The smell of bacon lingers on my clothes and jelly is caked under my nails as I write this article. I just finished my eight-hour shift working at breakfast restaurant that I’ve had the pleasure to work at for the past seven months. I clocked in at 6:30 a.m.; much earlier than most college students would wake up during their winter break, and clocked out at 2:30, when many people are just waking up to start their day. Some people would dread waking up on a Saturday at 4:30 a.m. to open the restaurant at 6 a.m. I don’t seem to mind it, I’ve almost come to enjoy it.
I’ve worked in other places besides a breakfast restaurant. I’ve done my time working in a bar where greasy wings and light beers were the bread and butter. I’ve served froyo-bright colored cups and spent my days smashing my fingers pressing buttons so businessmen and women could go about their lunch hour. Not every job was pleasant, not every job was easy, but every job taught me how crazy and/or wonderful the subculture of restaurants can be.
I started working in the food industry when I was barely 16 years old. Finally getting my driver’s license meant finally getting a job where my money was going to be taxed. Sad, but true. I was exposed to many types of people at every restaurant I worked at. I’ve served next to ex-felons. I casually conversed with rock stars. I was scolded by a billionaire. Both the workers and the clientele can often be eccentric, high maintenance, and enough to make you want to quit. But you never tell them that because, as any restaurant worker has come to learn, the customer is always right.
Throughout all of the interactions I’ve had with employees, employers, and customers, you always seem to learn something. Working in a restaurant gives you a new perspective on people. I’ve worked with a single mother trying to get herself through college, while still trying to make up for an ex-husband that she had five children with who still refuses to pay alimony. She’s working hard for every dollar she makes. I served a young girl who talked about her grandfather’s funeral later that day and how much he loved the pancakes she orders. She left me a tip far greater than I deserved and left a note saying “do something great with this.”
Working in restaurants can be difficult. There are days where your tips don’t add up to the work you’ve done, or customers feel the need to critique you to the point of tears, or you just can’t keep your personal life out of your head; those days can be hard. But working in a restaurant has taught me to respect those who work their butts off for a job that can’t always be rewarding. This may not be the job I have forever, but the memories will make for some great stories one day.
