18-hour Day

I’m feeling a little overwhelmed today. So much to do. After yesterday, I have very little energy. I worked eighteen hours yesterday. Yes. You read that correctly: eighteen hours.

Let me explain. I started training for a new job at work. It’s kind of like being a manager, but without all the bullshit. The money is decent for the twelve hours a week I will be doing the job. It will also allow me to get on the list to open new restaurants. There appears to be a good chance that I could even manage one of them. There are quite a few slated to open in my area over the next two years. If I am going to manage a restaurant I would like it to be a new restaurant. Fresh staff. Fresh start. Maybe I’ll even get a haircut. And some new duds.

But the training is killing me. I had to open with the kitchen manager yesterday at 6 AM, take in the massive food delivery, prep product, and learn the very rigorous safety, security, and sanitation procedures in which I must be certified within the next couple of weeks. Oy Vey.

Then I had to work a server shift after I completed the opening kitchen manager shift. It was hell. I powered through it, though. And lived to make the following observations:

Norweigans don’t seem capable of controlling their children outside of the home, but they enjoy dessert and lots and lots of coffee (or, should I say, kaffe?).

Germans will settle for Heineken when Beck’s is not available; they cannot be convinced to sample any American “Oktoberfest” beer and, are, in fact, a little huffy about our fast and loose use of this designation.

Israelis tend to eat out late and they chew their food very slowly.

Latinos often order Mojitos and expect a “Miami experience” while sipping them. They are surprised that merely ordering this particular cocktail does not provide them with that “beachy” feeling they were after.

Soup can never be too hot for the elderly.

Cheapskates get angry when their coupons have expired. Ditto for their being two hours late for the lunch combo. Perhaps they should invest some of their coupon savings in a timepiece.

Football fans are far too focused on the game to even consider disposing of their peanut shells in the bowl that has been placed directly in front of them expressly for this purpose.

Alcoholic bartenders with alcohol-related head injuries have difficulty focusing on the task at hand, primarily when the activity in question includes making drinks in a timely manner.

Lazy servers will expend more time than it takes to do their required sidework actually making it look like they did thier required sidework (this is not a new observation, but it bears repeating).

The last diners in the restaurant always send their food back and/or linger over dessert. Always. Often both.

Middle-aged men dining together will want to tell you jokes. Jokes that are not funny. They will also want to know your name. They will use it frequently, usually because they realize that they need to tell you another joke.

There is no such thing as 18-hour mascara.

Your eighth table (that you had to pick up from the unable to function bartender) will be a group of Asians that will, inevitably, be unable to navigate through the menu. They will try to order food that they want, but that is not on the menu. They will remain unconvinced that there is no chicken soup, but will eat the broccoli soup when it is served to them. They, too, have given up.

The new manager, after questioning your ability to bartend alone last Sunday, and commenting on the number of hours a woman of your age could expect to work efficiently, realizes, after seeing you in action, that you do, indeed, have skills. Mad skills. So, there.