Baptism by Fire
I did not realize the intensity of a three-Michelin star restaurant.
The New York City restaurant scene is infamous for having some of the harshest work environments in the business. In the back of my head I knew this, yet overlooked it at the prospect of a job. (Finally!) Somehow, I had passed the trial night at one of the city's best restaurants; three Michelin-stars, world famous chef, historical building. The list of accolades is endless. In retrospect, I'm awe-struck and incredibly flattered that I was even hired – later finding out that I was one of very few employees who did not attend culinary school. I thought that since I had worked at a small suburban café and was a hostess at a seafood restaurant one summer that I was qualified for the big leagues. I had people skills! I had catered twice before! I could do this!
Oh, how wrong I was.
The night of the trial period left me overwhelmed yet invigorated. I was told to wear a pantsuit, with my hair in a bun, and minimal jewelry. Well, my blazer didn't button, my hair was too frizzy, and I was wearing a necklace (major faux-pas). Oh and I wore flats – horrible mistake! My feet ached all the way home. But I had gotten the job and was so excited it didn't matter. None of it mattered – 23 and unemployed in New York City don't go together well – so I was ready to work.
Upon returning for my first real day (even though it was still technically training I clocked-in), I thought I had nailed the conservative uniform. But as it turns out, my earrings were the wrong color, my blazer sleeves were too long, and my hair was still too frizzy (No amount of product will ever be able to fix the inevitable). I tried not to let it sway me, tried to act confident and cool as I was introduced to a slew of employees. I've never been good with remembering names, yet during my first (and last) 12-hour shift at this restaurant I employed a memory I never knew existed; in addition to everyone's name I also remembered all the historical and architectural facts about the building, the food, the ambiance, the wall art – something I was told I'd eventually be quizzed on. If I passed this quiz, I'd receive the coveted pin all employees wore on their blazer lapels.
"We touch our pins to get another employees attention. Don't abuse it."
After my meeting with HR and dropping everything off in my locker, I made my way to the main dining room – whose silent beauty put me at ease. My new office! I had a list of people I was to shadow that day, to learn the ropes. My first shadow was one of the only friendly girls I met. T-minus 12 hours to go.
By hour 4 I was counting down the minutes – the seconds – until lunch. I got caught chewing gum because I was terrified my breath smelled, and I got scolded for leaning instead of standing.
This is an important clarification: I worked as part of the "front-of-house" staff at this restaurant. When I tell people that I worked FOH I am usually met with a mix of eye rolling and confusion. "What is front of house?" "So you were a hostess?" I wasn't even close to a hostess. The hosts and hostesses were the equivalent of dukes, and I was a mere peasant. I was apart of the welcoming committee: standing at the front of the restaurant, one person would open the doors for the incoming guests. Then he or she would repeat the guest's name (not patron, not customers, not people. I was corrected for using the wrong terminology), to one of three people standing adjacent to them. Then one of those three people would walk over to the maître-d stand, repeat the name, and by this time yet another person would be standing in front of everyone else ready to take the guests to their table. I was apart of the three-man-team in charge of welcoming and repeating names, then walking with another the host or hostess behind the guests to their table. Make sense? Don't worry; it didn't make much sense to me either.
Anyways, back to the leaning. Between the lunch rush and the dinner rush there was a whole lot of standing without much moving. Most people are seated and entry is slow, so FOH spends a lot of time just kind of standing around waiting for something to happen. It wasn't really the boredom that got to me, it was the excruciating pain I was feeling in my feet. I try very hard to have good posture, but I have a terrible back and low arches on my feet, so standing hurts even just after a few minutes. Trying to stop myself from complaining, I leaned on one of the walls. I didn't even really realize I was leaning at the time; I just needed some kind of relief. Unfortunately, the HR manager I had met earlier that morning saw me from down the hallway, and she called over my manager's manager, who told my manager, who told me, to stop leaning. It was terrifying.
A few more hours passed by in a blur and then finally it was lunch. Being a three-Michelin star restaurant, lunch was obviously incredible. However, I had no idea where to sit. I was told to go to the reservationist room, where there were no seats except for one in the back. I mustered up my charm and asked the woman next to empty seat if I could sit next to her. "Hey! This seat taken?" I was met with a firm yes. Yes, this seat was taken. Sorry [I'm not sorry]. Well, ok, so much for being friendly. I spent the rest of lunch trying not to cry into my brussel sprouts.
