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.'