Ferhat Dirik
It’s a peculiar feeling, being front of house. You carry plates over and receive all the praise, criticism, impatience, queries, insults, indifference, love, unsolicited feedback, and the rest of it. Yet you have no involvement in the dish being constructed. You can’t make it arrive any faster. You have little say in portion sizes. And you’re not the individual who decides on the seasoning/temperature. Yet everything goes through you. Every response. You are a sponge, soaking in every morsel, every squeeze of juice of communication and with what little moisture is left in your frantic, adrenaline-fuelled brain in “service mode” you drip out and drop trickles of information back to chefs - whom are already carrying heightened sensitivity and little composure as they battle with fire and heat and gas and smoke, all to enable food comes out adequately and promptly.
Who has it tougher? Front of house or back of house? The latter work longer hours, cut fingers, burn hands, have constant pressure and receive a lot of scrutiny over the slightest imperfections. Sounds impossibly difficult - borderline, well, shit. Front of house, however, have an equally arduous beast to tackle and tame: the public. A bad interaction with a rude guest, and it ruins your night. Most are lovely and courteous and thankful and polite and receptive. Rarely, but perhaps more impactful, they are awful; they snap fingers; they don’t look at you as they order food - treating you like second-class citizens; they’re perverts and they don’t care how they show it, however uncomfortable it makes you; they remove service charge because a chef undercooked the fish despite that having no semblance to the service itself.
You break a glass and it’s the loneliest place on Earth.
You spill a drink and you’re momentarily the world’s worst person.
The table isn’t ready because the table occupying it are obnoxious and couldn’t care less there is a peering, restless group itching to righty overtake their space at the designated time slot and you receive all the abuse as the unflinching diners who refuse to leave act oblivious to all the goings on and refuse to do the decent thing and ask for the bill knowing full well time’s up and they’ve consumed all of their desserts and digestives.
It all sounds so morbid. Who would do such a job? Late shifts. Lots of cleaning. The night bus home. Anti-social hours. You become obsessed with food and wine so you spend a lot of your days off visiting restaurants and spending what little disposable income on dining out. Someone once said to me “Hospitality workers are the world’s poorest millionaires” and there’s a lot of truth to that. You want the lifestyle and experiences but the industry does not permit you to earn the same a banker, lawyer, trader, tech employee does - though you probably work just as hard (if not harder).
Why do this job? First of all, there are many who do it because they have to. They need a paid gig and they need it fast, and stay because other plans fall through. Or the artwork they produce (a lot of artists in front of house roles, did you not notice?) isn’t being commissioned and when it finally is, it’s often not paid on time. Or their degree is still in its second year and they need money for the rent (to be fair, we ALL need money for the rent). Or the hours suit them as it compliments their other job, say, as a freelance designer.
Then, there are the career servers. The ones who I’m really speaking about. The ones who make this an art form. Every night, the lights are dimmed; the menu rehearsals completed; the cigarettes ravishingly consumed out the back; the deodorant sprayed; the wee flushed; showtime, baby! They’re on stage.
Performers.
We’re performers, without the fanfare. We’re all nuance, and flair, and subtle movement of the hips as we glide past packed tables. We’re all smiles and positive energy and competence. We’re on show. We swan, we don’t run. We reek of core strength, balancing glasses and plates and personalities across the floor. Our confidence is impregnable (on the surface). We jump in and out of conversation with dozens of different individuals in any given service hour, and humour and entertain and comfort them all. We make cocksure recommendations and exude the air of a know-it-all. At our best, customers love us. They reference our names in their reviews. They walk in and see we’re working and feel relief - they’re being looked after tonight and nothing can go wrong. We hold power over the difference between a forgettable evening and a fantastic night. We make the same joke again and again and receive the same response because each time it’s to a new customer and nobody knows we’re massive frauds.
It’s addictive. It’s intoxicating. It’s not for everyone but it’s ours. Because for 4 hours every evening, we’re our own gods.
And then you go home. The bus driver couldn’t give a fuck who you served tonight, if you don’t run to catch the giant red bastard in 5 seconds, they’re speeding off and you have to wait another 23 minutes for the next one. You go arrive in your digs. Black mould in the ceiling the landlord swore they’re dealing with. Heating not working at full blast and the duvet cover keeps realigning in the most infuriating manner. Council tax. You’re humbled. You’re just a person, working a service job, on an unremarkable wage.
And come tomorrow, by around 6pm and you’re refilling someone’s tap water which they could easily do themselves, you find inner peace and contentment. At a stretch, you find happiness. We live to serve, and that’s alright by us. Someone’s got to do it, right?