And the beat goes on....

On an otherwise cheerful and sunny Monday afternoon I board the streetcar and head to the job which has put humble pie with a side of anxiety back on my personal menu. Cruising through the business district women in ill-fitting business casual outfits and men deeply engrossed in their Blackberries hustle and bustle about the streets. They look busy, slightly tired and, some of them, like they have a dildo of self-importance shoved up their poop shoot. But to my eyes they look...peaceful. Worker bees buzzing merrily away for the good of the hive.

That's it, I'm determined to quit. I must. Mentally I attempt to fuse this moment of resolve to my backbone. And as I walk in the back door, past the line jockeys, already sweating while they hover over pots belching garlic/ginger/onion vapour, I almost have myself convinced that I'm going to make a clean break.

Bootylicious, the incompetent and ill-mannered general manager, is off on Mondays so I ask my gay French-Canadian assistant manager if he has time to talk. It only takes one look into those quivering liquid eyes for my resolve to evaporate like virtue on a drunk Saturday night. My pride settles for insisting on a 3 day work week once school starts and my cowardly hope is that I will be fired on the spot.

"No, that should be fine."

'Shit!' I trudge downstairs and put on my blacks.

But it's an eternal truth that when fighting the hydra of life the moment you cut off one head another ugly mug emerges from the deep. Enter stage left the psychotic (and possibly drug addled) neighbour.

After a slightly melancholy after work pint and shot of Jack, endured rather than enjoyed by my lonesome, I'm looking forward to nothing more than a good night's sleep.

Ha!

It's 2 am, the air mattress squeaks gently against the wall as I climb onto its cheap pillowy goodness. I can feel my brain matter spreading into an inactive puddle within my skull, the distant hum of the street cleaner, the gentle whir of the fan...so peaceful....

GGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! RAOW! RAOW! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! RAOW! RAOW!

'What the fuck?!' I'm instantly irritated and very much awake.

"Looooooooooooouuuuuuuuu. LOU! Lou stop it!" The nasal wail of my downstairs neighbour tickles my already sufficiently tickled ears.



The smell of her chain-smoked cigarettes slowly invades my apartment as she attempt to discipline her dog Louis in a deplorably half-assed manner. Her voice sounds sloppy like that over the hill cocktail waitress you feel sorry for who still thinks 'she's making you thirsty' as she leans over the bar at you in her faded low cut top.

The dog continues to growl and yap intermittently and she continues drunkenly yell at it to stop for the next 3 HOURS! Just before 5 am order is restored and I fall into a fitful slumber. At 10 am the barking, shouting and smoking resumes. By now I'm tired to the point of being rather emotional about it and with a shuddering sigh I rise from bed and accept that there will be no rest.

Though I deep 6 myself with a double dose of valium the next night and get my full 8 hours I return to work feeling drained. Conveniently, that night is one of the worst yet.

The former manager of the restaurant who has been 'consulting' i.e. stalking around the dining room with slitted eyes and upbraiding staff in the middle of the dining room during service, decides a pep talk is in order.

During our usual pre-service meeting Napoleon (as I will call him from now on) tries to raise the flagging spirits of the staff members with the following stirring words;
"Look, I don't have the time to be here. I really don't. And after I'm gone it's all up to you. And based on what I see now this restaurant will FAIL within two months after I'm gone. It's going to get worse."

"I'm not even going to comment on the new people." I breathe an inward sigh of relief. "Because if you are not going to lead by example and train them properly then what is the point of bringing in new staff." Wait a minute, that's not good. "When I was manager here this place ran like a well oiled machine. The restaurant that was here before was considered the best in Canada, one of the top 50 in the world, and NOTHING is going to touch that. But we have gotten lazy! And this place, now, is hanging by a thread."

And with those inspirational words under our belt the restaurant launches into a chaotic, horrible and embarrassing dinner service. The kind of night where you thank God that most of the guests are too drunk or too ignorant to see the sloppy horror show going on around them. Early on (around 7) Napoleon calls the ENTIRE floor staff into the kitchen (something which is unheard of in any normal restaurant) because there's something 'he wants to show us.' We all stand around nervously wondering what gross ineptitude Napoleon has uncovered now.

"Okay everyone look a the washroom checklist." Everyone looks at the laminated sheet where bathroom checks are signed off on every half hour. "What date do you see there?" Mumbles, the date is yesterdays. "EXACTLY! And what day is it today? See this is why this restaurant is falling apart, details." And with that we're allowed to resume our frantic duties.



