Seedling 4: The Trial Finishes
Mike had motioned me to follow him over to the side of the dining room. That was that. My three hour trial was up.
I delivered a trio of designer petit four plates to the service bar, wrenched up my pantaloon pants one more time, and shuffled over to the far wall, beneath the ten foot mirror. Streams of sunshine fell through the massive arched windows by the banquettes and the gentle clink of teaspoons echoed throughout the room, marking the end of a Thursday lunch service at Seedling.
“Sooo, what do you think?”
What did I think? Oh, boy. How to answer this.....
I thought it was just about the most chaotic and worst organised front of house experience I’d seen in my lifetime.
The waiters had no to little experience and either spent the shift running aimlessly between the till and tables, dropping silverware on the sleek hardwood with the obvious results, or, in the case of Marcos, looking in the mirror. They couldn’t have been less effective if you’d tied their little white coats into a straightjacket and given them a frontal lobotomy. Omar, he was a true waste of space. Omar wore the role of “manager” with a low bass voice and gruff orders delivered in a stern monotone, as if he’d created this “manager” character at his Sunday afternoon improv class and thought he’d bring it to life. Mostly he wandered the dining room in circles, head down, like a terminally depressed elephant at the zoo, lapping his fake habitat. The two bartenders alternated between crouching down to eat corn bread stashed behind the tea cosys and crashing into each other when more than three cocktail orders came in at the same time. Diana, she spent most of the shift chatting up the arriving guests with coquettish giggles and the batting of eyelashes more suitable to someone ten years her junior. And, poor Hannah, God love her, played the pinch hitter - dashing between the phones that Diana couldn’t manage to answer during hair tosses, and running plates out of the kitchen pass every time Melody started going off with a screeching rage of “my beautiful food is dying!” or some variation, thereof.
Me? All I did was wait tables. Running coffees, folding napkins, taking payment, resetting mise en place – even taking dessert orders – it was manic. Of course, being dressed as a court jester I imagined myself cartwheeling between the tables, landing on one knee, pulling a finger bowl out of one sleeve and an oyster fork from the other. No, it certainly didn’t feel like a somm job. And, to listen to Eoin and One Direction, this was the norm. Their frustration was palpable. 1D, he was more amenable, eager to please. Cosmo never stopped moving, clearing entire courses and helping Marcos crumb tables or prep finger bowls. But Eoin’s Irish temper flared up quite a few times during service. Now, me, I’m forty – so I can see the ridiculous imbalance, the unnecessary chaos, and ride the waves without losing it. But Eoin was just a kid and could hardly help himself. This may or may not have been why Mike had him in his sights, but it did lend credo to the argument he couldn’t be trusted alone on the floor.
So, that is what I thought.
But, I did need a job....
“Well, I certainly think it’s a job I can do”. I paused. “I think the question – or the concern - is, ‘how is it going, here? How is, I dunno, staff morale?’”
Eoin’s situation must have weighed on me more than I’d realised. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going with this and it landed with a thud; a bit stiffer than the breezy demeanor Mike had seen from me thus far. He didn’t flinch.
“Look, we’ve been open five weeks. There’s been ups and downs, we have some things to work out, of course, but it’s not anything unusual for a new launch”.
Clear and direct, again. Wasn’t sure I bought it.
Mike would be my boss. He was a hotshot in the London wine scene. He was dressed in forest green and I was dressed like a Keebler elf. Yet, I’d already noticed he regarded me in a certain way, that he gave me a level of respect that, based on my brief experience of him, he wasn’t exactly giving away. That’s what I’d gleaned, so far. Sure, maybe when I signed a contract, it would change; for now it was to be taken into consideration. I needed a job, there was no way around it. But, I also needed sanity. I needed a tiny bit of professionalism and stability(and that’s putting aside The Heroin House of Hookers, ahem). I needed an employer to look at me as an asset, and not as a foot soldier. It sounds shallow, but after five years scrapping my way through the Spanish wilderness, I wanted that grain of respect. What Mike saw in me and my curriculum he took at face value. He knew who I was and what I had to offer. He didn’t take it for granted. Five months later I would find out Mike was the exception to the rule. But, at that moment, with all that in hand, I simply said, “Okay, let’s do it”.
“Happy days”. Mike then looked up, quizzically. Marcos was staring at us from across the dining room. Mike wanted to know what he needed; help, wine advice?
“Do you need a somm?” Marcos didn’t respond. I simply pointed to the wall behind us.
“Boss – he’s looking at himself in the mirror”.
Mike craned his neck up, then looked back at me with a smirk. He tapped himself on the temple in a sly dig on Hannah and said, “Come on, let’s go downstairs and sort out the paperwork”.
HOME NEXT: Seedling 5: ‘You’ll See’