Once lunch was over I hoped that the second half of my 12-hour shift would go by faster and easier. There was more standing, more checking the bathrooms for neatness, more fluffing the lounge pillows just so, more shadowing a person as he/she set place cards and cookies, more quizzing on the historical significance of the building, more people meeting. I met one of the head chefs, whose arms were covered in tattoos and had a shiny bald head. He asked very nicely how I was doing, and then proceeded to yell so loudly at his staff it actually made me jump. I tried to talk with a girl I was working with, which failed miserably. There are only so many monosyllabic answers I can handle! I did, however, talk with the master sommelier and one of the floor captains (I don't know what a floor captain is).
During dinner, I was scolded for walking incorrectly. My hands weren't supposed to be behind my back. The pain in my feet was torture at this point, and I kept excusing myself to go up to the locker rooms and force back my tears. I was popping ibuprofen like altoids. I kept telling myself "okay, I'll last 6 months," to "okay, I'll last until the holidays," to "okay, I'll last one month," to "Jesus Christ just let me get through this shift." At one point the thought of running into traffic to injure myself so I wouldn't have to keep standing crossed my mind. I have anxiety problems (if you couldn't already tell), and the panic was spreading over me like a wave. I was spiraling. My hours were never discussed during the interview, yet I received a schedule that was 40+ hours a week. When I asked one of my coworkers if she worked 40 hours a week, she literally laughed and said, "you'll be spending a lot more than 40 hours a week here." Hearing that, on the first day, was daunting. I started to freak out that I'd never get to go home again, that I'd never see my family or friends again, that my dog would die before I could see her again. Years of therapy have taught me that this is called the "snowball" effect. Rationally, I knew I was catastrophizing, but I couldn't control it. I was watching myself mentally collapse.
And that's exactly what happened. I collapsed in the bathroom towards the end of my shift. I was nearly delirious from standing for such a long time, from dehydration, from exhaustion, from nerves. I went to the guest bathroom to check for neatness and my knees just kind of caved. I fell under the sinks, and in retrospect I'm sure I let that happen so that I could get out of there. I let my irrational mind take over my rational mind. Regardless, I was nauseas and dizzy and sweating and my peripheral vision was all funky. I walked out and told another FOH employee that I had just collapsed in the bathroom and had to go home, she'd get someone to help me. I sat in the reservationists' room until a manager came and got me. Everyone was very nice, telling me to feel better and not to feel embarrassed. She asked me what happened, told me I wasn't speaking in full sentences, and said she was sorry that this happened to me. I was put in a cab and told to email her when I got home.
I cried the entire ride back to Brooklyn from Manhattan. Truly, I cannot remember the last time I cried like that. I was embarrassed, humiliated – I couldn't last one day, one shift, I collapsed in the guests bathroom – thank goodness nobody saw me. I was overwhelmed, completely and totally mortified. I was sobbing so hard the cab driver kept asking if I was okay. Still operating in my irrational state, I seriously considered taking the train to my therapist's office in suburbia and waiting for her until dawn. When I finally got home I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't recognize who I saw. I have never seen my eyes so puffy before. I sat on the floor of my bedroom still in my uniform and called my Dad, who I made stay on the phone with me until I eventually fell into a klonipin-induced sleep.
This is the part of the story I am least proud of: I didn't go back. I didn't face my demons, I hid under my covers. But now enough time has passed to where I can write about it. My therapist actually validated my panic attack, saying that what I went through was a truly traumatic and overwhelming experience. My Dad comforted me and said that the NYC restaurant scene just isn't for me. I'm too sensitive, I should have known better. I wasn't able to see that the critiques I endured during my shift weren't personal. So, back to the drawing board.
I will say that even just one double shift at a three-Michelin star restaurant has made me appreciate the work that goes into fine dining more than I ever have. Have you ever eaten at a fine-dining establishment? If you have, I hope you know that it's no accident that the staff knows your name when you walk in the door, no accident that the box of welcome cookies is facing you on the table, no accident that the sommelier knows what kind of wine goes best with your meal as opposed to others, because you're gluten intolerant, or allergic to nuts, or allergic to alliums. (I didn't even know that was a thing, I'm still not sure what alliums are). It's not an accident that the steak knife is placed at 45-degree angle, that there's always an abundance of hand towels in the bathroom, that when you leave there are 2 people waiting with your coats open for your arms.
I have endless respect for everyone at that restaurant, and wish them the best. They know hard work that I haven't seen elsewhere. Fine dining is a whole other world, and I'm going to leave it that way — to the professionals. I'll stick to the restaurant next door to my apartment in Brooklyn, full of pierced employees and $4 beer. For now.
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