My personal low came at the height of the insanity. Another server had asked me to take wine glasses to a table for her. Done, I deposit the glasses. Now almost every server on the planet likes to do their own wine service, it's a moment to build rapport with your table, it's also an opportunity to coax the guest into buying another (overpriced) bottle.

So a little while later I'm waiting in the kitchen for some plates to receive their final delicate touches when the aforementioned server bursts into the kitchen.

She starts shouting the moment she's inside the door and comes so close to my face that I could have counted the longish blond hairs on her clenched upper lip.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!! You run the fucking glasses and don't even open the fucking wine!? What the fuck?! There goes the fucking tip!!!"

We're busy, nay, SLAMMED at this point in the evening. Not a great time to pick a fight.

"I apologize."

She storms away. Only 10 people were present in the kitchen for my humiliating dressing down by the beaver-toothed, hairy-lipped baboon-woman. Only ten.

After service is mercifully over Napoleon calls everyone to the bar for ANOTHER staff meeting despite the fact that it is now 1:30 am. We're upbraided for the embarrassing service, someone cries and an ill feeling settles in my stomach. The walk home is long and lead-footed.

The next night we do better but I doubt anyone took much comfort in that fact.

This is a picture of a mysterious and evil looking insect which hides in my house and only emerges to scare the crap out of me from time to time (usually late at night when I'm feeling womanly and vulnerable). Does anyone know what this is? Apologies for the poor picture quality, little fucker is fast!

"Tonight we dine in hell!"

My job is a humiliating torment which causes me to wake every morning with a cold knot of dread curdling in my stomach. When I get home at night it’s straight to the kitchen, double vodka with something in a coffee mug then to the computer to watch something hideously inane all in an effort to turn my brain to non-functioning mush and hopefully…forget.

What, you must be asking yourself, exactly makes my job so terrible? Of course it starts at the top.

Chef _____ is a relatively famous chef, you mention his name in Toronto and EVERYONE knows who you’re talking about and (however undeserved this might be) they look at you with a new respect. “Oh, you work for him.”

That being said you must be imagining that there is a crackerjack team of managers who sail around the dining room with the calm and dignity of aristocrats, fluffing a napkin there, pouring out some Moet over here and schmoozing the guests with the ease which comes from years of experience. This could not be further from the truth.

My general manager is only 23, she’s never worked in restaurants before in her life and it takes ten seconds for anyone to see that see is absolutely scared shitless and for good reason. She deals with her fear in one way, not exactly the healthiest in my opinion; she is a raging inferno of bitchiness. This is my favorite quote;

“Rebecca, your steps are TOO SMALL! You….” Pause while she seethes with frustration at my step to ground coverage ratio. “You need to take bigger steps.”



And due to the trickle down effect everyone who works in the restaurant uses every opportunity to vent their frustration at being bitched at by bitching at those beneath them.

There is one occasion which typifies a normal series of interactions with my co-workers. It’s a busy night and a table of eight have just left the restaurant, the table needs to be turned into a six top for the evening’s second seating. The two extra chairs need to be taken downstairs and put away. I have already been instructed to take the chair from the end of the row closest to the staircase (“You’re more efficient that way.”). I do so and return for the second chair and immediately I am attacked by the hostess.

“Have you been told how to move chairs?” She barks at me.

“…Yes.”

“Okay look, before you bring the chair down you have to tidy the row. You can’t leave the table looking like a mess. It looks bad for the restaurant.”

“But I was going to come right ba-“

“It DOESN’T MATTER you MUST tidy the row before you go anywhere.”

So I tidy the miscreant row of chairs and proceed to the other side of the table. I move the extra chair slightly to the side and square the remaining chairs with their counterparts. A server who is much too young for the mantle of entitlement she wears sees me do this and stops mid-stride.

“What are you DOING!?”

“I’m moving this chair downstairs but I’m tidying the row first.”

She points to the extra chair which I’m about to whisk away. “You CAN’T leave this chair here. It’s in the lane of traffic where guests need to walk. Is that a PROBLEM!?”

“But how else am I supposed to-“



But with a jerk of her upturned nose she’s gone, not ready to dignify my humanity by listening to my response. And ALL this is over a measly couple of chairs.

The former general manager (who does actually know what he's doing) hangs around a couple of days a week and acts as mortar to this condemned shack of a restaurant. The other day he dropped this gem of encouragement in my lap: "I don't even bother to talk to new staff. Not until you've been here for at least a month or so. Because if you can't even get through the other servers...well...." Such wisdom gives me that warm and fuzzy feeling.

