Just got back from France. My only regrets are why did I wait until I was 45 to go and why did I only go for a week?
So if you are out there and under the age of 45… go now!
Spent a couple of days in Cassis and it’s better than the movies. Okay I don’t know if there even is a move set in Cassis, but there should be. This Mediterranean beauty rises from the sea, hugged by mountainous rocks and cliffs on all sides. Spectacular scenery, great food – unbelievable all round.
From there we railed to Paris for four days and it totally consumed me. Every waking moment my mind, heart, and soul were no longer my own. Collectively they were floating through time as the overwhelming history of the city kept my senses in overdrive. Every sight and every sound only wetted my appetite for more.
Speaking of appetite, we had some good meals and some okay meals. Mostly good. Especially the basics. Breakfast was to die for – the eggs alone were worth the flight. Even in the crummiest holes. Lunch was always good because I’m a bread junkie. Most of our dinners were solid, with our first Paris dinner at Ma Bourgogne, a true highlight. Have the bouef for sure!
The service that first night was as good as the food, which essentially ruined me for the rest of my trip. Because for the next few days I got to see a whole new approach to customer service.
We had waiters who yelled at customers in line. Waiters who looked away while flirting with their girlfriends, who were hanging out on the street. Waiters who ignored us so long I sent my seven year old to the hostess stand to get menus. Waiters who wouldn’t stop for my nine year old as he desperately tried to catch their attention with his French-immersion language skills.
It didn’t ruin our trip. But it did provide a few laughs. I guess being a travel neophyte I didn’t realize the secret of French restaurants. The tip is included. In everything.
Café de crème? They get a tip.
Upgrade to pain au choclat. Tip is in.
Order a sandwich. Merci for the gratuity!
How can that be?
I have waitered all my life. I am convinced there is no better way to earn money and have fun at work.
I’ve had great times waitering. The highs of when the staff were partying harder than the patrons and the lows of when I’ve been “in the weeds” so deep it felt like quicksand.
Started when I was fifteen at a lodge on Sparrow Lake. My real job was maintenance man, boat rental, and snack shop operator… but in my spare time I served some tables as well.
In high school I ruled the Orillia wedding circuit from my perch as the head table waiter at the Highwayman Inn. (Make way Adam Sandler!) The Highwayman had two of the nicest (interpret as you wish) banquet rooms in Orillia. Soon after being hired, I won the right to exclusively serve the head tables.
This was a lot of fun for a lot of reasons. First of all, there was always an extra big tip from the bride’s Father. I would always mark him early during the cocktail reception and go up and introduce myself. I was easy to recognize because all the other waiters wore red jackets with their bow ties. Mine was gold. It may not seem like much but the colour coding was a brilliant touch by my manager. The gold jacket made pops feel like we were going all out for his baby girl.
So being the lifelong butt-kisser that I am, the FOB was my first stop. I would let him know I was taking care of the head table and the family table as well. That only my handpicked bussers and I would serve them. And that if they needed anything extra, like a second helping of black forest cake for his “doting” wife, just to give me a nod. This little bit of presell resulted in the pre-tip. FOB usually pressed a twenty in my hand and told me there was more where that came from. I sometimes unfolded the bill and held it out, to be VERY clear I expected a lot more later on. It always worked.
I went from hotel land to resort land for my next stop in servitude. This time to Paignton House on Lake Rousseau. Paignton isn’t there anymore, apparently replaced by a big Marriott resort called the Red Leaf. In its day, Paignton House may have been a poor man’s Cleveland House, but it was an awesome place to work.
At Paignton I switched to bartending, which was as much fun as it looks. We had everything in our bar. Conventioneers who looked at our pretty co-workers and promptly declared we were having the time of our lives. Think of the great line from pimp in Risky Business – “time of your life, eh kid.” We got that at least once a week. Locals who despised us because we kept more Schooner chilled in the beer fridge than their beloved 50. Yes Schooner was a top selling beer in the early 80’s. If you’re too young to remember, Google it. Couples who would come in to see our horrific evening shows; we had the dancers from “Circus” one night and a hypnotist on others. Typically they were up with their families for their regular summer week of vacay, and a night out in our bar meant one of the chambermaids was dutifully babysitting their kids. (Code for entertaining her lifeguard boyfriend and their pal MJ).
From there I bumped along to a few serving jobs in Guelph while I attended Moo U. My favourite was at a place called McGinnis Landing. I worked for an absentee owner named Larry, who died all too young a few years ago of a sudden aneurysm and with a bunch of people who loved to party.
It didn’t take long for me to take over the bar and establish a friendship with the queen of the dining room, a young waitress named Emily, who had been working there since she was three…or so she acted. (Her work ethic paid off years later as she is now one of the founding partners of the ad hot shop John Street).
McGinnis was a great place to earn and save. Not only did I gorge on leftovers and mysterious extra orders of chicken wings, but also I quickly perfected using the restaurant equipment as my personal Laundromat. My staff uniform went from war zone to Calgon clean with a few spins through the glass washer in the bar and then a speed dry utilizing our high-temp pizza ovens. Hey, maybe the guests weren’t enthralled by my rags to dishes approach, but they didn’t have to look!
Circling back to modern times (it was the 1980’s when I worked at McGinnis), I have always felt like serving at a bar or donning a tray was my ultimate fall back, if the agency world didn’t work for me.
Unfortunately, a much as I would love to live in Paris, I don’t think it will be as a waiter. I would probably get removed form the “union” for being fast, responsive, and once in a while, even smiley. Then again, with my patented grumpiness… maybe I would fit right in?