My music on shuffle, “Rocky Road to Dublin” by Young Dubliners catches me off guard this morning. Against my will, I’m transported to a back kitchen with blaring music and waiting dishes.
One, two, three, four, five! Hey! I grab a giant serving tray and fill it up, in an instant attempting to memorize the placement of the special-order plates. I failed as often as I got it right.
On that first night, never having served an evening before, I was working with one other server. The other had walked out. Asked me was I hired, wages I required, / I was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin./ One, two, three four, five. Ha! All the staff knew I was a newbie, and accorded a kindness and understanding that I still did not know was foreign to food service. I had left my home that night fully knowing that this might be the only night I ever had the chance to serve tables. The business was in trouble, and they needed someone to serve through their last week of reservations. I made up my mind as I applied my lip gloss that I would make the most of it, and absolutely have fun, and not be deterred at all. Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born, / Cut a stout black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins; / Bought a pair of brogues rattling o'er the bogs / And fright'ning all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin. / One, two, three four, five. Ha!
Through the evening, I constantly asked my fellow server about the menu, about the computer system, about timing, about drinks. I constantly asked the chefs to name the dishes that were up, repeat the specials, list the desserts. I needed help with a check, I needed a hand with a tray, I didn’t know what was in a hot totty, or how to describe the shelf merlot. All this I acknowledged with a humble humor. The room was full, the tables were lit up by their tealights and softened expressions. The whole room was aflame with a joy of living, it was like church.
At the end of the night, I tallied my tips: $210.60. Seriously? We must be overcharging. Or they must have felt pity for me. The Galway boys wer by, / and saw I was a-hobblin’ with a loud array, / they joined me in the fray / soon we cleared the way on the rocky road to Dublin. / One, two, three, four, five. Ha!
I took off my apron, and wrapped up my black book. Lee, the sous chef, came up to me, “wow,” he said, eyes bulging beneath his thick, black glasses, “you did a great job. I mean that. I’m not just saying it.”
“Thank you,” I was so surprised at his sincerity.
“No, I mean it, if Drew [the chef] takes over, he wants you to stay.”
“Lee, are you serious? I might have a job here? I’ve never done this before. I am not sure this is the wisest thing you could do.” It was true, and I’m still not sure it was the wisest thing they could have done.
“The way you handled tonight, tables at a time. Servers with way more experience get all grumpy and flustered. And you’re in the kitchen making jokes, just getting it right. It was awesome.”
This was not a normal complement for me to receive: that I kept my head about me, was relaxed in a stressful time, made smart calls when it mattered most. This was not the kind of thing to which my temperament is accustomed. So I took the job, in hopes of winning more such favor. One, two, three four, five, Ha! / Hunt the Hare and turn her down / the rocky road and all the way to Dublin, / Whack follol de rah !
I never quite did as well as that first night, when the pressure was on the most.
