Nine Hours A Waiter

Last Thursday I went to bed with a Java menu. I put aside “All The Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr just as American bombers bore down on a small French borough, the last outpost occupied by Germans as a riveting World War II story started to unfold around Marie Laure, a blind French girl who listened to the sound of the bombers by the soles of her feet. I didn’t read what happens next, instead, I sunk my teeth into brioche French toast, apple cinnamon cake, halloumi and avocado wraps, pork spare ribs, grilled beef and arugula salad and washed it down with a double espresso con panna.  Then I put off of the lights and burped my way into sleep. The next day, I was going in. But let’s back up a bit. A few weeks earlier I had called my friend Leonard Mudachi, the COO of Java House and asked him, “Boss, if I wanted to become a waiter for a day, would Java be willing to let me try?” He paused and after an uncomfortable moment, asked incredulously, “You want to be a waiter for a day? Why?” I told him I wanted to do a social experiment. He said he would throw this peculiar request out on the management floor and get back to me.  Two weeks later he called and said, “The team found the idea intriguing, they would like to meet you so that you can sell it.” So I met Java House’s General Manager, Naima who had nary a crease in her well cultivated demeanor and Java’s Human Resource Director commonly known as PG, who are one of those people who look like they spend their Sundays watering their beloved flowers and nursing the buds to life. We met at 360 Degrees Pizza house as rain tried to denounce the fast falling dusk outside. Over a whisky with one rock, I sold my idea which was very simple; I wanted to go into a Java as a waiter for purposes of writing a story and testing my own non-existent patience. They were overall fascinated by it, but Naima had her reservations. Things could go very wrong, she said. I was untrained, had never waited tables before, didn’t understand their menu and there was a chance I could say the wrong thing to a client and everything goes to the shitter at that point. They had a brand to protect. “I’m not sure we want to take such unmanageable risks,” she said. Unmanageable? Me? I promised I would be a good boy. Eventually they were sold and I told them my conditions; I wasn’t going to send them my story to read before it was published, they couldn’t stage my experience and they couldn’t tell the staff that I was a writer. Their conditions: I had to adhere to their policy; commit their menu to heart AND shave off my scruffy beard. I said I wasn’t shavin’ my beard off for shit. This beard is my mojo, ladies. They were unmoved; said they had a strict ‘no-facial hair’ policy and there was no way they were allowing me to serve their clients looking like a mujahedeen. We agreed then that I would trim it to make it look like I didn’t rub it together to make fire. Then they read me the riot act. Strictly no jewelry; rings, necklaces, off. Do you have any body piercings? They inquired.  “Piercings?” I asked, “You mean like a ring on my nipple?” Naima sighed. PG cackled. They continued: You can’t talk back to a customer, you can’t show any form of attitude no matter how annoying you might find the customer and you certainly can’t be sarcastic or show any form of aggression, Biko. You will be treated as a member of staff and no special preference will be accorded to you. You have to wear black jeans and black shoes like the rest, we shall provide a t-shirt, a fleece jacket, an apron, a pen and a notepad. You can’t chew gum. You serve from the right. You take an order and repeat the order to the client. Then lay out the cutlery together with a toothpick. When you serve meats, place the meat side facing the client when you serve their order. Your hair should be short and neat. You can’t smell of sweat. Cut your nails. You have to smile, all the time. Should you talk to a client in a way that the branch manager finds unpalatable, we will pull you out immediately. Strictly no phones on the floor.  Are we clear? We are. I finished my whisky and went home to study my menu in bed. At 6 a.m. last Friday I reported to duty at the Hurlingham Java, slightly nervous but generally excited. When I walked in the staff were cleaning windows & wiping seats, the baristas were polishing the espresso machines, the kitchen staff were already cutting and boiling and steaming and braising and behind the restaurant, a delivery truck was unloading trays and trays of produce. It was nippy and misty, and the sound of dawn buses and matatus on the wet Argwings Kodhek Road drifted inside mixing with the studious chatter of the staff. I was received by Olivia the branch manager. I had been warned that she didn’t suffer fools so I had planned to treat her like a viper and steer clear of her path. She gave me a small tour, introduced me to the other wait staff who consisted of very enthusiastic & energetic young-uns under 23-years. Managers wear burgundy, cashiers wear grey, waiters wear red, and the barristers wear brown. Six chefs manned the kitchen and there were a bunch of stewardesses washing and cleaning. They were told I was from Uganda. My name was Steve Semantimba. My nametag read, “Steve, Trainee.” Olivia showed me the numbering of tables. She read me more rules; I can’t lean on anything, I can’t fold my hands across my chest, or akimbo, I can’t sit