Illustration by Victoria Borges
In the restaurant world, holiday time is the moment everyone is waiting for. As soon as snack-sized candy goes on sale and spooky season retires, talk of turkeys, Michael Bublé Christmas tunes and end of the year celebrations are just around the corner.
Companies begin to plan seasonal parties, families figure out where they will host out-of-town relatives, friends plot reservations for pals returning home. It’s a season of imbibing and indulging — with the service industry moving full steam ahead.
I worked in restaurants throughout college and for five years post-college in establishments ranging from a family-owned Mexican eatery to a multilocation seafood outpost. For me, that time of year typically meant fielding texts or calls from my mom asking me when I was coming home, or what days I had off. And my responses typically included answers such as, “As soon as I can” or “I’ll know more when the schedule drops.” There were plenty of reheated Thanksgiving sides, late-night interstate drives and work celebrations in February, when the holiday hum began to slow.
One of my longest service stints was at an establishment in Short Pump Town Center. After Halloween, not only did business pick up as guests sought out seafood towers and steak on the corporate dime, but the mall became a frenzied destination for shoppers to swipe and tap the days away. Santa also held a residency there, attracting lines of often confused or crying children destined for ol’ St. Nick’s lap.
Every year at the beginning of November, my Honda’s normal parking spot was eighty-sixed for the season, and coworkers would arrive to pre-shift late and annoyed after battling for spaces or lapping the mall parking lot. It was known that while we could request days off around the holidays, they weren’t guaranteed. And we all knew what that meant.
During those few months, I clocked in more hours, doubles, steps and time spent working alongside my coworkers than any other time of year. Working in the food and beverage industry during the festive season is like signing a blood oath of dedication, embracing the we-are-all-in-this-together camaraderie, along with every Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. There is no I. If caffeine is sought for one, it must be sought for all. If you’re done with end-of-shift side-work, you better polish some more silverware. When I think back on holiday festivities of the past, two memories stick out. One was at home, when I removed a frozen pie from its pan and it melted into a messy clump resembling Gloopy from Candyland, and another was at work, when I slipped while carrying a massive tray of plates in the dish-pit during a holiday dinner. Both resulted in feelings of embarrassment and explicit language. And just as my mom reassured me that I in fact I had not ruined dessert — thank God, there was a backup pie — my coworkers reassured me that eating s--- was no big deal and to dust it off, literally.
Family is defined as a group or social unit of two or more people who are related in some way. They’re people you lean on when you’re feeling down even though you may sometimes disagree with them or don’t see eye-to-eye. They’re people you lift up without asking, a learned response that comes only after really getting to know someone. It’s been five years since I’ve waited tables, and while the pandemic has shifted the way the service industry operates, I can say, looking back, that a restaurant family has no limits.
Maybe it’s the act of showing up with a dozen other front-of-house staffers on groggy mornings that turned to late evenings meant to be spent with siblings or parents you haven’t seen in six months. Sacrificing a home-cooked feast and mom’s ricotta cheesecake for family meal at the chef’s table while rocking a gravy-stained black button-up and my loose bun barely holding on. Leaving work 10-people deep, resembling a boy band with our matching uniforms, and giving everybody a hug goodnight before the “I’ll see you in the morning” exchange and deciding who would get coffee. Establishing new traditions, like doughnuts and pastries Christmas Eve morning or pizza and beer while deliriously decompressing with coworkers following a service from hell.
Or perhaps, it’s all of the above that made me recognize that the people I clocked in and out with six days a week were more than coworkers. That the warm, tired bodies I methodically moved beside were the ones who kept me anchored. From the bartender running drinks to my table when I was in the weeds to a snack from a sous chef who knew I needed sustenance, to a coworker busting out in a silly song in attempts to make me laugh when I wasn’t in the mood, these small moments of humanity, tokens of recognition and familial understanding of what I needed, were actually gifts themselves.
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