. I didn’t want to reformat my resume. I didn’t want to put together cute interview outfits. I didn’t want to charm my new bosses. I didn’t want to learn a new menu. I didn’t want to work the crappy new girl shifts. I didn’t want to learn my place with in the politics of a new restaurant . Because bottom line, I can’t believe I’m still actually waiting on tables.
And there are a lot of really hot places to work in New York. The possibility of making a decent living is out there. But there’s the rub…
A friend of mine, who is also an artist, musician to be more accurate, refers to these jobs as “The Golden Hand cuffs”. After working at a certain level of establishment in this city, my earning potential is far greater in this world, the hospitality world, then the world I moved to New York to break into. My acting resume and five-minute audition, is not enough to give a producer with any sense the confidence that I will be able to perform Lady Macbeth night after night without any trouble. I could, I really want to, but desire and proof are two different things. Especially when there is a lot of money on the line.
Now, take shit from over privileged douche bags night after night? That I can do in my sleep. And with a smile and certain flare that would bring a tear to your eye. Not because its sad. But because it so beautiful. Its a gift, what can say.
In attempts to continue to pay my bills, I found a job at “fancy” seafood place, and worked there part time while the end hung over our heads like a grumbling rain cloud threatening to unleash a torental down pour. The new place was known for their raw bar and staying power. I chose to apply there because it was right by my train, it had out-door seating (which New Yorker’s love), and I figured a seafood place has got to be busy in the summer time. I was building an arch. It was something a grown-up or biblical figure would do.
After my first trail, it was painfully clear how good I had it at my old job. To say I hated it there, is a gross understatement. It was torture. It was the worst restaurant I had ever worked at. And let me remind you, I worked the grave yard shift at an I-Hop one summer.
Categories: Waiting is the Hardest Part