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January 21, 2005
Time of Kitchen Employment
I used to work at TGI Fridays. I was an expediter. I had no idea what the job entailed when I was hired. What the hell is an expediter? I thought.
It turns out the expediter position is for people that can't cook, have no idea how to wait tables and refuse to wash dishes. It's the expediter's job to group by table the plates placed under the heat lamp by the cooks, then when the entire table's plates are under the heat lamp, some for upwards of 15-120 minutes, to hand them to the correct server. At the TGI Fridays just off the Magnificent Mile in Chicago the job also requires the expediter to withdstand extra stress as all the homosexual male servers constantly hug him, ask him for kisses and ask to sex him up (the one most intensely being the server that looks like a skeleton covered with overly tanned leather pulled taut against its bones and topped with a cowboy hat that looks to be stolen from a 5 year old restaurant patron). The job there is made easier by the back and shoulder rubs given by aforementioned homosexual male servers, unfortunately that alleviation in pressure is countered by the crazy little Venezualan dishwasher who several times a night sneaks up behind the expediter and grabs his (ie the expediter's) ass with his vice-like Venezualan dishwasher hands causing what can only be referred to as an "extreme pain in the ass."
The expediter is also required to maintain a constant supply of soft bread sticks. The bread sticks are stored in a small oven at his feet, which unfortunately hardens the bread sticks over time and is constantly opened by excited servers slamming the door into the expediter's shins, but are cooked in an oven in the exact opposite corner of the kitchen. An oven which, for some reason or another, tends to burn bread sticks if they are left in the oven for too long.
The expediter must be quick with languages as all but one of the cooks speaks, exclusively, Spanish and he must interact with them as an intermediary between them and the servers (who are over 90% male homosexuals). For example, he must be able to determine which pinche pendeho [I know my spelling of spanish slang is lacking, but the rough translation is 'fucking faggot.'] to which a cook refers. He must also learn Spanish words for his favorite dishes the cooks will prepare for him on the sly, but only if he asks in Spanish.
The expediter must also stand in the same spot for his entire shift, except when running over to the oven to pull out a pan of burnt bread sticks and insert a new pan of soon-to-be burnt bread sticks, which may cause him to identify with US postal employees who claim that it is the job, because of its intensity and monotony, that drives them to slaughter their co-workers.
He must also be able to grab, with his bare hands, those plates that the servers warn customers not to touch because they are "extremely hot." The plates, by the way, getting so hot because they sit under the same heatlamp for 15-20 minutes that the expediter must stand in front of his entire shift.
I started working there because the guy that lived in the apartment downstairs from me was the one cook that spoke English and informed me that if I applied I'd have the job. That guy then quit very soon after I started working there because he found a better paying, less demanding job very nearby.
The TGI Fridays job was so intense because it was the cheapest full service restaurant in the downtown/magnificent mile area, so it was a great place for cheap tourist families, high schoolers on dates and pimp daddy ghetto folk looking to impress their dates by ordering the most expensive items on the menu without actually spending a large amount of money. The job my neighbor moved to was on the other side of the block and closer to the magnificent mile, in a bar that took what seemed like great effort to disguise the fact that they had a kitchen. He claimed that even though he was the only person in the kitchen he spent most of his time studying and filling containers with mayonnaise for the following day's lunch rush -- which was apparently rather large because the office employees in the area somehow found out about the kitchen hidden in a building detached from the one housing the bar.
One night after getting drunk with a couple friends from out of town I decided to drive from my house on the south side to the bar where my friend, as a bar employee, could no doubt get us free drinks. We hopped in my car and drove downtown.
Along the way the driver of almost every car flashed their lights at us. It started to bother me. What the hell? I have my headlights on! What do they want? Once we arrived at the bar I got out of the car and looked at my headlight. Shit! They're both burnt out. "They were flashing their lights at us 'cause my headlights are burnt out. Check it out."
"Dude. That's messed up."
"Good thing I didn't get pulled over."
Returning to the car I noticed we were parked in a no parking zone. I drove around the block looking for a parking spot but couldn't find one. "Damn. We're not going to find a spot."
"It's like 1:30. We're not going to be long, just park in that loading dock." There was a loading dock for the office building across the street.
"Cool." I parked in the dock and we went inside.