When I reflect back on my two weeks at the restaurant it’s hard to pick out specific events because everything is pain. I feel like Conan (in the first movie) pushing that giant wheel, over and over, round and round, going nowhere, suffering constantly. Of course there was the screaming match that ended Friday night’s service. The many instances where I’ve been asked; “What the fuck are you doing?!” The war stories of people brought to tears by tirades of abuse from management. And of course there’s the fact that because of how the pay periods fell I haven’t seen a red cent for all my labour. But there is no lynch pin to my world of pain.

It just is….

Working for the Man

There are a couple of things which make up the central part of Toronto's identity; the humidity, having Canada's worst hockey team, rampant megalomania and of course WORK! Everyone comes to Toronto to work. Tranna's rock radio station, the Edge, claims to be broadcasting from "the centre of the universe" and if you're looking for a job in Canada there may be a (tiny) kernel of truth to that.

So it was with a fresh face and resolve that I hit the streets in my search to once again become gainfully employed. There were lots of ads on Craig's List so I started firing off resumes and, lo and behold, people actually called me back! This type of eagerness on the side of prospective employers never occurs in Vancouver where restaurant managers are too busy doing cleanses/detox/bootcamp/hot room yoga or fucking their underage waitstaff to call you.

Of course Toronto itself presents it's own challenges. Trying to look suave and collected while wearing all black at the height of summer when the humidex is off the charts is near impossible and I resorted to sheltering in the nearest Starbucks between interviews sucking back iced americanos laced with nearly fatal levels of Splenda.



Job hunting is actually a pretty good way to get to know a city. You end up walking for miles every day, discovering new neighbourhoods, and getting a glimpse of the city's multitude of characters.

I had one interview at an upscale steakhouse in the financial district, the kind of place where all the surfaces are black and shiny and the servers look like they were on their knees fellating a baseball team twenty minutes ago. It went something like this.

Assistant manager dude is attempting to look rebellious but professional with the jaunty knot of his tie, rolled up shirtsleeves and not-quite-combed longish brown hair falling in his face.

DUDE: So yeah hi, um I'm really no bullshit. Let's be honest here. what do you want to make at this job. Let's be honest, it's all about the money.

DUDE: Are you okay with serving in two inch heels because that's how we do things here.

DUDE: So what I'm trying to do here, because I really don't do most of the hiring, but what I'm trying to here is to get adults in here. Adults. This is a suit bar you know, suits. They wanna come in here after work but some of them...they're douchebags. I want someone who can handle themselves.



DUDE: So yeah. I like you, you've got a good look, you're cool. Which is what I care about because I'm the one who has to deal with you on the floor. But I mean, let's be honest, the suits, they don't want to see me, they want to see you.

They called me back for a second interview and I certainly would have gone if it wasn't for an interesting development.

Cruising Craig's List one day I see an ad which intrigues me. It's for a high end restaurant which is the flagship of a semi-famous TV chef. 'A place like that wouldn't advertise on friggin' Craig's List!' I think and almost dismiss it outright. 'What the hell!' I head down and am granted an instant interview with a hungover looking bootylicious manager-chick.

"I like you," she mumbles through her unbrushed teeth. "I'll call you tomorrow."

A half hour later I'm in Canadian Tire, sweaty and carrying an armload of housewares when I feel my phone vibrating.

A panicked hostess is on the other end. "Can you make it back here right away?! Or, like, soon!? Chef _____ is coming! Chef is coming in like, half an hour. Can you come back?"

I run home, dump my decorative baskets on the floor, try and straighten the wrinkles out of my shirt and hop in a cab. Half an hour later I'm sitting across from Chef ______ who I've watched on the Food Network for years. During our interview he answers the phone, half listens to my stuttering responses, orders someone to hose down the patio and pays no attention to me whatsoever.

'Oh crap,' I think. 'I've totally blown it.'

"When can you start training?"

Stammer, stammer. "Uh, not tonight." My mother is flying in from Europe and I'm supposed to meet her at the airport in a matter of hours.

"Okay, start Monday, 4:15."

And with that I'm working for one of the most famous chefs in Canada.

I show up for my first day wracked with anxiety, desperate to make a good impression and a good ten minutes early. I knock on the locked glass door and despite the fact that I can see staff sitting at the bar and milling around it's quite some time before my arm waving and overeager smiles entice someone to come.



A server dude in his civvies unlocks the door and sticks his head out.

"Hi I'm here for my first day of training!"

"Staff always enter through the back."

The door is closed and relocked in my face.

