Seedling 10: Job Satisfaction in Paraguay
‘Oh Babes, I’ve never been a somm, but that doesn’t sound like normal behaviour’.
Charlotte took another swig of her cloudy cider, crumpled up her empty pack of cigarettes,and tossed it in the direction of the bartender.
‘I mean, what is this guy’s problem? You’re there to do a job, you’re clearly good at your job because I know you and you are always good at whatever it is that you do, so really what is with this shite?’
This shite, of course, was Kamil.
‘I mean if you ask me, I would just fuck off and move along. There must be other places to work in London’
Charlie was ten years my junior and ace company - but maybe not the best source of career advice. We’d met a few years earlier when we were both living in Barcelona. She was the brightest of our group of friends, but tended to prefer jobs on the wrong side of the tax man and men on the wrong side of.…everything. In fact, last time we had plans she never showed up. But it wasn’t really her fault as she got hopped up on ketamine and quarantined against her will in some inner room of a nightclub by a man she describes as ‘a real pervert’.
Now, to me, the story never made sense, but no matter how many times Charlie explained it, it never got any clearer.
And as far as Kamil’s story, well, I didn’t know. When he got back, Mike was able to cut back on his own hours, and that meant it was all Kamil, all the time. It was crushing because the Slovakian was running me really hard and any sort of progress I had made or confidence I had gained went right out the window. With Kamil dogging me at every turn of the service it was impossible to concentrate or focus on the myriad of burning fires and impending disasters that defined Seedling. Instead, I felt like I was back at high school football practice, running wind sprints back and forth between two orange cones for no other reason than coach told me to do so. And, of course, eventually I began to slow, run out of air, started to stumble and drag my feet, slack jawed and sweating; and there was Coach Kamil to shame me, telling me how worthless I was and how sorely I’d let down the team
It won’t be easy, you’ll think it strange…
‘Oh, I love this song.’ Charlie spun around to get a better look at the Evita-loving drag queen, bedecked in a blonde beehive and necking a bottle of Budweiser.
‘I thought this was a disco song?’
‘Only in England’, I replied.
Here was a rare evening off, and yet I was wholly consumed by my stupid fucking job. I should’ve been dancing around, chatting up strangers and barfing out the window of a Black cab, but instead I was re-living the last week of Seedling. This type of anxiety should be reserved for neurosurgeons and MPs, not a wine steward dressed as a gay pirate.
And yet all I could see was Kamil standing at the somm station belting out broken English: you’re too slow, table twelve has list open, where’s pairing wine for thirty-four, hurry up, pull up your trousers, don’t hold the glasses that way, why were you at table twelve so long, who’s running your section, don’t decant Redoma, Manzoni doesn’t go Burgundy glasses…
But according to Mike it did get Burgundy glasses, an observation to which Kamil replied, ‘Well, if Mike says it, then that’s fine, he is boss’.
Wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement for Mike going on there either.
At first I thought Kamil’s assholery was a simple result of working in corporate fine dining. A bit militant and unforgiving; old school. Then after a few services I started to think it was an attack on me, for whatever reason. Then, comments like the one above made me think he wasn’t so hot on Mike, either. At the end of the day, it didn’t really matter due to one overriding fact:
‘Oh he’s completely mental’, said Renee.
Now, this was a real issue for a natural problem-solver like myself. You can’t solve ‘mental’.
‘Oh shit, we better get a move on or we’ll miss the last Tube’. Charlie gulped down the last of her cider.
‘OK, cool, I just need to hit the toilet’.
‘I’m gonna try to bum a fag, so I’Il meet you outside’.
I stood confused for a moment, but Charlie was already gone. Some of the Brits’ lingo still had me warped.
*
By the time I’d climbed the narrow staircase from the basement loos and fought my way through the packed bar, I could hear a heated Charlie outside the main door.
‘Well, if you didn’t want to give me a fag, then why even bother?!’
‘I’m just saying it’s annoying that every time I go out, people always want to bum a fag and I end up giving away half a pack’.
‘Babes, then don’t give them out, don’t give me one! Here, shall I just give it back to you?’ She held out the already lit, lipstick-stained cigarette.
I gingerly stepped between Charlie and the emo dude in a cheap tweed blazer, both of them exchanging cold glares between deep drags.
‘What’s going on?’
Charlie was growing increasingly exasperated; animated and hyper, her voice pitching up and her hands dancing in tiny circles.
‘I asked this guy for a fag and he gives me one and then immediately, IMMEDIATELY, starts complaining about the fact that I asked for one; that people like ME annoy him, or something to that effect, because you know what? I don’t even know what he’s going on about, to tell you the truth, I mean he’s speaking some Essex gibberish, or something, so how would I begin to fathom.’
The blazer chap rolled his eyes and waived her away as he crossed his arms to show how completely ‘over’ Charlie he really was - which was bound to put her over the edge if I didn’t somehow intervene.
‘Let’s just give you pound, that’s fair, yeah?’
‘Yes, fine, here’s a pound, will that make you happy?’ Charlie began to dig in her purse.
‘I don’t want your money’.
‘Well, what, then?’ Charlie paused and then smiled wickedly. ‘How about music? Paul will sing you a song, he’s really good at musicals, I just heard him in there’.
Charlie’s offer came clear out of nowhere and the colour began to drain from my face, a faint panic began to rise.
‘I don’t like showtunes’
Oh, thank god…
Charlie was a bit calmer now, more composed - but she wasn’t letting this guy off the hook.
‘Well then, what type of music do you like?’
The dude shrugged. ‘Folk, I guess’.
What a little dick.
Charlie looked at me, and I looked at my watch; it ticking down to the last Tube with no mercy - and I decided to go for it.
I broke into a folk tune from growing up, hand claps and all…
Grandma’s in the cellar, or Lordy can’t you smell her
Baking biscuits on that darn ol’ dusty stove…
Charlie joined in with the handclaps, stomping her feet - both of us stooped over like Alabama Revivalists, the fag dangling from the corner of her mouth.
In her eye there is some matter that keeps dripping in the batter
and she whitles as the snot runs down her nose…
down her nose, to her toes
and she whistles while the snot runs down her nose
By the time I got to the last verse, the entire crowd outside Molly Moggs on Shaftsbury Avenue had joined in putting their hands together, backed up by some bemused tourists and catcalls from stopped traffic and pedi-cabs.
Tweed coat looked dumbfounded, and as we hit that last note we both waved and shouted ‘see ya!’, and dashed down the street for Leicester Square.
I’d threaten to ring her neck, later; but to be honest, Charlie had done me a huge favour. For the next couple of hours I didn’t think about Seedling. We laughed a lot and drank some more, crashed into strangers, and brainstormed future folk songs for cigarette barter.
I got my mental break.
But, that would be the last break I’d have for a long time to come.
HOME next 11: Sometimes Croatina