Every so often I get nostalgic for places that I've worked in the past. I've been through a lot of restaurants in my day...
Yes, I know this picture quality is terrible. But much like Wayne, I save all my name tags. They're on my refrigerator as a nice little reminder of the places I've been.
Take my hand and follow me to the first place I ever tied on an apron...
I don't quite remember exactly what caused me to apply for a job at the Limerick Diner. It was a 40-year old institution about 15 minutes away from my house, with that classic diner atmosphere: a short drive off the highway, open 24 hours, coffee always brewing and a case of about 25 pies. I can remember the smell. It was a blend of gravy, syrup, and the scent of cigarettes from the smoking section. That sounds horrible, I know, but it wasn't. It smelled good. Homey.
My first uniform looked something like this:
I snottily referred to women like this as "lifers" when I first started serving. And look at me now. Gladys, Ethel: I apologize.
Do you know how much I'd pay to see a picture of me in my first serving uniform? A lot. First-job memories are so important in the fabric of our lives and yet we don't take pictures of them because we weren't "dressed up" for a special occasion. Working at the Limerick shaped me more than any prom or graduation day, and yet I don't have a picture of myself wearing that ridiculous dress and burgundy apron. Oh well. Needless to say, I'm sure I looked adorable.
The Limerick did a crazy breakfast service, with dozens of families cramming into the booths and getting omelets or short stacks. We hand-wrote our tickets and put them on a wheel in the kitchen.
One day I will have a purpose for one of these in my house, and it will be proudly displayed.
Nowadays, I love point-of-sale terminals but there's a charm about the shorthand of a handwritten ticket. It's just another thing lost to screens and ipads. We had to write a second slip if the customers wanted toast, and no shit, there was a cook whose entire job was to make toast. For about 4 hours every day he manned a small army of toasters and cranked out wheat, whole wheat, rye, butter, extra butter, dry....Gluten free? Not in those days.
If I worked the counter, I had to incessantly brew urn after urn of coffee for the other waitresses to pull from, and to keep the pie case stocked. Eighteen years later, I am still quizzing myself on saying the pies as fast as I can: apple pie, dutch apple pie, blueberry crumb, cherry crumb, boston cream, chocolate cream, banana cream, lemon sponge... The counter also bred a special type of customer -- regulars. Diner regulars are a rare bunch. They come in, sometimes several times a day. They have bizarre idiosyncracies that they expect everyone to memorize, and they tip for shit. But the restaurant is their family, and they are fiercely loyal.
The night shift was an entirely different ball game. Seniors came in for their specials at 4PM, ate like birds and frequently left pamphlets about Jesus as their tips. One couple left a $2 bill every time they came in. Families came in later, filling their kids up with french fries and frosty milkshakes. Speaking of the food -- OH THE FOOD. I love fine dining but I also LOVE the cheap stuff. Guys, the Limerick put gravy on its french fries. Swoon. We got one free meal per shift and I usually chose a fried chicken sandwich. To this day, I have not met its equal, although a #6 at Wendy's comes close.
We switched to this placemat every Sunday. I think they've covered all the major religions, right? You've got your Jews, your Christians, your other type of Christians, and then another type of Christian. I do think it's nice to have a reminder to give thanks though.
Later at night, the teenagers who couldn't yet make it into a bar (like me!) filled our restaurant -- but not our pockets. They'd order a single cup of coffee and demand refills while they sat and smoked. The tile ceiling in this place was a disgusting amber where the curls of cigarette smoke billowed. If I had nothing else to do I'd force my way into their conversations and often times into their booths. I was ballsier in those days and I'd take out a calculator and show them how much to tip me, too. I definitely can't do that now, although sometimes I'd like to.
I usually got off at midnight, when the overnight staff came in for their 12-8 shift. They served mostly drunks, truckers off the interstate, and extreme early birds before the morning shift came in to start another day. The doors of the diner were only locked two times a year -- Christmas Day and New Year's Day.
The restaurant is still open, but it's since been sold and has undergone a seismic shift in its operation. They use computers, have a menu that's several pages longer than the one I worked with, and they even serve alcohol. I went back in a few years ago and had a nice meal that included -- of course -- gravy fries. But it wasn't the same. My head is clouded with memories of the place, and it set me on a path that I'd follow for most of my career thus far. No matter where I work, no matter HOW fancy, the Limerick Diner will always be my roots, my home base. My career has changed -- for the better -- but I can never go home again.