down, I can’t go chatting for too long with friends who might come for a meal and I had a 15min tea break at 8:30am. She then said, “You have two tools that should be with you at ALL times, this tray and this spontex thing which should be kept wet at all times for wiping tables. When you aren’t taking orders you have to wipe and clear tables and at NO point should you be without this tray. If I find you without this tray we will have a problem.” My God! You would have thought that Java tray was made of platinum. Or silver. I felt like I was a cop having his firearm and badge being handed to him. She showed me how to hold the tray and the spontex. Always write your order down, she said, because you might think you have a brilliant memory but you don’t. And always repeat the order to the client. As a general rule while taking an order you take the order from kids first, then women and lastly men. The same when you are serving. Then she handed me a card with more rules and said, “Go to the back and commit this to memory, you have five minutes,” then she walked away to point out a spot on the window someone had missed. I went through the Staff Only door, past the bustling kitchen and ended up outside near the loading area. I read the card. The staff were real friendly, they came and said Steve, how is Uganda, can you speak Swahili? Steve, when I say niaje, you say fiti, sawa? First time in Nairobi? Do you have friends here? A barrister called Jamo, who I came to really like, a young chap of 23yrs with a peeking tattoo on his arm and a very sunny disposition came over and asked me, “How are Ugandan women?” I said, “fantastic bodies,” he laughed. Jamo is a member of Mafisi Sacco, at that age he doesn’t know it yet but I could tell. Later I was handed to a “buddy” Helen, a pretty 22-year old who would hold my hand, make sure I wasn’t screwing up orders and also help at the POS. She quickly showed me how to arrange tables, we warmed the maple syrup, scooped frozen butter into small glass bowls, and later she showed me which condiment goes where. They gossiped about me with some other waiters in Swahili, because Ugandans don’t know Swahili, right? I shan’t repeat what was said. Because I have excellent luck, my first customer walked in at around 7am. Table 21. He had a sharp suit and jewelry dripping from his fingers. Gold rings on each finger. His specs were gold rimmed. A silk tie. Shoes that probably cost more than what I spend on fuel in a month. New money. You can smell new money a mile away & if your sense of smell is bad, then  you will see it. New Money announces itself, it needs to be validated. And this chap seemed to have a boatful of new dough, with the ego and attitude to match. From the shape of his nose – among other things – I could have bet he was jango or luhya. Eager to prove that I had internalised what Olivia had drilled into me about the meet & greet routine, I cheerfully said, “Good morning, sir, welcome to Java.” Then you are supposed to let the client sit down, hand him the menu and step back and wait 2-mins until they are ready to order. Mr. Nouveau Riche hardly looked at me, I could have been wearing nothing but a loin cloth and carrying a spear and he wouldn’t have noticed. He had numerous phones which he lined up in front of him like he was about to give them a keynote address. He was on his phones throughout. Never looked at me. He finally mumbled out his order sulkily:  two eggs, buttered toast and a single house coffee. And how would you like your eggs done, sir? Mumble: Well done. So that will be two eggs well done, buttered toast and a single house coffee? A wounded grunt from him. At that point I almost turned to his ego seated next to him and asked, “And what can I get you, sir?” I truly wanted to serve him his eggs with a side order of a ‘you-are-not-so-important sandwich’ but unfortunately, it wasn’t on the menu. Here is what I quickly learnt on that job. Not everybody will say hello to you. Java insists on the waiting staff making eye contact, and they kept telling me ‘You have to look the clients in the eye, Biko’, but most people don’t look at the waiting staff in the eye, so Java should consider changing their “eye contact” policy to “forehead contact” or “bald head contact” or “weave contact” hell even “ cleavage contact,” where applicable. Some customers will ignore you. Completely block you out, like you are a talking shadow. At 10am two Asian businessmen in crisp white shirts shuffled in, one on the phone and another looking like a lone buffalo that was just kicked out of the herd. The general rule is not to interrupt a client when they are on the phone. You wait until they hang up. When he did I was studiously standing over their table – table 101- and like a parrot I squawked; “Good morning gentlemen, are we having a good morning?” Nothing. Crickets. They never looked up at me. They didn’t say shit to me.  