I've always wondered what it was like behind the scenes. Beneath
the surface of the restaurant decor, the manager's lopsided smirk, and the
tired smiles of the overworked waiters - what's underneath the facade?
Well, I guess there's no better place to start than by introducing
the tiny mechanisms and details that help keep a restaurant running.
Think of a restaurant as an assembly line, with one major
distinguishing trait: a heiarchy. For those of you unfamiliar with the
different positions in a restaurant, here's a quick breakdown:
1) Owner - oversees all work procedures to maximize profits
2) Manager - hired by the owner to oversee the daily operations of
a restaurant
3) Head Chef - kitchen manager primarily in charge of creating
menus and directing assistant chefs
4) Sous Chef - literally means "under-chef," supervises
all specialty chefs
5) Waiter - mainly handles serving your food (which is actually an
art in itself which will be left for a future blog)
6) Busboy - all basic tasks: refills water, resets tables, serves
bread w/ butter, etc.
Now, don't get me wrong. The assembly line in a restaurant runs
very efficiently, especially with all of the technology we have amassed today.
Dumbwaiters, dishwashers, even tablets that allow you to order your food
electronically. So where's the problem?
The average waiter rakes in around $2.50 - $5.15 per hour from
their base salary. Assuming a 9-5 work schedule for 40 hours per week and after
taxes, that yields a grand total of . . . close to nothing if you live in a
place like New York City. To fulfill the minimum wage quota, waiters and
busboys make the rest of their measly income from tips which are usually pooled
and split at the end of the day. This inevitably leads to arguments between the
waiters and busboys as both parties feel entitled to a larger fraction of the
pot. Long story short, waiters and busboys may seem friendly to each other on
the outside, but I'll be damned if that busboy hasn't killed the waiter in his
head already three times.
On a final note, I'm really starting to enjoy bussing at Flor de
Mayo, a Spanish-Chinese restaurant located on the Upper West Side around W
100th Street on Broadway. The predominantly Mexican staff forces me to exercise
my broken Spanish, proven to be the most effective way of mastering a language, and the compensation really isn't too shabby.
Plus, my co-worker Angelica, a cute petite 26-year old mestiza, has been teaching me Spanish slang.
For example, "chaqueta" is the Spanish word for jacket. Well, at least that's the case in Spain. For Mexicans, telling them to "ponte su chaqueta" (put on your jacket), translates to "put on your wanker."
Crazy Mexicans.