"Is Dan here?"
"Who?"
"Dan. The cook."
"Oh, no. No one was ordering so we sent him home early." We weren't getting any free beers.
"Let's go then guys. I don't have any money."
"You drove all the way down here, I'll buy you a drink."
We each had one drink before heading back to the headlight-less car. "Hey. Is that a chain?"
"Is what a chain?"
"Dude. They chained my car into the loading dock."
"No way. We were only in there like 15 minutes."
"Check it out. That's a chain." There definitely was a chain across the loading dock. It was usually there to prevent people from parking in the dock, like I just had, but upon finding my car in the dock was used to keep me from leaving. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
We brainstormed: "Your roommate. Does he have a bolt cutter?"
"No. Why would he have a bolt cutter?"
"Just checking."
"He's not home anyway."
"Do you know anyone with bolt cutters?"
"I never asked."
"You could just go inside and ask them to unlock you."
"I think they locked me in here for a reason. I'm sure they want money or something."
"Yeah."
"Hey. Your car is pretty short." True. It was a 1989 Toyota Corolla.
"So?"
"Maybe you can fit underneath?"
"I guess it's worth a shot."
My two friends each grabbed the chain, one on each side of the car, and lifted it as high as possible. I got in the car and backed up slowly. I heard the chain hit the top of the car as I backed up. "Will I fit?"
"Sorry, I just dropped it. You'll fit."
I began backing up again. The chain scraped the roof of the car. "I thought you said it'd fit?"
"It's barely touching."
I backed out into the street, the chain scraping the roof the entire time. "Get in the car!" I saw a security guard coming. They jumped in and we sped off.
Driving down the street the guy in the back seat grabbed my shoulder, "Dude. Turn your lights on or you'll get pulled over."
Posted by calculatoronfire at January 21, 2005 04:01 PM
Comments
So here's how it happened. I'm at work, bored, sitting at my desk, so I hop online, I get on google to do a little internet browsing and I typed a search for "cheap clothes" (I'm cheap) and it pulls up this blog, so I read the entry about the chick who told you to buy wallmart pants, then I had to read more. Sorry if I'm intruding but, you my friend, are quite the clever boy. And even if your really not that clever, perhaps just clever at wording things, not saying that you couldn't be really clever this shit still made me laugh my ass off.
cheers and best of luck with those headlights.
-mel
Posted by: MEL at January 21, 2005 04:50 PM
MEL!
It's OK for you to read this stuff. You're cheap, and that makes you OK in my book.
I'm always glad to hear about other cheap folks. Tell me more about you. What sort of cheap are you? Are you buy-the-small-container-because-you're never-going-to-use-it-all-and-why-buy-something-you'll-never-use cheap or are you buy-the-bulk-container-because-you-pay-a-lot-less-per-ounce-and-why-overpay cheap?
Something in between perhaps?
I lean more heavily toward bulk, myself. It's genetic. I come from a long line of bulk cheapskates. I am also clever (as far as I can tell). I think. I know lots of routes home from work even though I live on a one way street.
If that is not the type of clever you are talking (typing) about then maybe I'm not clever. Please let me know.
Brian
PS - I realized I could drive with my brights on.
Posted by: brian at January 21, 2005 06:07 PM
when i was in high school i worked at a family-owned restaurant that in both decor and menu ASPIRED to be TGIFridays.
you gotta have a dream, i guess.
Posted by: sweetney at January 21, 2005 10:37 PM
yeah expeditin'. when you get scheduled for that shift at my restaurant it's like a vacation in the cayman islands. you can go in so wasted and it only helps you do your job - yell at the cooks and servers.
Posted by: virginia at January 23, 2005 11:43 AM
I used to work at a family owned restaurant. One owner was the cook and the other was the hostess. She liked to walk past me and grab my ass.
As I saw plenty of that happening at Fridays I am sort of thinking they may have aspired to be TGIFridays as well.
Dreams.
I could have done my job there - washing dishes (which was actually a euphemism for reaking dishes) - wasted. But I don't think I could have expedited at Fridays wasted. Those servers got all violent if they didn't get their way or if they got the wrong plates. Which they often did, because, come to think of it, I did go in wasted.
Posted by: brian at January 24, 2005 01:00 PM