I’m sure they heard me, because Helen who at the beginning was shadowing me, heard me. I felt slapped in the face. I was taken aback at this churlishness. I caught major feelings. Later, I asked Helen, “Do you get clients who don’t say hello back to you, and does that make you angry?” She said, at the beginning it did. But you get used to it. People are different. People walk in here with problems that have got nothing to do with you and if you take it personally you will be miserable forever. Which I think is a load of poppycock! It’s called excusing bad behavior. Who doesn’t have baggage? The kids who wait on you have major baggage, some are orphans, some stay with nasty evil relatives, some are struggling through school, some come to work with raging backaches and cramps because of their periods and they have to be on their feet all day but they still smile and say good morning like humans should but just because your bank hasn’t approved your overdraft you are going to act like a complete wazzock and make sure that everyone around you has a shitty day too? Come on! It takes two seconds to return a salutation. Two seconds! Nobody is asking for a hug or a hearty handshake. Just look at them and say, “Good morning to you, too.” You don’t even have to look at them in the eye, the bridge of their nose is fine.  Even just mumble the words in their general direction and I’ll give you a pass. I began writing quirky notations in my notepad; if you were a pissy customer, next to your table number and order of Mushroom, basil and cheese, and one double caffe latte, I would write “P” and circle it to mean “Prick.” The clients I loved are those who actually called me by my name, even if it wasn’t my name. “Morning Steve” “Can I please have black pepper, Steve?” It gave me great joy to be called by my name, even if it wasn’t my real name. Because I was specifically forbidden to express any nonverbal or verbal show of dissatisfaction at your lack of culture, the smile would remain as I went back for the customary Mid-Point Check Up where after 5mins we have to go and ask if you are enjoying your meal and present the bill with the words, “I hope you are enjoying your meal so far? Because we wouldn’t want you to wait too long, here is the bill, it’s an open cheque, feel free to add anything else you want from our menu, thank you.”  But secretly I hoped you would choke on your toast if you were an ass. I’d watch you cough your liver out before I’d lift my tray to whack you on the back. I took a tea-break at 9-ish. I sat with Helen, an ex-Utalii graduate, at the back, under the No Smoking Sign and there we drank tea from a thermos flask and bread smeared with Blue-Band. It felt like high school all over again.  I asked her how old she was and she said, “22, and you?” I asked her to guess and she said, “27?” I made a hurt face and said, “Gosh, no, I’m 26!” Since she is a ka-hot one, delivery guys passing by our table flirted with her. Jamo showed up on his way to the john and said half-jokingly, “Uganda, this is my chic, no funny ideas.” Helen snorted. Olivia walked by and demanded of some service lady, “who broke the broom?” I smeared more margarine onto more bread. Mbuvi, the gospel singer, bundled in midmorning. That guy literally pings off walls. He was high-fiving waiters and joking and laughing with everyone and they loved him. He was like the mayor of Java. Jamo – my barista homeboy – told him that I was the new guy from Uganda and he said, “Oh wow, I did a collabo with Ambassador from your country.” I don’t know who the hell Ambassador is but I told him that I may have watched the song and I knew who he was. He went, “Oh really?” surprised. I told him yes, come on, most people know you. (Celebrities love to hear stuff like that) “You are Mbuvi, right?” and he was flattered that some random trainee from Uganda knew him and he pumped my hand enthusiastically and I got a tinge of remorse about having to lie to him like that because he really has this admirable spirit and he is such a joyous and amiable chap. Later, cappuccino in hand, he literally hopped, skipped and jumped out of that place and I wondered if perhaps he should switch to something less caffeinated than a cappuccino. Serving drinks isn’t easy. There is a way you are supposed to place the spoon on the saucer, it has to face a certain direction. The mug has to be spotless. I had a problem carrying drinks on a tray, they kept spilling and I kept going back to get a fresh saucer. You should have seen me carrying drinks on the tray, walking with my knees bent, like Quasimodo. Like gout had finally gotten the better of me. That morning I carried dozens of toasted breads and cappuccinos and caramel macchiatos, croissants and egg and cheese bagels, and homefry havens. They say that breakfast is the most important meal of day. You have to wait tables to know that some people take that statement a tad too seriously. At some point a large man came and heaved himself (miraculously) down at table 34, and ordered steak and eggs, which is a grilled fillet steak with two eggs, homefries, toast and salsa. That’s a large meal, folks. It can feed a family of four. And it was heavy. I wanted to ask him if he was planning on hibernating in a foxhole until Christmas. Speaking of which, I never let go of my tray. I carried it everywhere. It was my best buddy. We were attached at the wrist. We formed this bond, my tray and I, such that I named her Achutebe, which is a Nigerian name for a girl meaning, “Limit to how far one can be pushed.” (Don’t look at me like that; I read that in a book). And so Achutebe and I worked as a team, serving liters and liters of coffees and teas, and bagels and eggs with their sunny side facing the heavens. In fact as I write this now, I wonder how Achutebe is doing at Java and if her new waiter/waitress is treating her well. Then came the busiest part of the day: lunch… [I will post the second and last instalment of this piece tomorrow.]