Krueger never went back to work at Martino's. I'm sure it's no surprise to any of you that Donna used the number I gave her, and the following Friday night I was back in a white apron washing a pile of pots, pans, and nasty, spaghettified dishes. It wasn't even that I liked the job. I kept showing up because I liked Donna and Van and because I didn't have the heart to say no. Although, I did find a certain masochistic pleasure in conquering the dish pile each night. There is something very liberating about a job which has a definitive, simple goal. In this case, the goal each night was to wash all the dishes. Other than a few stock room runs mixed in, I could count on not being disturbed during my shift; I could focus on accomplishing my task.
Donna and Van grew to like me. I was a college kid (right away that was a strike against me), but I was conscientious and hard-working. I cared about my stupid dish job and I kept quiet and did my work. Each night after a shift, we'd have a drink in the dining area and chat. I'd grab a Peroni out of the fridge and scrounge for any leftover garlic bread in the kitchen. She'd smoke her cigarette and Van would keep a pinch of Copenhagen between the cheek and gum (though I never once saw him spit).Donna would pay me and send me home with some leftovers. She took me under her wing and treated me more like a concerned mom than a boss. That's not to say she was always pleased with me.
After a few months of being the best dishwasher the place had ever seen, Donna asked me if I'd be interested in hosting on Saturday nights. Hosting was a big deal. In a tiny little restaurant like Martino's, hosting meant playing Tetris with reservations every week. Keeping people waiting was common, not because of inefficency but because of a pure lack of space. She tried not to overbook, but if a table lagged or got a late start, it made the whole night stressful. I used to be happy that hosting was not my job, but as soon as she offered it to me, I jumped at it. It may have been stressful, but the waiters tipped out the host. Plus, it had to be better than going arms deep in orange, pasta sauced oil-water for four hours at a time each week.
My first day was a training day. I trained with one of her longtime employees and I was so overwhelmed that I couldn't even hide it. She'd turn tables over, manage a tiny waiting room downstairs full of people and pour drinks for the waitstaff as their orders came in. I began to think washing dishes wasn't such a bad gig.
My first day was stressful. I came in early and prepared for the evening. I studied the reservations list and made a preliminary plan in my head for seating the first guests. I peeked into the kitchen to see a fresh-faced college kid getting the rundown from Donna. I was jealous of his apron and stupid easy dishwashing job.
About an hour later, I was buried. This time, instead of being surrounded by crusty pots, pans and dinnerware, I was mobbed by impatient diners, scolded by impatient waiters, and scared out of my mind that everything was going to ultimately explode into mayhem. I was somehow the ringleader of the whole dining experience at this tiny restaurant and I longed for my greasy orange, lukewarm basin of disgusting water.
At about 8pm (midway through my shift), a party of eight came in. Part of my job was to bring bread and water to the tables. Martino's has good bread, but it's the butter you'll remember. It's whipped with garlic and some other herbs (I should have paid more attention to her recipes when I was there. I still kick myself about that), and it came served in little glass jars. I dropped off their bread and butter and returned to my post to fill up 8 glasses of water. The job was stressful, but by 8pm I was feeling a little better about it all. Ultimately, it was just a restaurant. People could wait. Nothing worth getting stressed out over.
I returned to the table with a newfound sense of calm. Instead of letting this job stress me out and give me an ulcer, I'd just not let it affect me. I placed a water in front of one of the women at the table.
"There you go," I said cheerfully.
"Oh my god, this bread is SOO good," she told me.
I smiled and told her, "It's the butter you'll remember."
She kept eating and gave me a little wink. I grabbed another glass of water and started to place it in front of the woman next to her.
Problem.
The six other waters on the tray were not happy about their departing comrade upsetting the balance on the small round waiter tray I held perched atop my palm. They revolted. They started sliding. I tried to tip it in the other direction and overcompensated. This was bad. My face clinched up.
Let me interject here for a moment. Martino's was SMALL. It had only about 12 tables in one big room and although the combined conversation in there could get pretty loud, it was still just a small room. Tiny. With nowhere to hide.
In what seemed to be slow motion, six ice-cold glasses of water tumbled off the tray, directly onto the back of woman #2. She shrieked. I froze.
continued later today...
