When things broke down, the management’s attitude seemed to be, “If you want to make your tips, you’ll figure it out.”
No wonder sometimes when Cindy, Kirsten, and I would drive to work together, we’d sing, “Just down the road, there’s a place like hell . . .”
Serving mediocre-to-bad food also wore on me. Most of the time, people were satisfied enough; the breakfast dishes and burgers were the most popular items, and they were fine. But I was heartbroken when people at my tables weren’t happy with what they ordered. I can still recall the disappointed face of a young man dining alone as he ate one of our low-grade steaks (likely a splurge for him). He left much of the dry, gristly thing on the plate. As I cleared his dishes, I told him it didn’t look like he enjoyed it so much. He said, mustering a smile as if I were the one to be consoled, “That’s okay. Next time I’ll just order something else.”
I could hardly bear that he took such a letdown so easily, as if it happened daily. And it pained me even more that I had been the conduit to his lousy meal. We had not held up our end of the bargain, and I was the face of his disappointment.
While I never once saw anyone steal anything from Baker’s, at Country Kitchen, management sometimes complained that the cash register came up short. I remember seeing someone on staff steal steaks by hiding them under their coat as they walked out the door after their shift. I saw servers load up the tables of their friends with food, then charge them only for the price of a few Cokes. Even I didn’t think twice about putting a couple of individually portioned hot-fudge packets into my apron before I walked out the door.
I also got a taste of the bitterness that could emerge among servers in low-end restaurants of the time. Hollywood would have you believe that such servers are either upbeat, wisecracking sages or else simply sad and kindhearted (à la Michelle Pfeiffer in Frankie and Johnny). While such clichés had some basis in some of the older servers I encountered, a few others I worked with both at Country Kitchen and elsewhere went through their days with a petty meanness that came with either mounting years of disappointments or a sense that this would be their life.
Once, when a new female manager was hired, I thought the other waitresses I worked with would be pleased that for once we had a woman as a manager, rather than the usual slew of almost-middle-aged men. But the consensus among a few other waitresses was that the new manager had attained her achievement “lying flat on her back all the way.”
One slow night at Country Kitchen, I went back to the break room to tell a server named Patty that some customers in her section had been waiting a while to get their check. I thought I was being helpful—perhaps saving her from being stiffed (industry speak for losing a tip). Instead of thanking me, she stamped out her cigarette and, as she walked past me, blew smoke in my face. The other workers in the break room laughed.
I learned quickly to stick to my tribe—Cindy, Kirsten, and others I’d grown friendly with—and avoid as much as I could those who seemed beaten down by the biz. Even then, I could understand why they were bitter, but that didn’t mean I liked being an easy target for their resentment.
And yet, for all its downsides, working at Country Kitchen had its moments. It was the mid-1970s: Fleetwood Mac played from the mini jukeboxes at each booth almost all the time, and when it didn’t, I’d plug in some quarters from my pocket full of tips to hear some more. Bussing tables and doing sidework to “Over My Head”—while feeling a bit over my head about someone myself—beat carrying trays to Baker’s fuddy-duddy Muzak tapes of “Satin Doll” any day.
Getting into a groove and keeping ahead of it all during our busiest times, while scooping loose change from the tables into my apron pockets, was a blast. And, for the most part, I liked the clientele. Taking care of a party from the moment they sat down until they left was so different than merely carrying someone’s tray at Baker’s. I got to know them a bit. It was here that I first discovered that I enjoyed making people happy at the table. I sometimes wonder if my stretch at Country Kitchen was a harbinger to my later work as a restaurant reviewer. I tried to steer diners toward something they’d enjoy, and it pleased me immensely when they did but crushed me hard when they didn’t.
I still remember a little blonde boy ordering pecan pie for dessert, but he didn’t know how to pronounce it. He said, “I’ll have the peek-in pie.” The older men at the table laughed meanly at him, and later when I set the slice down, they razzed him: “Oh look, there’s your peek-in pie, Davey!” “Yeah, you’d better peek in and see what’s there.” Hardy-har-har.
I wanted to think this was all some kind of good-natured ribbing, but then I saw the boy’s lack of delight as he slowly ate the pie, the way his mother put her arm around him as if trying to comfort him. That pie should have been one the sweetest parts of his day, but it wasn’t.
On rare but splendid occasions, later in the evening boys we liked from school came in and sat in our sections to tease and cajole Cindy, Kirsten, and me while we finished up our sidework. Those were the best nights of all.
This is an excerpt from Wini Moranville’s forthcoming book (University of Iowa Press) called Love is my Favorite Flavor: AMidwestern Dining Critic Tells All. You can read the full chapter from the book at the AgArts website:
https://www.agarts.org/just-down-the-road-theres-a-place-like-by-wini-moranville/
Wini Moranville has worked as a cookbook author, food and wine writer, and restaurant reviewer for more than 25 years. During her 15 years as the Des Moines Register’s chief food critic, she wrote more than 700 restaurant reviews. She has also written hundreds of food-related articles for national food magazines and has served as the wine columnist for Relish Magazine (circulation 15M), a TV food segment host, and a James Beard Restaurant Awards Panelist.
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What a great post and a great reminder of who is the face of an industry. I have also been a waitress, and though I am now the one being served instead of serving, I will never the skill and endurance it takes to work in a restaurant.
This brought back memories of my high school days as a waitress and short order cook. Thank you for some nostalgia this morning.