Illustration by Rachel Maves
During the pandemic I’ve experienced what my life is like without restaurants at the center of it. In this time of reflection, I’ve realized that working in restaurants is where I learned some of life’s most valuable lessons, in between moments of cleaning up broken glasses and slipping in the dish pit, racking up 10,000 steps lapping the dining room, feeling the post-shift release of untucking my shirt or grabbing a drink with co-workers. Now, over a decade later, I no longer work in restaurants, but I do have the pleasure of telling their stories.
My memories of restaurants from growing up include visits with my mom and brother to Cancun, a 20-seat hole-in-the-wall near Langley Air Force Base where combos of refried beans, hard-shell tacos and rice arrived on bright plates; sipping Coca-Cola with crushed ice in the drive-in at Smitty’s Better Burger, a Hampton institution; and trips to the Italian chain Carrabba’s, when my aunt and uncle visited, the server saying, “Tell me when” as Parmesan fell like snowflakes atop a big plate of pasta. Those meals taught me the value of time spent with family.
One of my first serving jobs came after graduating from Virginia Commonwealth University. My friend suggested I come work with her at a family-owned Mexican eatery, so I went in for an interview, slightly embellishing my serving experience. During my first shift, an eight-top ordered a round of jumbo margaritas. I approached the table, the tray wobbling like Jell-O. The drinks spilled everywhere, and my boss was furious. Later, when I returned to the table, fighting back tears, a gentleman at the table slipped me $40 and said, “S--- happens.” It taught me that there are still nice people in the world, even after you’ve accidentally drenched them in alcohol.
When I worked at an upscale Italian restaurant, I was a server and a key manager. During the managing shifts, I also doubled as the bartender on duty. For the most part, these were slower nights that consisted of me pouring wine. One evening, a couple came in and asked for a complicated martini. I clumsily made it while maintaining a conversation with them. It taught me to fake it until you make it.
During a busy Saturday night when I worked at a restaurant in Short Pump, the bar was beginning to back up, with cocktails lining the well. I started to run drinks when I heard, “Hey, can you do a trick for me?” from an intoxicated man staring in my direction. After he delivered a parade of insulting comments, I looked into his eyes and sternly told him he was bothering me. He responded with, “You’ll wait tables the rest of your life,” and “Do you want to take this outside?” I walked away. It taught me to be the bigger person.
One summer, I interviewed for a job at a fine-dining restaurant downtown, and they asked me to come in and shadow one of the servers. I arrived 10 minutes early, and the owner spent that time bashing his employees and their lack of work ethic. When I asked the server I was shadowing what he liked about the job, he replied, “Nothing.” Anxiety levels escalating, I snuck to the bathroom, texted my mom and best friend for advice and escaped out the back door, running past the restaurant’s windows to get to my car. That restaurant is now closed. It taught me to trust my gut.
My last year serving, I helped train the staff at a new location that the restaurant group I worked for had opened. When my co-worker emerged from counting the money, she revealed that we had done really, really well that night — it was the most money I had ever made in one shift. The next morning, I bought a plane ticket to Spain for my first trip abroad. It taught me to explore the world while I can.
A sushi chef I formerly worked with was like my work dad. He often asked me about my future and what I wanted out of life. If I had a bad shift, he would hand me a takeout box, my favorite sushi rolls inside. I told him that I wanted to be a journalist, and he encouraged me to start applying for jobs again. In February 2018, I got a call for an interview at Richmond magazine. “I have a good feeling,” he said. When I hugged him goodbye on my last day, I cried. It taught me that co-workers can become family.
This year revealed the fragility of restaurants, but also their resiliency. It taught me about unwavering dedication, and to fight for what I believe in. As we enter 2021, I can’t predict what’s next for restaurants, these places where our lives unfold, but I hope they continue to be one of life’s most influential teachers.
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