5 hours ago
11
Eight years ago, I was working as a waitress in a fine dining restaurant in the Cotswolds. The expertly crafted atmosphere had dim mood lighting, ambient music and a farm-to-table menu. I hated it.
The other waiters could charm guests into purchasing expensive bottles, but I just gaped gormlessly when I struggled to recall the wine pairings. My brown leather brogues gave me blisters as I’d hobble to the kitchen to admit I’d forgotten an order in the middle of a busy dinner service. The chefs would shout and shake the ticket in my face.
A year into my job, while serving an influencer, I attempted to remove her plate of oysters, but my sweaty palms slipped as I lifted the dish and I accidentally sloshed the water into her lap. She yelped and jumped up. Guests turned and stared as I stood frozen, my face burning. I blurted out an apology and ran off, leaving another waiter to placate her while I sobbed in the kitchen. I knew then that it was time to give up.
When I went to university two years later, I hated restaurant work so much that I lived frugally on my student loan to avoid having to do the same again. On first dates, I insisted on drinks at the pub just so I wouldn’t have to sit in another formal restaurant. Waitressing had made me feel hopeless and stupid, and I became apathetic towards all work. If every job would be as bad as that one, the prospect of doing any work after university filled me with dread.
Years later, when I overheard my boyfriend watching The Bear, it awoke some kind of terrified, sleeper-agent response. He was watching the first series’ acclaimed, mostly one-shot episode, Review, in which the kitchen descends into chaos over the course of 18 relentless minutes. The sound of kitchen doors slamming, frustrated screams and the constant whirring of a ticket machine all took me straight back to my worst days as a waitress.
I refused to watch the show at first, expecting to feel the same panic I’d experienced at my old restaurant. What’s worse is that the protagonist, Carmy, played by Jeremy Allen White, bears a strange resemblance to my old head chef – he has the same white T-shirt, curly hair and stony-faced expression.
Eventually, however, I couldn’t control my curiosity. It only took a couple of episodes before I began to appreciate the honest and comedic way The Bear presents those high-anxiety moments. Looking back, my experiences seemed funny, not as traumatic as they’d felt at the time. I even felt pride explaining restaurant terminology like “turns” and “covers” to my boyfriend.
However, it was the second series episode Forks that fully defrosted my feelings towards hospitality. In it, Richie, the vulgar and abrasive assistant manager, begrudgingly visits a high-end restaurant to learn how to be a maître-d’.
At first, Richie disparages the fact that he is delegated the menial task of polishing forks. Yet slowly putting effort into that small chore teaches him the importance of respecting the staff, guests, and himself. When finally given the chance to try his hand at waiting tables, he has an epiphany that serving others gives him satisfaction and purpose.
Looking back, I realised that my restaurant’s standards were so high because every small flourish could make someone’s day. To feel that same pride and purpose, I knew I needed to stop treating all work like a chore.
That image of Richie, suited up with renewed vigour, stayed with me after graduating, when I started working as a writer. Through rejection or long hours to meet deadlines, I still put in effort for whoever it could serve once published. And I’ve since enjoyed eating at my old restaurant and made a point of being extra kind to the waiter.
Far from making me feel panic all over again, The Bear actually helped me appreciate my time working in hospitality – and also changed my attitude towards work. I now feel grateful for enduring those mortifying moments. After all – the worst shifts became the best stories.
