In The Kitchen: The First Pour

My silence over the past few weeks could indicate two things:
1.) My life has been so mundane that it hasn't even inspired me to bother trying to entertain the masses.
2.) I broke all my fingers in a freak shopping incident and thus have been unable to type.

Luckily, the former has occurred.

The past several weeks have been spent in a (gasp) management role at the restaurant. I have been stuck in this funky place where I walk around wearing a suit looking like a million bucks, but I can't quite deal with the million bucks the restaurant is worth on my own. Lots of hand-holding indeed...but little by little I'm going to begin tossing that hand away.

As a manager-in-training, my main responsibilities include (but are not limited to)

a.) walking around the dining room at a fast-pace, attempting to APPEAR as if I am rushing to take care of something, when really I just want to get to the bar as quickly as possible to check the score of the baseball game
b.) searching for a manager when a server has a real problem that I can't deal with myself (which is most of them)
c.) standing at the salad window and wiping down the edges of the plate if the salad maker gets some dressing on there
d.) going to the stock room to open boxes of wine glasses (or any china for that matter) when we are running low

Ironically enough, two nights ago when a manager was paged to the greeter desk to settle some problem and I responded, the episode of course had to involve a celebrity. The greeter pointed me towards a brown-haired lady and so I strode over to her (of course, at a fast pace). She asked if I was a manager and so I lied and said "Yes, I am." She then immediately felt it was necessary to say "Hi, my name is Orly Marley. I'm married to Ziggy Marley." (Most people wouldn't bother mentioning who they were married to in those kinds of situations, but apparently if you are the daughter-in-law of the late Bob Marley, it is imperative that you do.) She then proceeded to inquire about our hat policy for gentlemen (guys- sorry, you can't wear hats in our dining room) informing me that her husband (remember, Ziggy Marley) is a rastafarian and has long dreadlocks and so he has to wear a hat, my guess is to keep them under control. I slipped out of the issue by telling her that it was no problem and that we allow guests to wear hats for religious or medical reasons. I sure hope that we get more celebrities who have problems so I can deal with them.

Tonight was the first night of my nine weeks in the kitchen. I was a dishwasher tonight, which we more informally call Hobart in the restaurant because that is the name of the sanitizing machine. This means that for 10 hours straight, I lifted racks of dishes, cups and those god forsaken gravy boats out of the machine and placed them on the drying rack. I did get to spend a little bit of time at the rinse station as well, which means I got to fire a water pistol at bullets full of ketchup, mustard and mayo and endure the consequent spray. I walked out of the restaurant sore, wrinkled and stained but the fun isn't over yet because my company believes that 10 hours at Hobart isn't enough. No. I need AT LEAST 20. I guess the good news is that I could probably rob a bank because the chemicals of the machine are slowly eating away at my skin, thus eroding my fingerprints.

I'm sure I will have lots of great kitchen stories on the way. Lord knows, there is plenty I can mess up.