I spend most of the day at work, frustrated.
There’s a lot of new obstacles to working in Hell’s Kitchen right now. And it seems every day the barriers shift and change, depending on what is deemed necessary for budget and safety. I’m on a double, so that’s a long day. Working in 94 degrees weather, 12 hours in a cotton mask. 13 if you include the train I take to and from work.
I get to work, wash my hands, and start setting up our new patio. We have huge plastic screen dividers that must be carried out every morning and brought in every night by hand, along with the usual tables and chairs we need. Last week one of our awnings broke and we lost seating at three tables because of unfortunately placed air conditioning. It would drip on those tables even when it wasn’t raining.
Then we set up the rest of the restaurant which is both less and more work. Fewer tasks done by fewer people. Before Covid, we would open with 5 or 6 people. Most days we do the whole day with two, four at night.
It’s 15 minutes till opening and my work t-shirt is already drenched. I have to keep reminding myself to not wipe the sweat away with anything part of my body that’s touched the building, the sidewalk, the chairs…
We used to have bussers, runners and hosts to help setup and then manage the waves of guests. Now everyone does everything and everything is split hourly, by the week. We’re working more hours than we used to for less money. Minimum wage for servers in NY is 10 dollars. Most of our paycheck is tips, still.
We keep an eye on the door as we stock the days necessities. Often people wait outside for someone to come to them. It’s very casual. We don’t have a real system for tables like we used to, so we give them their choice of what’s available. Occasionally warning them of weather and which tables don’t get dripped on (by rain or otherwise).
The whole time we wait for guests to appear I’m torn between hoping no one shows up so I don’t get exposed to a ton of people, but also that enough people show up that we get a decent paycheck this week.
A few people appear at the door, wanting a table. I sanitize at the station by the door, coming outside. They have a stroller so I direct them to a table that has a little more space. They ignore me and sit right in the middle with their stroller filling the aisle space the restaurant branded railings provide for us.
Another couple appears asking for a table. It’s past noon now. I get them seated and give my smaller, covid-friendly spiel. I gesture to the QR codes on the table, making a joke about how our contactless ordering is easier than amazon. Nods all around and I leave them be. Our contactless ordering is saving grace and our biggest obstacle. It allows two of us to run a patio of 10–15 tables because the guest is able to self-sufficiently browse, order, and pay without our help. Since we are handling every position, including our increased delivery, it helps. But with every new change comes resistance. We get many older New Yorkers come in, either apologetic that they don’t understand it, or angry that they are required to use it (they’re not). Either way, paper disposable menus are given to them. We don’t dispose of them though. They go back into the pile, with all the other menus.
I’m back inside now, feeling safer away from the people outside. Wash up again, and check that the orders are coming in. My partner lets me know that a table has only ordered drinks so we need to talk to them.
To crack down on the party-goers who still insist on strolling queens, hell’s kitchen, and every other avenue like nothing ever happened, NY state has instituted a rule that you must order “Substantial food” with your alcohol.
When that rule went into effect the bar across the street from us got shut down the next day. It was a modified bar that had as much seating as it had open, mingle-friendly space. They would serve drinks at a propped counter at the door and people would party, with or without mask. I hated that bar, and my anxiety about being at work lessened seeing it closed. I would never wish joblessness on anyone, but drunk people can barely manage a sentence let alone proper cleanliness and social distancing.
I tell the table about the unfortunate news about the new law, pretending to commiserate about its existence. They roll their eyes and order some fries. I am inwardly relieved I don’t have to fight with anyone yet. Someone asks to use the washroom, I give them directions and remind them to wear their mask inside the building. Some guests pull their mask up when you come up to the table. It feels great when that happens. Some guests wear there’s on their wrist, only putting them on if they need to.
