Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Leftovers


*

Wooden shelves hold a few water glasses filled with half melted ice cubes and water, soda or iced tea. Two porcelain mugs of coffee sit unsteaming and neglected. A teabag hangs from the third and I assume it’s Carrie’s, Lemon Nestea. Beyond the swinging stainless steel doors is a dining room full of patrons in a dull murmur of conversation and clinking of china and silver wear.

We gather around the little nook by the dishwasher station, left over’s and extras placed there, gathering sopping up broth with crostinis and letting the liquid drip down our chins, reveling in the food we normally wouldn’t be allowed to eat.

Little bowls with puddles of creamy broth, four or five muscles held there gently like a hand palming something delicate. Two thickly sliced, crispy crostini finish the little wonder.

We anticipate leftovers so we can gather around each other to hold a cupped hand under our chins to catch crumbs or drips of sauce, smiling while we chew, brief notes of satisfaction and hums of satiation.

*

“Yeah, this is what I call the smoked salmon crostini club sandwich,” Norm stacks five of the finger food into a mini sandwich, pinches it tight between two fingers and places it into his open mouth.

“Want some? They are left over.” The sentence I've been waiting for since I started catering the wedding party. The little nibbles of crostini teased me as I helped Andy assemble them on the white platter.

*

“Andy, what do you want to save? He peers into the various troughs of staff meal. “Eh, keep…keep…keep...garbage.

Now I retrieve plastic bins dump left over’s into them like feed for farm animals. I swipe damp, dirty rags over splotches of sauce or spilled salad dressing. I stack plates, line B and B’s with black napkins or square share plates with folded, crisp linens.

My hands are soggy and wrinkled from damp polishing clothes. I burnish silver wear I put on a smile. I’m humiliated.

*

I’d rather have their acceptance. They make me laugh, face aching from smiling so much.

Slow night, only a smattering of hanging tickets and the boys are cracking jokes, quoting movies and comedians, giving each other a hard time. The atmosphere soft and malleable under our breathy chortles. Sometimes they make me forget I was almost fired. Now back to basic blacks I offer up whatever I can to prove this is what I want, that I can be a waitress, a damn good one, that I can develop that pigs hide skin and not let tears escape from bad nights.

“Hey Halle, you wanna pick parsley for these guys?”

“YES!”

Everyone stops and looks at me like I’m crazy for accepting the task.

“Wow, that’s the enthusiasm I want to see from all of you!” Andy turns to face the line. The boys laugh. It’s my secret that I want to be back there with them. I feel sexy in my black t-shirt and chucks.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Resting 1-2

I've decided to take a brief break from this blog to work on my other one...which you should all check out..if you so please.

Lo
vE