'So that's how it's going to be!' I thought. Little did I know that this was merely the beginning of my torture and humiliation at the hands of my new job. But that's for the next post.

I've received a request for pictures of my "evil" downstairs neighbour and I do intend to get one as soon as I devise a crafty method to entrap her in a seemingly innocuous photo shoot. But until then here is a picture of the disgusting filth pit which her annoying yap-dog uses as a latrine and she so delusionally calls a 'yard.'

Movies, Mayhem and Other News

This long weekend I saw two movies currently in theatres. First, Restrepo, a hard-hitting documentary about a squad of American soldiers in a remote corner of Afghanistan and second, Predators an action kill-a-thon about an elite unit of fighters battling aliens. Now what could these movies possibly have in common you say. The answer is more than you might think. I give you….Restrepo vs. Predators!

Location

Predators: A harsh and unforgiving planet deep in enemy territory.

Restrepo: A harsh and unforgiving valley deep in enemy territory.

Mission Status

Predators: Impossible.

Restrepo: Impossible.

The Protagonists

Predators: A squad of (mostly American) killers in a fight to the death.

Restrepo: A squad of American soldiers in a fight for “hearts and minds.”

The Antagonists

Predators: Well-armed aliens who know the lay of the land and can blend in seamlessly with the landscape.

Restrepo: Well-armed Afghans who know the lay of the land and can blend in seamlessly with the landscape.

The Hero

Predators: A good-looking guy in a uniform who yells a lot.

Restrepo: An average-looking guy in a uniform who yells a lot.

Scene Where Guy Shows Other Guy Pictures of His Kids Back Home

Predators: Affirmative.

Restrepo: Affirmative.

Sequel?

Predators: Yes, any movie that ends with the statement; “Well now we’ve got to _______!” is clearly a set up.

Restrepo: Yes, thousands of them.

In other news...

The morning after I move into my new apartment I'm taking down some recycling to the bins in front of the building where I have my first meeting with one of my new neighbours. She's got ratty blond hair, looks every one of her forty something odd years and is scribbling furiously on

the whiteboard in the front hall.

"Someone threw raccoon shit into my backyard! It wasn't there this morning and now there's raccoon shit everywhere. And it certainly came from above! I am SO tired, this is my day off this week. I've been working SO hard. This is really not the best way to meet me."

Her voice is shrill with a plaintive edge to it which immediately grates on my nerves.

"I swept my fire escape this morning. So that was probably me. I didn't realize...."

The backyard this woman/creature is referring to is a square of barren ground which is home to rusty rakes and broken pieces of plastic lawn furniture. Did I know I was sweeping s

hit off my fire escape? Yes. Did it look like anyone was going to to give a flying f*ck if I did? No! This woman also owns an unattractive and yappy small-dog, the kind that looks like an overgrown rat and whose tail lies erect along its back so that its asshole is giving a perpetual salute to the world.

"I can clean it up for you if you want."

"No, no, I already did. I've just had some really really strange neighbours here. This whole neighbourhood is terrible. Its a ghetto. A GHETTO! My dad wants to pay my rent so I can get out of here."

By this point in the conversation I have moved towards the front door and Creature Woman is standing by the gate to the small front yard. An overweight redheaded girl walks past us and checks her mail box.

"SEE!!! I don't even know who that is!" She shakes her head in disbelief.

Redhead is practically standing next to me so I do the polite thing and ask her how long she's lived in the building.

"Three months." Is her surly reply, though her surliness is in this case justified.

Now she begins to scribble furiously on the whiteboard, so

mething about their being no need for assumptions, and then stomps off upstairs.

"I don't think the neighbourhood is that bad really. I used to work in mental health so maybe I'm used to it or something."

"Well aren't you an OPTIMIST!!!" She spits it like an accusation, like 'how dare you not be a shriveled old prune like me, just you wait my pretty'.

Every morning and usually in the middle of the night as well Creature Woman's yappy lapdog brays up at my windows and her charming screech is not far behind, ironically

, yelling for silence.

But to end on a note of levity here's a Bollywood film set I stumbled upon. Check out the hair of the guy in the pink checkered hoodie, yes your eyes are not deceiving you, that is a twisting bleached multi-mohawk. Only a real "man" can rock a hairdo like that.

And a couple of shots of this fantastic antique/curio market which is held every weekend down the street. I spotted a delicious leather bag in good condition. "Twenty bucks." Being the horrible bargainer I grit my teeth and offer $10. "Double or nothing, let's flip for it. I win, you pay $30, you win, you pay $10." I toss,

he calls and I walk away with one hell of a bargain. Nice!