Two more tables come and go, and then an another couple sits down. My partner welcomes them with his opening monologue as I roll cutlery with gloved hands. I watch him through the window as he gestures towards the QR code on the table and I watch as both guests shake their heads and as he comes back in I get a knowing look and an eye-roll as he grabs paper menus for them and heads back out the door. I wonder about the reason for refusal. With older folks, I don’t even bother giving the speech anymore. Most of them won’t understand it, and some don’t even have smart-phones.
“All I have is this, and I can barely use it to text” A man said to me, gesturing to his flip-phone that was clipped to his belt. He and his friend got paper menus.
But those that come in under the age of elderly and computationally unsavvy, sometimes refuse the contactless ordering as well. They claim their order is too complicated or that the prefer the old fashioned way. I personally think that for every good-hearted person that walks in our door wanting to support us, there is another Power-New Yorker who wants someone at his beck and call. Someone to order around since the country clubs, the golf courses and the interns are no longer available. We have a regular that is exactly that type of person. We are sent running off for special items or to replace his drink that came with too much ice.
His “overly-complex order”? He wanted more Iced Tea than Lemonade in his Arnold Palmer.
I run drinks and food for a while as my partner takes care of incoming people. We’re up to 7 tables now. What is now busy for our current standards would’ve been reason to send half the staff home in the before times. I grab the bus bin to clear some tables, putting on gloves to do so. As I grab a glass a bit of someone’s leftover water splashes up near my face. I try not to think about whether or not that could’ve been it. I remind myself that no sane person would come out for dining if they had any interaction or idea of exposure. I look over and my manager is helping clear tables. Unfortunately he’s not wearing gloves. I am frustrated that he doesn’t use all the precautions that he has set into place for us.
Another hour passes. I bag delivery orders, run food, talk to guests. It looks a bit like rain. I and my manager check multiple weather apps. If it rains, it means low numbers. If it rains, it could mean a quiet night. If it rains, it means a lousy paycheck. I seat a table that is really friendly and wants to chat. Such a big part of me wants to be my usual friendly self and chat but my fear of keeping myself safe tears me away from the table, claiming I have to check the bar. I really miss that these days. Talking to tables, joking with them, asking what Broadway show they were going to see. Our clientele has changed from business people, tourists and Hell’s Kitchen regulars to essential workers in the area, New Yorkers and the occasional visitor on business. Our regulars are few and far between and we worry about what’s happened to them. My favorite was a hilarious gay pastor for a firehouse in Brooklyn who come in with her partner and children. Always friendly, always jovial. Haven’t seen her since, and I hope she’s safe and well.
My shift slowly, achingly transitions into the second half. We start to pick up a bit. We used to joke that you couldn’t predict anything during pandemic. But more and more we end up with full tables by about 7:30pm. We pull out a few extra tables that we put at the far side of the sidewalk, leaving the middle as a walkway. No one wants to sit there, and the cops have berated us before about taking too much of the sidewalk. Our manager risks it, only adding them when our usual tables are full.
Now we’re in the weeds and I have to remind myself to keep up my safety measures. It’s easy when the adrenaline gets going, you start resuming old motions. I have to constantly remind myself that it’s ok if the table waits another 20 seconds so I can wash my hands again. My want to provide good, quick service does not outweigh safety.
A fellow sitting a table has a complaint that demands attention. He steps inside the door, looking around. I see him first and ask that he puts a mask on before coming further inside.
“No, I don’t have one” He replies confidently. As if he’s not in the wrong here. The door swings shut behind him now and I feel trapped. I ask him to return to his table, to the open air and I’ll be follow him outside. He does not and continues with his complaint. He doesn’t understand how the contactless ordering is going to know what table he is at. I explain to him how each code is unique to the table, standing cautiously 10-feet away. As if he has some sort of hidden weapon. He snorts at my answer but decides it’s enough and heads back out to his table. I have to resist throwing my hands up in frustration because I am visible to every guest through every window.
