The piano has been drinking, not me, not me, not me...
"KRISTEN! TABLE SIX! TWO BLUE LAGOONS A KOLA TONIC CHICKEN NEW YORK CALAMARI STIR-FRY RUMP STEAK GREEK SALAD WITH EXTRA BRINJALS AND POTATO CROQUETTES COME GET IT OUT NOW OR YOU WILL SURELY FEEL THE WRATH OF THREE CHEFS ARMED WITH STEAK KNIVES AND TRINCHADO BOWLS!"
As you can no doubt gather from the above example, my kitchen manager is a wonderfully sensitive and gentle individual. Or at least, he might be, in his own free time. For all I know, he could be an avid butterfly collector who is partial to long walks on the beach and turkish delight with peppermint tea. Unfortunately, I am unable to develop a beautiful friendship with him, as I am the scum of the restaurant industry. I am the poor girl who gets dirty looks from fancy women who dare not remove their flashy sunglasses (this rule remains a constant, whether outdoors or indoors), and, at times, rather petrifying stares from perverts over their filter coffees. I get shouted at by a permanently angry Greek man when a lady wearing a shower cap forgets to butter a piece of toast. I am a waitress.
It could be worse, I suppose. I could be working at Spur where every five minutes you have to drop what you're doing to sing happy birthday to any given person (I think Spur needs a new slogan. Perhaps something along the lines of "Spur Steak Ranches: Where Every Day is Your Birthday", or "Spur: Steak So Rare You'd Swear That It Still Has a Pulse". Their current "Spur Steak Ranches: A Taste for Life" just doesn't cut it for me.
Cafe 41 is a decent restaurant. It took a while for my weak stomach to acclimatise to kitchen hygiene, but now that I've gotten over the initial shock nothing can scare me. I could actually write a novel based on characters from Cafe 41. There's the bitchy gay manager with too-tight jeans and a lofty gaze, the stereotypical loud-mouthed and large black waitress (who ehthusiastically and vocally appreciates the aesthetics of every male customer under thirty), the strangely beautiful and aloof sister-in-law of the owner, the owner himself who is too nice and genuinely decent for his own good, the downright weird middle-aged Portuguese waitress who rides her bicycle to work and is incessantly breezing out of Cinema Nouveau and into the next bohemian joint, the nervous, skinny and awkwardly tall kitchen manager, the rude and incompetent barman who no one can stand... The list goes on. Quite entertaining, if you think about it.
I'm getting quite excited for university. Technically, I haven't been accepted. UCT has got to be the rudest and most disorganised university in existence. They sent me a very fat "fees handbook", kindly and unambiguously stating that this in no way implied that I had been accepted, but I should give them a stack of money anyway. Term starts in just a few weeks, so forgive me if I'm a tiny but nervous. My dad has already paid them fifty grand, so we're hoping that it's at least a tiny encouragement. I have images of me arriving in Cape Town, only to discover that I haven't been accepted and then having to spend my days living in a cardboard box under a bridge and folding cutlery at the local Spur. Am I being unrealistic?
As you can no doubt gather from the above example, my kitchen manager is a wonderfully sensitive and gentle individual. Or at least, he might be, in his own free time. For all I know, he could be an avid butterfly collector who is partial to long walks on the beach and turkish delight with peppermint tea. Unfortunately, I am unable to develop a beautiful friendship with him, as I am the scum of the restaurant industry. I am the poor girl who gets dirty looks from fancy women who dare not remove their flashy sunglasses (this rule remains a constant, whether outdoors or indoors), and, at times, rather petrifying stares from perverts over their filter coffees. I get shouted at by a permanently angry Greek man when a lady wearing a shower cap forgets to butter a piece of toast. I am a waitress.
It could be worse, I suppose. I could be working at Spur where every five minutes you have to drop what you're doing to sing happy birthday to any given person (I think Spur needs a new slogan. Perhaps something along the lines of "Spur Steak Ranches: Where Every Day is Your Birthday", or "Spur: Steak So Rare You'd Swear That It Still Has a Pulse". Their current "Spur Steak Ranches: A Taste for Life" just doesn't cut it for me.
Cafe 41 is a decent restaurant. It took a while for my weak stomach to acclimatise to kitchen hygiene, but now that I've gotten over the initial shock nothing can scare me. I could actually write a novel based on characters from Cafe 41. There's the bitchy gay manager with too-tight jeans and a lofty gaze, the stereotypical loud-mouthed and large black waitress (who ehthusiastically and vocally appreciates the aesthetics of every male customer under thirty), the strangely beautiful and aloof sister-in-law of the owner, the owner himself who is too nice and genuinely decent for his own good, the downright weird middle-aged Portuguese waitress who rides her bicycle to work and is incessantly breezing out of Cinema Nouveau and into the next bohemian joint, the nervous, skinny and awkwardly tall kitchen manager, the rude and incompetent barman who no one can stand... The list goes on. Quite entertaining, if you think about it.
I'm getting quite excited for university. Technically, I haven't been accepted. UCT has got to be the rudest and most disorganised university in existence. They sent me a very fat "fees handbook", kindly and unambiguously stating that this in no way implied that I had been accepted, but I should give them a stack of money anyway. Term starts in just a few weeks, so forgive me if I'm a tiny but nervous. My dad has already paid them fifty grand, so we're hoping that it's at least a tiny encouragement. I have images of me arriving in Cape Town, only to discover that I haven't been accepted and then having to spend my days living in a cardboard box under a bridge and folding cutlery at the local Spur. Am I being unrealistic?