It’s quite hard to make and maintain healthy friendships when you run/work in a restaurant. The usual hours when people socially convene, do fun things together – you’re working. In fact, you’re serving or cooking for people during these exact moments. Your hours are anti-social and unless you were inclined for late night shenanigans with like-minded delinquents (like your narrator used to), your chances of having pleasant meet-ups, meals, walks and talks, are pretty much hinged on your days off, when you’re already feeling burnt out and not seeking any further human communication after a week of micro interactions with over 100 different customers. You’d rather stay in, have a quiet day, recharge and preserve a little sense of self to nourish your fragile little heart and mind.
With these factors in mind, a lot of my friendships tinged on my pals coming to me, at the restaurant, as a bridge between my ridiculous work schedule and their ordinary 9-5 jobs. Childhood friends, two of whom would visit me at the restaurant once a week. It became our routine, our medium for spending quality time together. Unfortunately, though, despite the longevity of our deep-rooted alliances, as my working life evolved, my bond with these two individuals became looser and looser. Frankly, we had fuck all in common by the end. Upkeeping these friendships felt like a dying marriage, both parties stubbornly partaking in a ritual where they’d visit me (separately), eat a shit tonne of food and not pay, conversations becoming tedious and downright irritating, and my annoyance and resentment growing by the week.
One of the friendships (of the two) ended 5 years ago. After he’d come and visit me every Friday for years, consuming all my food and drink and not offering to pay anything, ever, even once, we finally fell out for good. He was stood outside the front of the restaurant, smoking, when a homeless person asked him for a cigarette. He flat-out refused and became irate, running back inside to say to me “Can you fucking believe that guy asking me for a cig? That’s MY cigarette, I worked for it, I earnt it – I’m not gonna just give him one.” I looked at him, breath reeking of all the free booze he’d just downed, like he was an actual moron, unaware of his own lack of self. When he went back out and disappeared from my vantage point as I was busy working inside, he came back in to say he got jumped on by a bunch of boys and shouted at me for not being there by his side. Again, I looked at him, not a mark on his face or any signs of physical distress, and assumed he made it all up. When I stepped out of work with him by the end of my shift and probed this supposed incident, he became angrier, pushed me up against my restaurant’s shutters calling me a “cunt”, and tried to hit me.
I never spoke to him again, my supposed best friend of the past 21 years.
The other friend I mention, god, what an utter embarrassment. Ours was also a long-term, school-related friendship which evolved particularly in 6th form. By this age, despite having known him for a few years prior, we became closer when I became quite ill through Crohn’s disease and missed a lot of schooling as I spent a prolonged period at hospital and on the surgery table. My confidence was at an all-time low, and his loyalty to me enduring and endearing when I needed it most. We’d be in his room, drinking Bacardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice planning a night out most times. He’d brush his teeth relentlessly, 4 times a day, and would shower himself with Versace Blue Jeans aftershave. He’d spray so much, I’d have to leave the room. That sweet, sickly smell permeating through every pore on my small, unwell body as we’d hit the town, talk about the girls we briefly dated, try to find new ones, and come back empty handed and sad.
As the years passed, our common bond drafted in his romanticising our halcyon days back in 6th form, all the memories of our times together – which for me, were not quite as glorious as he remembered. The smell still stuck with me, repulsed me, to tell the truth, as he never switched odours through his formative years into adulthood. Worse, everywhere we went, he’d bring up “Mangal II” into every conversation, loudly, unnecessarily. Even on his stag do many years later, it was the one topic he’d bring up again and again. I found it all too much. He, by now a policeman, with all his policeman buddies, and me, the restaurant owner, had nothing in common. An avid fan of superhero movies and comics, and wrestling, and all things I considered supremely lame, he then developed a new addiction to having tattoos… of Marvel, DC, Star Wars characters all over his pasty flesh. He was tattooed all over his torso with stupid batmen and ironmen and other childish figures, and turn up at the restaurant wearing shorts regardless of the weather, so everyone could see the tapestry to geekdom. I would be mortified, desperate to end the friendship, but he’d insist on coming to the restaurant all the time to meet me, but mostly to have a full platter of food for free. I managed to end things 3 years ago, much to my relief, by simply refusing to be best man at his wedding. He insisted I was, and I replied “Hey man, we hardly hang out anymore and I barely know your fiancé, all we do is eat at the restaurant, I’d rather not be best man as it wouldn’t fairly reflect our friendship.” After his wedding fell through, so did our friendship, much to my relief. I recently checked and he’s since unfollowed me on Instagram. Truth be told, it’s the first time I respected him. At least he finally showed some conviction and dignity. Good for him.
Last month it was my birthday. As the owner of the restaurant, I intentionally keep my distance with staff. I couldn’t say any were my “friends”, because I’m always a bit reluctant to blur the lines. That isn’t to say that I don’t have a great relationship with many of the crew here – thankfully, I do, particularly our core team. But just as I have felt used and frustrated by past friendships who have merged our bond with dining and using the restaurant’s facilities out of their own greed and ego, I am equally reticent to break any employer-employee dynamics to keep things in balance.
As it was my birthday, I felt like I needed to take a few days off to spend with loved ones, my kids, my girlfriend, my actual real friends doing fun things. There was a glorious meal at a local Chinese restaurant with all my friends and family. A trip to the beach and an exhibition with my girlfriend. My kids bought me a cuddly goose toy, which they have now claimed as their own. But the truth is, I purposefully kept myself busy because I didn’t want to come in on my actual birthday fearing no one would particularly give a shit and I’d end the day feeling sad and resentful. I got a few messages from the team, here and there, and that made me feel a little less distant from everyone. But one gesture really stood out. It was 3 days before January 14th, and our kitchen porter, a gargantuan Romanian angel in his 50’s named Timur came up to me, rather shyly, and said “Hey, isn’t it your birthday soon?” I said “Yes, it is! How did you remember?!” He replied, “Well, I’m not sure if you’ll be in for it so I got you a little gift”. I was so taken aback, I almost collapsed into tears. I didn’t expect a thing, from anyone associated with Mangal II. I accepted the package with the utmost gracious thanks, and unwrapped it in the next room, away from prying eyes:
A bottle of Versace Blue Jeans aftershave.
I smiled, walked back in to thank Timur, and reminisced about my ridiculous old friend. And then I remembered, my son has never received any aftershave before, he is 9, slowly evolving to becoming an elder boy, and might appreciate this childish smell. When I asked what he thought of the fragrance, he said he loved it. I said, “Son, it’s yours.”
I’m forever grateful for Timur, and I truly value the gesture. The fact that his gift wasn’t in vain, that it’s passed on to my son and not being wasted away on my bathroom cabinet, fills me with a sense of continuity and relief. It’s not the present that counts, it’s the thought.