Shakespeare and I

We lasted not more than three months. I was substitute-teaching and the school year was rapidly closing in on us. I had another part time job at $8 an hour in aftercare at the YMCA with a cap of 20 hours a week. I knew I had to find replacement work, fast. I had just moved to Michigan and money was tight. I told my husband, to his chagrin, that I would take the first job offer, whatever it was. (I hate being unemployed, i.e. not self-sufficient.) I was to be sure applying for regular teaching positions, but as it turned out Michigan and Jersey regulations don't align, and my qualifications for N-12 Art Teacher certification were not good enough. (It took a couple years to straighten that out and I'm still working on securing a position.)

In the meantime, we pounded the pavement. A local pub was hiring, and it seemed like a good bet, turn around being very high in these joints. The sign itself looked desperate. Shakespeare's Pub, Immediate Opening. I got the interview on the spot. Scott was running late, so I had a chat with the co-owner Ted, who seemed eager to fill the gap pronto, and by the time Scott arrived it was quickly determined to give me a try. The position was for a line cook. What restaurant experience did I have? None. But I did cook at the assisted living residences that I had worked at prior, so I hoped that that would count? It would. They needed somebody and fast. I started the next night.

Ted had facetiously said on closing the interview: "Make sure to learn the recipes right the first time." And when push came to shove, I knew exactly what he had meant. There were so many requested substitutions, that it was near impossible to pin down what the actual recipe was for this or that sandwich. Luckily, I grasped the build of the nachos with queso no prob, and I was reportedly the best pizza maker on staff, always assigned to that station when on shift and orders were up, especially large orders. I had a knack. (I should note that I frequently cook blind, even at home, as I don't eat a lot of things that most folks do, like milk, cheese, butter, meat, etc. And I do a very good job guesstimating the desired end result.)

If you have ever worked in a restaurant, you know pace can be grueling. Either an onslaught or naught. Mostly it was a steady stream of tickets, with three of us on the line, and a supervisor, though sometimes we were down to two cooks, and on party nights we had as many as four. Tensions were absurdly escalated. It wasn't teamwork. There was a strong underlying competition among the cooks, who it turned out were vying for scare managerial positions should one open. And they thought that I was lying in wait too. The place brimmed with hate and anger. As well as palpable sexual tensions. It was the closing shift 4:30 - 2:30am. Fatigue and accompanying error, worsened human relations. Added to this we had one fellow on staff, Christopher, who was diabetic and suffered anger management issues. We tiptoed around him knowing that at any minute he could explode, toss his apron and stomp out; yet, never lose his job, because replacements were so hard to come by.

One of our longest serving co-workers was a taciturn fellow that went by the name of KO (his real name was Kevin). He was the worst, in my estimation, and tried to give "good" free advice. Like when he hissed irritated-ly that I need to "fight" for my breaks-- Or I wouldn't get any. He was right. But I'm not a fighter, and I was annoyed at his aggressive handouts. He only settled down when I told him I was taking on a new job in August and that I was married.  Otherwise, he seemed to think I was after him and his potential managerial promotion or something. (I don't know why.)

I was going about doing my assignments as best as I knew how. I came in every day like a boxer readied to take a beating from opponents in the rink of the kitchen. There were of course some friendly faces like Coco and Phil, and the servers were appreciative of the artistic plating that garnered higher tips, as they later told me. I admit though I was relieved when I was assigned the messy task of doing dishes instead of cooking. I had a good strategy for this and could do it with efficiency and minimal mess, where others would emerge soaking wet, leaving behind a floor that looked like they lost the battle with the hose of the industrial kitchen faucet.

During my short time there we were of course up for state inspection. This prompted a mass cleaning of the ultra-grim covered ovens. We came in extra to scrub the unacceptable buildup. Amazingly, we passed. The place made me nervous the entire time I was there, as a state of hazard and accident waiting to happen; and I still can't believe that I was on the inside. I suffered several grease burns, which fortunately didn't leave scars. But they don't call it Shakes for nothing, and to this day I've never been to the pub upstairs.

What made the work particularly difficult was that I was pregnant with Remy Niko. Morning sickness can hit at 10pm as much as at 1am--- working with food not at all conducive as you can imagine. When I started puking in the back, I knew my days were numbered and I prayed that I could make it unnoticed until the end of the summer and take up my next job. As a preschool teacher.