I brought in a lot of revenue to the restaurant this evening, on what would otherwise have been a dead Monday.
It’s all relative. No one else is happy about it.
Chef thinks I spend too much time on private events–you know, the actual bottom-line money makers. Fine. Say all you want that you don’t want to book private events “every night.” Really? Not on a Monday or Tuesday? Not the first date after New Years? Not on a cold, cold February Wednesday? Because I have ’em all ready to pony up.
I am just that good, after two weeks from opening.
Right. I should be doing more “on the floor.” Clear a plate, run some food.
I have landed in the middle of some of the most talented, rising stars, ever. I have learned more in the past month-and-a-half than I ever thought I could about this biz. And, given a few more weeks, I could learn far more.
But sometimes egos get in the way. Sometimes high-school attitudes in coworkers live on, well into their 30s. Jesus, all I want to do is what I do best. Do you know who I am? Do you know how well I already do for you?
Instead, it’s, “Psst, chef, she doesn’t know how to do so many things. But I do!”
Give me a f—ing break.
I have lived a lifetime and more around these kids. I am sorry they don’t get it.
My GM does. He’ll help me through. He gets it.
No, I wasn’t fired today. But the writing is there, all on a cluttered wall.
This ain’t home.
And I cried to Mr. Restaurant Gal about it, at 1 a.m., waking him up to drone on and on.
And he felt horrible.
I felt worse.
Then I came downstairs and read my email, both personal and to Restaurant Gal.
One note to RG explained how her brother had not survived in Iraq, and to hug my friend’s son ever so tightly.
Another note to me, Restaurant Gal mom, explained how a student at Restaurant Gal Daughter’s college had tragically died in a car accident this past weekend. Counselors would be on hand to help students.
There’s no answer to this. There’s no way I can measure my work angst against this kind of ultimate pain.
I know the answer to work–get the hell out and move on. Big deal.
On the way out, would that I could take with me even a little of these families’ pain away from their hearts.
I know the answer to that, too. Nice thought, but no can do. So impossibly impossible.
How is it that life is so damn short?
I wish I knew that answer.