In the weeds: confessions of a restaurant veteran

For the last 12 years or so, I’ve worked in a very corporate setting. I work at a computer for most of the day, I have meetings with colleagues across the globe, I write a LOT of emails. I say things like “let me circle back with you on that” and “let’s parking lot that one and take it offline” and “I’m working on the deck for the ELT panel at the quarterly global WAM town hall in Boston, do you have the Q2 results?”

I wear blazers, guys.

I can wear nail polish and do my hair however I want. I have a work phone (that I try not to look at too much) and I have learned an incredible amount about life insurance, wealth and asset management and all kinds of other finance-y things that I never, in a million years, imagined that I would ever know. Sometimes I feel like Alice, having fallen through the hole, and I don’t quite belong in this world. And then sometimes, I feel like I am exactly where I am meant to be.

Perhaps what is less known about me, is that before this chapter in my life, I lived in a wholly different world. I came up in the restaurant industry. A monolith of the rule of baptism by fire. It’s not for the faint of heart or the thin-skinned.

It’s where I ‘cut my teeth,’ where I became a real person. It’s where I fell in love (a couple of times), fell out of love, got hurt (emotionally and physically – hello concussion!) and worked harder than I ever have in my life. It’s where I learned about classism and racism in real life, how to manage people and time. It’s where I learned how to be a good leader, it’s where I tested my math skills daily, it’s where I developed the most impressive memory, and persevered through whatever was going on in my life to still be the exuberant, ray of sunshine that I had built my reputation upon.


I was in my second year of university and I needed a job – badly. It was just me and OSAP funding my education, and I had rent and bills to pay, tuition to cover and books to buy. So, I applied to the Pizza Hut near my school and was thrilled (and relieved) when I got the job.

This was a full dine-in restaurant (as opposed to the DELTO – that’s industry speak for Delivery and Takeout – that I worked in during high school). This was exciting to me and I loved it immediately. I started in the kitchen, as all the newbies do. I hated the dorky uniforms, and that I had to wear a hat. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever worn a hat/cap in any other instance in my life. I look ridiculous in hats (because of my tiny head). And, ugh, we had to wear hairnets. It wasn’t exactly high fashion.

I became instant friends with a group of guys who were a bit older than me, and definitely the “cool kids.” I spent most of my shifts laughing and joking and quoting movies and making lame pizza jokes. And then we’d all go out for drinks after work. It was my dream come true, honestly. I really felt like I belonged.

And then, when management was duly impressed with me, and I was deemed worthy, I got the golden ticket, I got sent up to “the show.” I was going to train to be a server. Everyone wanted to be a server. We were a busy location, being near two universities and central in the city, so there was potential to make some major moola. This was especially seductive for a starving student like me 😊

As if it was even a question, of course I was a natural! I remember back when I started, our server uniforms included a short sleeved button-down shirt (white or blue), with a neck tie. I LOVED wearing that damn tie. I couldn’t tie them though (still don’t have a clue how to do it), so I got my brother to pre-tie a few for me and I just kept them on a hook in my closet and slipped them over my head. I have to say, I was pretty frickin’ adorable. Side note: the uniforms just got uglier as the years went on. Pity.

I’m naturally outgoing, charming, smiley, pleasant, smart and quick on my feet and all the things you need to be to be a good server, so it was like slipping on a glass slipper.

Don’t get me wrong, my patience was tested regularly. The general population (at least the ones who ate at our restaurant) can be pretty awful. I remember my District Manager once told me that the customer is, in fact, not always right, but they are always the customer. That little nugget of wisdom has stuck with me all these years. I have since incorporated it into every interview, every training session, every employee orientation I’ve ever conducted. Thanks, B.

The best memories of that time for me, were Friday and Saturday nights. I got to see almost everyone, because, well, it was busy, and all my peeps would be working. I loved when we were really busy, and the whole place was just buzzing. I loved looking at the split for the night, to see which section mine was and getting into the zone. I would check myself out in the mirror to make sure my hair looked good, and I would slap on some fresh lip gloss and head out to the floor armed with a good float and lots of pens in my apron, a positive attitude and a big ‘ol smile.

Everyone was usually a little amped up, ready for the onslaught about to come. Some of us were coming in fresh for our shifts, and some of us had already been working all day. Either way, we would get into a groove, moving around the floor like fish darting around an aquarium, passing each other at speeds that were just short of running, but never banging into one another, and flashing smiles or winks about inside jokes. We usually had the music going loud, and I was definitely known to sing along as I was working. It’s the occupational hazard of being a singer, I guess?

And, inevitably, one (or more) of us would get in the weeds and our other server comrades or sometimes a manager would jump in, running food, pre-bussing our tables, grabbing refills, and generally helping so that we wouldn’t drown. I loved that feeling of all hands-on deck.


