13/11/10
Keep ticking off the To Do and something will happen.
Well I did and it did. I’m just not sure where it’s going.
After ticking off (another) “job app away” last week I headed to the gym to tick off a cardio and I got a call from the man I’d just e-mailed.
I interviewed with the owner the next day who seemed excited by my work history and my references and my potential to move forward in the business. He explained the necessity of starting at the front line. I agreed. He introduced me to one of the restaurant managers and a trial was set for Friday night at a higher end restaurant in Darling Harbour.
I arrived at the restaurant nervous but enthusiastic, the potential of regular work had put some momentum in my task-ticking and I had enjoyed a very productive day. Eager to impress, I was early and walked into a staff gathering where management was briefing staff on the night ahead.
The meeting stopped and the group looked at me as I entered the front of the forum.
“Have you got your black shoes?” said the boss. I looked down at my black Vans, custom re-fitted with black laces for the job at hand. “Um, aren’t these black enough?”
“No,” he said. “I can’t put you on the floor with those shoes on. Do you want to come back tomorrow?”
It’s amazing how fast you can make a decision when you have to. In the seconds that followed my inner voice went a bit mental;
“No one told me I had to have entirely black shoes.
What’s wrong with Vans?
Everyone is looking at me…
If I had a restaurant I would definitely let my staff wear black Vans.
Should I just go home?
Everyone is looking at me.
This really isn’t an ideal start.
Tomorrow. I could come back tomorrow.
What? After the whole day revolving around being here on time?
Can’t you just stick an “L” plate on me and forgive the Vans for one night?
Decide!”
I certainly didn’t want to be the girl who everyone watched be banished because her shoes were wrong.
“What if I went and found some black shoes and came back?”
“Okay.”
I marched out of the restaurant and made a beeline for the only shoe shop I knew in the immediate area and burst in the door before they had time to close it. It was just after 5.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m trialling on the floor at a restaurant tonight. My shoes are wrong. I need black ones, stat.”
That was a $200 exercise. Approximately 10 hours of floor time to make it up and very likely, a painful first night on the floor in brand new boots.
Back at the restaurant, me and another “runner” were assigned to Stan, a senior waiter who would run us through the system and oversee us through the night.
“But first,” said the Boss. You’ll need to iron your uniform.”
Something you should know about me. I don't iron. Any item of clothing that requires ironing immediately has no purchase potential. It took me two years to figure out where we keep the iron at home.
He handed me two plastic bags; a company shirt and apron.
“We don’t have any small” he said, “This is large. It’ll get you through the night. Iron your uniform and as soon as you’re changed, go find Stan.”
An ironing board and an iron appeared at the front of the bar. I tore open the bag and looked for the rubbish bin.
“Is there a rubbish bin around here?” I asked the guy behind the bar.
He didn’t speak to me, he just held out his hand. I gave him the plastic bags and cardboard from the inserts of the shirt and he threw them somewhere I couldn’t see. I was very aware that it was getting close to the time when people would be on their way.
Pins. Shit. I began to pull pins from the shirt. They were everywhere.
“Excuse me.” I interrupted the bar guy again, “Where should I put these pins?
He looked annoyed. “What?”
I extended my hand with the pins in. “Pins. Where should I put them?”
He looked at me, looked at the pins, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. I remembered something the owner had told me in that interview;
“The staff can be a bit weird around new people. Don’t be worried if they’re not very helpful.”
The manageress flew past me. I stopped her. “Excuse me.” I said, “Where should I put these pins?”
She looked at me like I was stupid. “Why didn’t you just give them to him behind the bar?”
“I tried to” I said. “But he’s not being very helpful.”
She took them off me and put them somewhere I couldn’t see. Seriously, twice it would have been much more constructive to show me where I could put rubbish.
She returned about two minutes later.
“You can’t iron here. People are coming in.”
“Ummmm…”
“Why are you ironing here?”
“This is where they set me up. I was told to iron my uniform stat and get on the floor.”
“Stan!” She called my Supervisor over. “Find somewhere else to put this iron, she can’t iron here.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m nearly done.”
I ironed flat out for another 2 minutes and went to unplug it, to get out of everyone’s way. The cord was limp as I lifted it to find the power point. It was already unplugged. The guy at the bar was suddenly paying a lot of attention to me. I held up the cord. “Did you unplug this?”
He smirked. “Oh. Were you still using it?”
A what-felt-like-forever pause while I considered shoving it up his arse.
“Well, I’ve been flat out ironing for the last 15 minutes. You could probably establish that I thought it was on.”
He smiled, shrugged, and walked away.
Arse.
Back stage I found the staff toilet and started to get changed. By now, I was definitely starting to panic. I had already been chided by the manager and the manageress and tested by the Bar Guy. Now, everything was taking way too long.
I realised immediately that the shirt was ridiculously too big. The shoulders fell about halfway down to my elbow and the hem came down to my knees.
I stuffed it into my pants and instantly gained about 10 kilos. I tied my apron, looked in the mirror, breathed heavily one… two… three and exited the bathroom.
The Manager was sitting in an office back stage. He looked me up and down.
“Oh dear. That shirt’s too big.”
(Not shit Sherlock. Do I look like a large to you?) I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Roll the sleeves back down.”
“You told me to roll them up.”
“Not that far.”
He rolled them down for me, past my wrists and reviewed.
Oh dear,” he said again. I should find you another one.”
He disappeared back into the office. The Manageress entered from somewhere like, on cue.
“Your shirt is too big.”
“Yeah, that’s all they had. He said he’d get me another one.”
“We haven’t got time to get you another one.” She looked at me and sighed. “Your apron is tied wrong.”
“Oh is it?” How should it be tied?”
She turned me around and did it for me. Explaining in slow, loud words each tuck and roll.”
“How long have you been in hospitality?”
“Not for years.”
“Hm. Go find Stan. You’re running late.”
I found Stan and our other trainee, a pretty blonde girl out on the floor. It didn’t take long for me to establish that Stan was French. His accent was thick. Not very helpful when he’s explaining the outlay of a 100+ table restaurant. I found myself leaning in to listen to him harder, trying to read his lips. Stan apologised for the brevity of the tour, but it was going to be a busy night. By now it was about 6.30pm. Customers were filing in for a night on the Harbour.
We were discussing specific service practise I think, when the blonde asked a question. I don’t know what it was, the restaurant was getting louder; background music had been turned up a notch and customers began to buzz, meeting up with friends and family; congratulating, celebrating.
I leaned in closer to Stan to get the answer to a question I hadn’t heard. It was like I’d entered the twilight zone. The noise in the restaurant kind of muted into the background. Above it all, I could clearly hear Stan and the blonde in some conversation but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
Listening harder. Reading lips. No matter how hard I listened, it came out like gibberish.
I don’t know how long it took for my brain to figure out that they were having a conversation in fluent French. I had no doubt that they had been discussing something that would come back and bite me on the arse later.
“What?” I said. “I didn’t understand what you were saying.”
We were interrupted by the Manageress approaching. “Lisa” she said. You can’t wear your hair like that. It’s too casual. You’ll need to tie it up. We can’t have it like that. Go and fix it.”
(Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod).
To be continued.
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