Reflections of a Former Waitress

My first job was in a restaurant. I was 16 and legally old enough to:
1) get a job, and
2) drive

And I couldn’t do 2 until I started at 1, so sophomore year, I traded in my pom-poms for a name tag and an apron and got the first job I applied for: seating hostess. Sports were over and work had begun…how else was I supposed to get a car?

My first day was horrifying, the way the first day of kindergarten is horrifying. Even in the first grade, you still get kind of scared on the first day, but you know what to expect. You have made friends, and a name for yourself that you can always default to. But not in kindergarten. In kindergarten, you are brand new, fresh meat, right off the boat, a foreigner. You know nothing more about language arts than the coloring books and magna-doodles you are so used to playing with and nothing more about people than the ones that have always been around you.

It was the same way with my very first job. I didn’t know what to expect, I didn’t even know how to act! I didn’t know when it was appropriate to ask to go to the bathroom (or if I even had to ask), what time I would be off of work, or when I would be getting paid?
I was never one to be afraid to ask questions, but suddenly I was petrified. What if they had already explained that part to me and it had simply gone right through me? Would they yell at me? Would they fire me? Would they hate me? I couldn’t stand to be hated. .

So, as what normally happens when I let my fear get in the way, I learned my lessons the hard way. I messed up orders. I went to the wrong tables. I said stupid things and I slipped in the kitchen many times. And I did get yelled at. And I think some of them did hate me.
But I didn’t get fired.
I never got fired.

It took a few months, maybe more than that. But eventually I learned the ropes. I learned names and I learned the rules. I knew where certain things were and how to clean up at the end of the night. I knew how to talk to guests and I knew most of the menu. I knew how to set a pager and I became more and more accepted as new employees began to start work after I had.
And soon, I was promoted to better things. Positions that made more money. Positions that offered power. Soon, I was taking to-go orders and making extra tips, nightly. And within time, I was the coordinator. The head host. And I ran the host stand all on my own. I determined how long guests would wait for a table and which table they would go to. I would tell the hosts basically what to do. I decided where they would seat a guest, who would set up which table, and who would check the bathrooms. I was the one who said when you could go home and when you could take a short break.

I loved hosting. I loved my job. I loved everything about it. I loved going into work and seeing my friends (aka, my co-workers), I loved my boss, I loved working. My job was fun. It was a job that was a lot harder than it looked. It was a challenge, but it was a rush. I was allowed to laugh and have fun, but I was also allowed to be bitchy and short-fused when I needed to be. Because people understood that my job was hard, and it took months of practice to acquire the skills I had to be a coordinator. It was no easy task.

A few months before I turned 18, I spoke with my managers and explained that I wanted to be promoted to waitress after my 18th birthday. They told me that they would think about it. It would depend on how many girls they could train in my place, and how well they could get the job done. Were my superior skills at my perfect job suddenly back-firing?! Was I too good at what I did? They couldn’t afford to promote me?

As my birthday drew nearer, my bosses tried to avoid the topic of promotion and would try to persuade me to remain a coordinator. I felt that it was so unfair. After all I had done for the host stand, and all the effort I had put forward. They just wanted me to stand still.
A month before I turned 18, I sat down with my bosses and offered them an ultimatum; they would promote me to server or I would quit and wait tables elsewhere. I got the news a week before my birthday that I would be training as a waitress shortly. I turned 18 on April the 11th and began my training on April the 14th.

Now, waitressing is much different than hosting, on many different levels, good an bad. The number one perk of waiting tables over hosting is the money. At times, I made more money in one night of serving than I made in a week of hosting. There was a lot more guest interaction and a lot more responsibilities. Hosting was a big team working together through the night, and serving was more like a one-man show. Anything I did was on my own. I didn’t have help. I didn’t make very many close friends waiting tables, as I had hosting. My mind grew somewhat lonely, even though I never admitted it to my co-workers or managers. As far as they were concerned, I LOVED serving! Yeehaw!

But it was not always fun. Sometimes it made me cry. There was once a time when I stopped to the table to pick up my tip after the guests had left and they wrote “spick” on the receipt and put two pennies on top… and I’m not even Hispanic! There was also a time when a woman yelled at me because she was offended that I hadn’t checked her ID. There were times when people would try to walk out on me without paying (of course, they never got away with it). But it was quite a job. It was a lot harder than it looked, especially in such a fast-paced restaurant like the one I had worked for.

But there were also many kind people that crossed my path. There were people that would make jokes, tip well, and even pull me aside to tell me that I was an excellent server. They would go out of their way to say nice things to me. They were warm, and polite, and used phrases like;
“When you have time,” and
“If you wouldn’t mind…”
And those things made my night better. The people that were nice to me, helped me to be nice to the rude ones.


I enjoyed my time serving though. Interacting with the guests was fun, and for some time, I enjoyed working for the money I made as opposed to making a fixed salary. Many days, I was highly motivated and ready to work. Others, it was quite the contrary. Sometimes, I had panic attacks at work and got sent home. Once, I was carried away in an ambulance. Many things happened in that steakhouse. It was a large piece of my life.

I made a lot of memories. There were many dreadful nights; rude guests, crap tips, and disagreements between workers. Sometimes it seemed there were more bad nights than good ones. But surprisingly, I only remember the good ones. I remember laughing with my friends at the host stand and training new employees. I remember the funny things that we would say in the kitchen and the crazy nights when we thought we would never see our clock-out receipt. I learned so much from that place. And even though I’m not sure where I’m going to work next, I know that I can smile at a guest when I want to yank their eye balls out. I know that I can have a bad night on Monday and a great night on Tuesday. I know how to lift a heavy tray over my head with one hand. And I know how to have a job.

Oh yeah, and I did get a car somewhere in there :)

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