About an hour ago I was standing in the subway station when I realized I was quickly becoming a 6 train red eye regular. A night rider dressed in black, probably drowsy looking and a little on edge. I've been getting off work around midnight lately, which gets me to the station when it's a little deserted. Most nights I wait for the train with hoochie mamas, handy men, and guys who are on the chase for some late night grub after a hit or two, but tonight was a little different.
Rhythmic music bounced off the filthy walls of the station and a Spanish guitar serenaded the gutter rats. Two men, one on guitar, and the other on vocals, gave some life to the station where energy-depleted individuals like myself waited patiently for the train. I watched as rats scurried down the tracks, looking for pieces of edible matter within the tarred, decaying trash. As ugly as this place was, it was slightly enjoyable at this moment. I had a small bag of Cheez-Its, my diet coke, and my Time Out New York magazine. Peace had found me in a Lexington station.
Today was like other days at the restaurant. I broke a light sweat at lunch serving the busy lunch crowd and got lost in a whirlwind of chaotic stress during dinner. I arrived at work to learn that the woman who started the job when I did had been fired while I was enjoying time off. Like the Polish man, she was axed during a meeting with the entire staff.
"I knew she wouldn't survive. I told you, did I not?" The Moroccan server said, giving me a small smile with his a "I told ya so" attitude.
I wasn't exactly surprised by the news. She was easily flustered and she always wanted a cigarette. At 39, she didn't have much tolerance left for the serving world. She could convey the rough exterior well, talking the talk, but her skin wasn't as thick as it probably used to be, making the walk a little more difficult.
"Kansas girl now survive longer than a New Yorker," the server continued, making it seem as though expiration was part of the job description. "I knew you'd make it longer than her," he said.
Whenever someone new comes around, it's only because someone has left or business has expanded. In my case someone left, or in reality, never stayed. I've served the first two weeks and I've gathered the impression that holding a serving job in New York City takes some thick skin.
We're in the middle of a transition period where I work. The French man who hired me just moved back to Canada. A lot of people are a little sad about, and rightfully so. For many of them, this man is the reason they were hired or the reason they stuck with the business. For me, he's the reason I found employment within the first week of living in the city. Though he was stiff at work and held the bar of expectations high, he believed in people. One of the last lectures he gave me on was about filling salts.
"The only way to open a restaurant is with perfection!" he insisted. "If you have a half full salt, you've failed. Prep! Prep! Prep! Be prepared. It's the only way!"
Even though I didn't have the chance to know him better, I'm going to take his high standards with me throughout my culinary career. His intensity might have been a bit frightening, but he knew what he was doing and his employees performed to his expectations. I'll keep the salts full for him.
I'm taking each day one day at a time and I'm not taking anything for granted. In the meantime, I've decided I need to use my break between lunch and dinner for quality study time. Today I walked to Barnes & Noble on 5th Avenue and picked up The Wine Lover's Companion, Ruth Riechl's memoir Garlic and Sapphires, a Time Out New York, and a few Spanish study guides. I'll be able to read around Rockefeller Center until it starts to snow, and there's always a coffee shop to give me shelter if the weather should fail.
