It finally happened to me, every restaurant-goer’s worst nightmare: I was trying to locate the restroom and somehow found myself in the kitchen! Beyond that, I didn’t even get the normal “Hey, get out of here!” or the awkward stares from the back of house staff, which would’ve been bad enough. No, they just threw me an apron, some non-slip rubber clogs, and told me to start chopping cherry tomatoes because I was now a line chef.
I couldn’t believe it –– I didn’t even get a chance to tell my date that I wasn’t coming back. He probably thinks I climbed out the bathroom window, when in reality I’m breaking a sweat in the back putting the finishing touches on his house salad. We haven’t been together long –– this was actually our first date –– but I’m holding out hope that he recognizes that the extra cherry tomatoes I put on his salad are code for “Help, I’m in the kitchen, toiling beneath a chef with a singular vision and no appreciation for creativity.”
Now, not only do I still have to go to the bathroom, I’m working a 12 hour shift assembling house salad after house salad for only $10.45 an hour.
I’m not saying it’s all bad. No, all things considered, it’s a pretty good gig.
The guys are hilarious, the shoes are comfy as hell, and the chef is a douche but damn if he doesn’t put together a killer house salad. If I stay here long enough, I could actually learn a thing or two from him. And, hell, if things go right, then maybe 10, 15 years down the line, I could open a house salad place of my own. Somewhere between urgently needing to piss and being handed a hairnet and a knife, I guess I found my true calling. Life’s kind of funny like that.
In between cracking jokes with my fellow line crew and absorbing my urine back up inside myself, I was able to ask one of the waitresses to keep an eye on my date for me. Turns out, he was actually a super cool guy and waited three whole hours for me to come back from the bathroom. I couldn’t help but wonder what could’ve been. That is, until the waitress brought his plates back, and I saw that he’d hardly touched his house salad. It would’ve never worked between us.
Anyway, I don’t really have time to date anymore, what with the 12 hour shifts six days a week, and the union meetings I’ve set up for me and the other line chefs. I’m going to get us up to $15 an hour, so help me god. And maybe one or two bathroom breaks per shift, because god damn do I have to go.
