Waiter for a week

I was to be a commis waiter for a week at the restaurant. There are 50 waiters. Commis waiters and waiters work as a team. The waiter is the front man, taking orders, chatting to the customers. The commis, rather less glamorously, runs to the kitchen to bring up the orders and assist in serving them at the table. Although the commis will actu­ally do more physical work, they share the pits equally.

All in all this is fair, as it must be pointed out that the sen­ior waiter is actually responsible for keeping a running ac­count of the bills and if he makes a mistake, or under­charges, the fault is rectified through his wage packet. It's an important working relationship.

I reported for work at 11am. That may sound like a re­laxed time to start the day, but the hours, I was soon to learn, are hell. The last client at lunchtime may not leave until half past three, or later, and the evening shift starts at

6pm. The hours, it was generally agreed, are the worst thing about waitering.

The commis takes the orders from the table down to the kitchen. He places the order for hot food under the nose of the souse-chef who is shouting out orders to the cooks, while orders for cold dishes and salad go to a separate counter, and desserts are from yet another area. The; kitchen is two flights of stairs away from the restaurant. The commis then comes up to see if any more orders have been taken while the previous one is being pre­pared. At the same time, dishes have to be cleared or put| on the table, glasses refilled, ashtrays emptied, and somehow there always seems to be a new table with six or eight new orders to be filled — two flights away in the kitchen.

Hell, I rather imagine, is like the kitchen of that restaurant. Yelling chefs, endless banging of pots and crockery, steaming casseroles, hissing frying pans, men with red shining faces, trays with loads heavy enough to break your wrists.

And running. Always running. Up and down, down and. up. And since everyone is running, and always with loaded trays, you need the co-ordination of a gymnast to; stay out of trouble. I spent as much time as possible in the dining room itself.

I noticed that wearing a uniform somehow transformed me into a role. It wasn't play-acting. Customers become sir or madam. Deference, a quality I usually lack, became the order of the day. I became very sensitive about the way I was treated. I hated being summoned by the click of the finger or the bend of the index finger.

It was hurtful if conversation deliberately stopped as I served the meal, and yet unkind if it continued as if

I didn't exist, I began to notice if people said please and thank you, and then whether they looked at me when they said it.

(adapted from the Sunday Express).