el restaurante crapulosa

i've only been fired once in my life.

more than once, i've dressed in starched collared shirts and the requisite black pants to serve the public in various culinary establishments. never had i completed a shift without frequently monitoring the painstaking seconds as they passed. whereas i normally quit before the level of stress could infiltrate my last bastion of sanity, one spanish restaurant beat me to the punch.

with little experience in fine dining, the management took a chance on me. initially, i even found difficulty in the downtime tasks, such as folding napkins. the maitre d' performed a lightning quick rendition of the proper way to manipulate the cloth, quickly completing a complicated origami creation, impossible to reproduce. my woes were just beginning.

the irony of these classy locales is that the clientele betray their stateliness once the booze kicks in. sprightly spanish melodies encouraged drunken revelers to dance around their seats, which made delivering precarious daiquiris and martinis a nightmare. worst of all was the wine rigamarole, where i was expected to uncork each bottle in a particular manner, holding the neck in one hand. as someone who could hardly open the corkscrew itself, this presented a major challenge. nervously fidgeting in the dark, more often than not, i'd break the cork, and i'd have to exchange the bottle, humiliated. next, i'd have to pour a drop for the one who ordered, who would pretentiously taste it and then indicate that i should continue distributing to the table. after a while, i discovered this process was considered unnecessary by the unrefined folks in fancy clothes, who would rather just get their drunk on. furthermore, this ridiculous custom slowed me down considerably, causing other patrons to pull at my dress shirt like needy children seeking attention.

as for the food, i never had any introduction to the menu items, all of which were foreign to me. not only could i not pronounce the selections, i could not describe them. i'd take an order, interpreting the thick accents, and phonetically record their choices as 'pa-yay-ah' and 'poyo al a-hee-yo' on my notepad. often i'd apologize in spanish when customers would ask me questions without a lick of english.

the language barrier reared its ugly head when i'd attempt to pick up an order. surrounded by smoke and chaos, the sweaty chef strictly barked his frustration, demanding that platters get delivered. meekly, i'd approach the pass, as a child with fresh meat would tentatively approach a cage of rabid wolves. unable to identify the food, i'd feebly ask for clarification, which naturally drew an exaggerated indication. 'this!  this! corvina a la parrilla con chimichurri! pick up!!'

all this turbulent activity amidst a flamenco showcase, arresting focus from my service, twice nightly. admittedly, the syncopation of the classical guitar and the intense flair from the fiery performers was phenomenal, but i was there to take orders, and the constant knocking of heels on hardwood made regular conversation impossible, not to mention the unfamiliar vernacular.

one evening, the culmination of every crisis occurred during this dance spectacle. a row of plates awaiting my pick up sat under heat lamps, while i toasted bread rolls for an appetizer - a ludicrous duty for a maxed out multitasker. unimpressed with my unclaimed orders, the wolf in chefs clothing roared over the aggressive rhythm. i shrugged, nodding towards the communal toaster. coincidentally, the owner, a portly curmudgeon in designer threads, caught sight of the exchange. he waddled over to me, and unceremoniously announced 'go home'.

i did, with the weight of spain off my shoulders, leaving the bread rolls to burn.