I do miss those end of night get-togethers. The favourite night meant cleaning the beer lines. There would usually be about 16 to 18 pints along the bar available to the team who stayed to the end of the night. Those nights were messy. Relationships were made; any light flirting in the stock room was dialled up. We didn’t serve that much wine back then so those rarely only leftover from tables.
The music is the first thing to change--cooks rule now after their first half cigarette by the dumpster--hip hop, punk, metal always loud! In the front of the house, its the vacuum cleaner, the clatter of stacking patio chairs. Servers sneakng texts between resetting tables,
restocking beer fridge, wiping, wiping, wiping. Fill salt shakers, fold napkins, a dozen trips down the steep stairs for supplies. The kitchen is making lists for the delivery truck, for the morning shift, for the boss. In the dish pit, the mountain of filthy stainless steel slowly shrinks. Clean plates and cutlery are already stacked on the work tables. Garbage bags bundled, grill scraped, pail ready for emptying the fryers in the morning once the oil has cooled. Bus pans through the machine, turned over on the racks. Cooks have a cold beer in hand now, the battle is almost won. A few of us pour our post shift drink-bring out the food we salvaged earlier. Mis-ordered wings, onion rings--all of it now cold and unappealing. A few nibble. Heavy click of the walk in lock. Bolts slide across the back door. A server takes our empty glasses to the dish pit. Bar fridges checked and locked. Last out, first in tomorrow. Any mess you leave will be yours just after dawn. Same time same place.
I do miss those end of night get-togethers. The favourite night meant cleaning the beer lines. There would usually be about 16 to 18 pints along the bar available to the team who stayed to the end of the night. Those nights were messy. Relationships were made; any light flirting in the stock room was dialled up. We didn’t serve that much wine back then so those rarely only leftover from tables.
Line cleaning day is a good one!
The music is the first thing to change--cooks rule now after their first half cigarette by the dumpster--hip hop, punk, metal always loud! In the front of the house, its the vacuum cleaner, the clatter of stacking patio chairs. Servers sneakng texts between resetting tables,
restocking beer fridge, wiping, wiping, wiping. Fill salt shakers, fold napkins, a dozen trips down the steep stairs for supplies. The kitchen is making lists for the delivery truck, for the morning shift, for the boss. In the dish pit, the mountain of filthy stainless steel slowly shrinks. Clean plates and cutlery are already stacked on the work tables. Garbage bags bundled, grill scraped, pail ready for emptying the fryers in the morning once the oil has cooled. Bus pans through the machine, turned over on the racks. Cooks have a cold beer in hand now, the battle is almost won. A few of us pour our post shift drink-bring out the food we salvaged earlier. Mis-ordered wings, onion rings--all of it now cold and unappealing. A few nibble. Heavy click of the walk in lock. Bolts slide across the back door. A server takes our empty glasses to the dish pit. Bar fridges checked and locked. Last out, first in tomorrow. Any mess you leave will be yours just after dawn. Same time same place.
This feels too real!