A table flags me down as I’m taking some drinks around the corner. They’ve put everything in the website to order, but their card isn’t going through. I sigh into my chest. They’re extremely nice and did everything right and it just doesn’t work. It usually means something is wrong in your address on your card, but at this point it’s just faster for me to take the order. I always feel bad when they put in the all the effort to keep themselves and me safe, just to throw it out the window. It’s just another way to tap on your phone, but it feels like a helping hand when we’re weeded (busy). I put the order in, get their drinks and drop off the check as well.
It’s procedure now to drop the check along with the drinks if they order with us, not to wait until the end of the meal. Management says its’ to prevent skipping out on the bill, or people just forgetting. Either way, it’s another change. The other day a woman got very offended that the bill was placed before her salad. She felt demeaned and cancelled her order and left. Because we presented a reminder that she’d ordered food. I was happy to see her go, assured that she would most certainly have found problems with her salad had it made it to her.
The night is a rush now. The four of us, two servers, one bartender, one expo and delivery are running well. Our manager has decided it’s dinner time, sitting in the middle of the empty restaurant while we (literally) run circles around him. The speech about needing to order food with drinks is given every couple tables, we are efficiently friendly with our time, trying to ensure every guest feels welcomed and safe while not neglected enough to forgo a tip. I often see posts on social media about how people should tip more. How servers are risking themselves and thus deserve 30% tips. It’s a nice sentiment, but I’ve rarely seen it in practice. Our contactless ordering has tip setting that is set at 18%, but you can modify that. So when you see people lower or remove it before eating, it really makes you excited to serve them.
The evening starts to wind-down. Thanks to Cuomo’s new crackdown, our last call is a bit after 10pm and we have to have the patio cleared and brought in by 11pm. Sometimes that means pulling in our new plastic dividers while one table stills eats. Even during pandemic, there is always that last table that will remain blissfully unaware of everything around it, staying past close while we move tables and stack chairs all around them. I overhear a southern accent as we navigate around them. Another wave of fear washes over me. Are they from a spiked state? Did they follow the quarantine mandate? Or are they as blissfully unaware of the danger they pose to us as they are about being the last table of the evening, the only reason we’re still here.
Eventually they wave goodbye and I muster a smile as they go, forgetting they can’t see it. We clear the table and await our managers approval. All the sales and tips being pooled means there’s no more visit to the office downstairs to enter everything in an elaborate spreadsheet. We lay out on the bench seating inside, sometime sipping leftover or mistake margaritas that we’ve stowed away for ourselves. I think back to the first week I returned to the job, feeling exhausted all the time. It’s been a month and I still feel that way, but I’m getting used to it. It’s not just being on your feet for that long after months of inactivity, it’s also the mental load of being constantly aware of the dangers we face with every unmasked person, or glass collected without gloves.
I remind myself I am lucky to have this job. I didn’t qualify for unemployment for a long time, and even when I did it was the bare minimum you could get. But still, should any of us be here right now? If we waited longer or shut down harder, would I be returning at the end of summer instead of the height of it? Or maybe my restaurant wouldn’t even be around anymore. I get frustrated all over again thinking about the government response and how all of these deaths and dangers could’ve been avoided. I think about the countries with leaders that did it properly and can now reopen fully and freely. I think about my stalled acting career and wonder if I’ll ever see the stage or screen again.
My manager clears us and we head out to the subway. I grab a latex glove for the subway ride home. My bartender asks me if I work the next day. I do, so I’ll be back at work setting up again in just under 10 hours. The thought weighs on me more than the plastic dividers we carried in and out. I narrowly avoided the kitchen staffs usually elbow bump parade of goodbyes, not wanting to touch anyone else for the day. I walk back into the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, full of people. Some with masks, some without. All looking for someplace to go. I get frustrated thinking about how they should all be inside, and then get frustrated at myself for not giving them the benefit of the doubt. Trying to believe the best in people, but it gets harder every day.
My second day back, a very well-meaning table had asked me “How are you? Are you happy to be back?”. I blanched at the question, replying
“…I’m not sure how to answer that”.
Still don’t.