I hated when I had to change the kegs. They were SO heavy, and I am a tiny person, even more so back then. I always struggled with those damn things, invariably spraying beer all over myself and/or dropping the thing on my foot. I have broken a plate or two (or 100), I have slipped and fallen on my ass carrying a tray of something. I have scaled shelves in the server’s area to reach whatever it was that I needed. I have forgotten to ring in an order (that’s a classic), and masterfully covered up my mistake by telling the table some fib or another with my big, square smile and a bat of my eyelashes, offering them free garlic bread. It worked every time.

I have burned myself on hot pizza pans, whacked myself on various corners of various surfaces. And the concussion I mentioned before? That was when a giant colander fell on my head when I was bent over one of the sinks in the dish pit, with my whole body practically in the sink. I’m telling you, restaurant kitchens are not made for small people.

I loved those shifts when everything was just in a rhythm, and we hit all the beats and we were in the trenches together. We had fun, we made money, we helped each other out. I remember some epic laughing fits happening in that server’s area. I met great people, some of them destined to be a flash that I barely remember, and some who have become lifelong friends.

Like I mentioned, I did have a couple of loves during my tenure with the Pizza Slut (as we affectionately called it). Let me break down the pros and cons of working in a restaurant with your boyfriend:


  • You get to see them a lot
  • You have all the same friends, so it makes making social plans so much easier to make
  • You have a shorthand when talking about work so your partner knows exactly what you’re talking about when you tell them about your day
  • The long, lingering glances that make everyone jealous
  • The stolen kisses and butt-pinches in the walk-in
  • When you’re on the phone with a customer, and he stands really close behind you and tickles the nape of your neck because he knows it drives you crazy and you must concentrate really hard on what you’re doing, lest you melt into a puddle – exhilarating!


  • You see them a lot
  • They can get jealous of all the young boys who have crushes on you
  • The moment when you and your guy are standing really close together at the cut table, flirting so hard, you’ve practically set the place on fire, and you look up to see his girlfriend (who he had assured you he had broken up with) sitting on the bench in the takeout area staring daggers at you, probably plotting your murder
  • When you find out your boyfriend of three years, who just broke up with you because he felt you “were going in different directions” is actually a cheating, lying liar who has been sleeping with the (opposite of you in every way) girl who you personally interviewed and hired. AND oh by the way, he’s been cheating on you for almost the whole relationship, with other, different women; then he’s a total c-nt to you and you start to question everything about your life, and you have to continue to work with him, which is awful and eventually all your shared friends sort of take sides, and suddenly the little teenage boys who for some reason, have allegiance to your slimy ex, are scratching your name out on the schedule and writing “Bitch” and accusing you of shorting the till $50, and then, out of desperation, you finally ask your DM if she would consider giving you a promotion and transfer to another location so you can escape the nightmare that is your workplace and she says “I never thought you’d ask” and makes it happen within a week. Phew! That was a long sentence.

Fun times!

But, honestly, painful break-ups aside, those were some of the best years of my life. I was in my twenties, I was young and hot, and had the world at my feet. I look back now at the crazy-long hours I worked, the ridiculous split shifts, the shifts I picked up for people, pushing me into overtime almost every week, the times when I would have naps between my shifts in the back office, curled up on a couple of delivery bags. I think about the aching feet, the sweaty, sweaty summers in a 1000 degree kitchen, the cold winters when the heat wouldn’t work, the difficult customers, the friends coming and going, and even the gossip, and I see it all through a really fond lens. Honestly.

The things I remember with such fondness from those years, in all the various PH locations I worked in, is the people. The laughter. The feeling of belonging and the things I learned about running a restaurant (I eventually moved into salaried management) but also about myself and the world.

Those were my formative years, and my years in the restaurant industry certainly helped form me. I liken it to what summer camp feels like, or, I imagine, a movie or TV set – you know that this experience will only last a finite period of time, but you’re in a bubble, and people on the outside have no idea what your collective experience is. It creates a bond only those involved can understand.

During those years, I loved and lost, I got to work with my brother, and as a result, we now have shared memories, some shared friends, and that familiar shorthand when we reminisce. I pushed myself to my physical (and sometimes emotional) limits and I internalized what it means to work hard, to be flexible, to perform under pressure, and how to make pizza dough 😊

So, if you’re ever out for dinner with me, and you look at me strangely when I unconsciously start pre-bussing the table for the server, or when I make sure to chit-chat with them and give them a smile that says that I know they’re doing their best at a really difficult job and when I inevitably over-tip, now you know why.

It’s because restaurant vets recognize one another out in the wild. We’ve been in the trenches together, even if they haven’t been the same trenches. We have an unspoken understanding of what servers’ days are really like and what’s really going on in the back of the house.

And we will do whatever we can to keep them out of the weeds. It’s the least we can do.

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