Behind the Server's Smile

I began working in hospitality at around 16 years old, right as lock down laws were beginning to lift. As a relatively extroverted individual I loved the constant conversation, stimulation and the new experiences each day presented. When I moved to London it seemed like common sense to stick to this line of work. The first pub I worked for was called “The Easton”, just off Exmouth market. I have no qualms sharing this as it is now under entirely new management with none of the characters to come remaining.

The first thing I noticed about the pub was the jade tiles. I’m a sucker for a nice green pub. They were dusted in sawdust when I initially saw it. A new owner renovating the place for a reopening in just a couple of weeks time. I secured a job there as one of their first employees. It was an exciting prospect. Playing a part in the beginning of a brand new venue.

When discussing employment, pay was agreed to be a flat amount per hour which I would receive weekly, with service charge added at the end of the month. This was around 12.5% of already eye watering bills. I frequently found myself biting my tongue to prevent an apology spilling from my lips each time I charged someone.

The structure of the pub was as so;
A wealthy landlord who had just sold up a previous business in France
A pickled alcoholic, talented in making good first impressions
A depressed Coke addict, grieving the loss of his fiancé by engaging in the very behaviours that lead to her untimely end
Then there was me . I worked there with a girl who was bright and cheerful if not slightly reserved at first . Luckily I had enough words for us both. I shall probably send her this prose.

The pickled misogynist , let’s call him Bob , adorned himself with seventies attire. The customers loved him. He waltzed around the place, sweet talking the ladies and “ladding it up” with the gents. He was generally pretty alright as far as managers go. This was until he had one drink too many or too little. I think I received the brunt of his angst, purely because I didn’t know when to just accept defeat. He would slur his words and speak just an inch from your face. The stench of whiskey and beer would snake up your nostrils and settle at the back of your eyes. Pricking them as it did so.
Quotes he said to me include but are not limited to:
“What? Don’t what me young lady! I’ll what you all over the floor. Don’t you dare make that sexual. You disgust me.“
“Thank god you got that eating disorder since working here, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to fit through the door!”
“I know what you waitresses are like, hovering by the kitchen and waiting for chips. Only to go throw them up in the bathroom”
Not that it matters, but I never had an eating disorder. I think he was just attempting to strike a nerve.
Much like his fashion, he was very much stuck in the past. He eventually lost his position there after coming to work in a drunken haze of fury. He was dismissed on the spot. The landlord took great joy in telling regular customers that he “couldn’t stand up right” and that’s why he wasn’t there anymore.

The other manager possessed a more tragic tale. He flickered between riding a buzz, having a panic attack crouched-down behind the bar and sobbing into my shoulder, and sleeping off a come-down in the office. He would evoke such sadness within me, knowing that this was his life. Despite boasting a 45,000 salary, he coasted between hotel rooms and the floors of people’s flats. He would frequently beg me to go with him . Just to hold him as he slept. I never did. Although 32 if I remember correctly, he was fragile like a child. He would sob and lie and showed no stability; emotional or otherwise. In the height of his turbulence: he would carry round a small black book which he would leave open on the back bar. Inside were figures and names. Money he owed people he would tell me. I could never quite work out how much of what he said was true. He bragged about his unlawful connections and how he was able to pay his way out of convictions. He would paint his childhood as one of great riches and vineyards. Sometimes I thought that he believed it all himself. The lines between fact and fiction blurred, even within his own mind. His manic state was no secret to the pub. The landlord was well aware of his drug habits and probably his drinking ones too. No one helped him. Naively I would tell him to seek help. I’d promise him to go with him to an AA meeting as a desperate plea, just to make sure he got there. None of this came to fruition.

Working there was trying. The customers were kind and the pay was adequate. But it was trying. Three months in, I questioned the disparity between my pay and the thousands in service charge I had seen charged. Even divided between us all, it made quite the figure. The landlord told me he had spent it on his electricity bill. None of us ever received a penny of that service charge. I went on to learn that such a practice is illegal. At the time however; I felt sympathy. The landlord would often tell me about the hardships of running the place. Very much “woe is me”. My sympathy has dried up over the years . As I had factored in a considerably different salary when I accepted the job, my life was no longer viable in london. I couldn’t afford my rent and budgeted only necessary food. I would walk an hour to and from university each day, sometimes more. I would tell people this because it was a peaceful start to the day, but in actuality it was out of fear. Fear of any money being stripped from my already barren balance. I remember the desperation I felt being £500 short of my rent and resorting to every Avenue available to me before being forced to ask my parents. I waited three weeks to do this. My ego was dented to say the least. As grateful as I am to be so privileged that this was an option to me, at the time it felt like failure. Present day I have paid off this loan in excess. I feel lucky that I was able to do so.

I eventually left the Easton for another pub. Sometime later I found myself in a scarily similar circumstance in another London watering hole. From one over-worked young manager to the next. Between periods of shouting at me or others, this new manager would too share tales of unhappiness. Along side this he once shattered a glass in a tantrum and threw it to my feet before walking away. I stood there staring at the fragments. My rage, hopelessness and fatigue amalgamated into a desperate plea for retaliation. I simply kicked it out of sight. Such a small act of rebellion. But it was all I could muster. It came to feel that no where was safe. Hospitality in london seems entirely unregulated. Drug fuelled, broke labourers all-consumed by their craft. Stuck in a cycle of hating their profession but never leaving. Bound by the bills.

I decided never to return to london pubs unless utterly desperate. It scares me how these young people are treated. Over worked and under paid is only the half of it . Abusive and toxic work environments. Constant exposure begins to taint the brain. Students and young people make up a great deal of the work force. They are seen as able to deal with the late nights and early mornings. “The energy of the young”. The entire industry would fall at it’s knees if every unfairly treated employee revolted. Despite the power us masses hold, the ever rising cost to exist, in and out of london, tethers us to these places. I wish people spoke about this more . About all the illegal practices. About mistreatment of employees, about harassment and about lazy employers failing to protect the vulnerable . I suppose it would be foolish for me to remain silent too.

One day I hope to release a passion project. An anonymous site for young people to leave honest reviews of employers. My hope is that such a network would protect others, preventing the unknowing from even applying to such practices.

I think if enough people knew about it that it could be quite the resource. But that is also assuming the luxury of choice. If you’re still reading, let me know your thoughts :) . And if you’re still reading .. you should probably stop massaging my ego xx