cosas

I was a great hostess. The job requirements were as follows: college-aged, polite, pretty. I learned I fit the last requirement during my interview with the owner and his wife: she told me so, and asked him, “Isn’t she pretty?” He nodded assent. During training she used my personal style (knee length skirts, a rotating rainbow of flats) as an example of proper hostess attire.

To excel, one needed to be organized, efficient, and detail-obsessed. I was, I did, I am. After a few months, I asked to serve. They said no. I asked again. And again. Eventually, they gave in. I wore a laughably oversized pumpkin-hued Oxford shirt tucked into tight black pants, a bistro apron, and a jaunty little ponytail. I worked breakfast and lunch shifts, fighting the urge to micromanage the other hostesses’ performances from the floor.

I was not a great server. I was passable, with a vaguely charming reserved demeanor well-suited to fine dining. I was even good when charged with a small section. But with eight full tables, I’d get flustered. I tried different bits of wisdom imparted to me by more seasoned colleagues, but never excelled.

Tony was a cook, third in command and most prone to unsettling leering and “mamacita”-ing. I limited my kitchen time based on certain outfits (short skirts, high heels, both). A quick appearance got me a vegetarian alternative to family meal; free food and pride are not well-acquainted. Tony received frequent heated phone calls from both his esposa and his real mamacita; sometimes the former called while the latter sat in front of me, waiting. I’d transfer the call to the kitchen and hear screaming before he switched lines. Sometimes, he made fun of Guillermo (a fellow cook) for not cheating on his wife when presented with the opportunity.

His brother Andreas was a dishwasher. He had a cleft palate and spoke not a word of English. We didn’t speak in Spanish, either. Once, he gave me a burned CD. I thanked him profusely and called my friend to speculate about the surely incredible mix soon to grace my ears. At home, my computer recognized it not as a lovingly crafted mix, but a commercially produced collection of the worst possible American hits of the 80s and 90s. The Spanish title roughly translated to “Fun Hits of the Millenium!” Neither of us spoke of the CD again.

He was undeterred. After a Valentine’s Day lunch shift, there were flowers (roses!) and candy (Ferrero Rocher!) on the hood of my car. “What the fuck?” I asked my Jeep, and turned around to see Andreas. Never mind how he knew which car was mine. He asked me to be his novia. When I stammered, “I, I uh, I can’t, because I just, well,” he asked if I already had a novio. “Yeah. I do.” I did not have a novio. A flirtation of sorts with the 6’5” weekend food runner, sure, but not a novio. I’m a terrible liar. There was absolutely nothing good about this situation. But he accepted my excuse. We said goodbye, and I thanked him for the gesture. I may have offered to return his gifts. I felt terrible, in spite of knowing I’d done nothing wrong. I got in my car, screamed expletives or general wails or both, stripped off that godforsaken orange shirt, ate too many of the chocolates, and cried. I don’t even like hazelnuts.