Chrissy's Blog

Did I return to that horrible restaurant? Sadly, yes. As much as I would have loved to stick it to the man, I also wanted the money. Also I’m that crazy type of person that likes being employed. I like having an excuse to get out of my apartment. Travis wanted me to try and keep the job a little longer, from a financial perspective. So I returned. Here’s the twist. I was the only one that did return! All the other waitresses just bailed out. I was kind of pissed. We had all exchanged phone numbers and decided to stick together. We promised to let each other know if we decided to quit. They completely abandoned me and had no intention of letting me know. I had no problem abandoning those horrible owners, but I would NEVER have done that to my fellow waitresses.

Anyways, it was still pretty horrible, but I definitely served up a healthy portion of attitude to Mr. Fancy-Pants. I felt very entitled to. After all, was he going to fire me and wait the tables himself? Of course not. Not to mention that I am good at what I do, and I had pretty much brought the organization and cohesiveness that his restaurant so desperately needs.

I came home to a hungry boyfriend. So we decided to try out this coffee shop only about a block away. It is a French chain in Manhattan called “Le Pain Qoutidian.” They have many delicious pastries in the window and long oak tables under warm lighting. It always looks like a charming place. We got a seat by the window for some excellent people watching. The food was expensive for very small portions and not exceptional taste. Travis was very hungry and very disappointed by his itty-bitty waffle. Also, their mugs didn’t have handles which confused us country folk very much.

We then hauled ourselves all the way to the far side of Brooklyn to go to the largest Ikea I have ever seen. We spent something like five hours going through and debating what we wanted for our apartment and fighting the lines for checkout and shipping. Exhausted we treated ourselves to Ikea hot dogs and cinnamon buns. By the time we got home, my feet were absolutely burnt out. But it was good to be one step closer to an organized and put-together apartment.

Ladies and Gentleman, here is the story of Restaurant 1945 and its owner Mr. Fancy-Pants.

I show up at the restaurant at 6 to find three other wait staff there, equally as in the dark as I am about what we are supposed to do. Within the first couple of ours of working there, we are shocked at the lack of planning and managing that went into this place. They literally put together a menu, placed eight tables in a room, hired wait staff, and called it a day. Let the list of complaints begin: no aprons, no pens, no trays, no bus tub, no rags, no steaming pitcher for expresso drinks, no tamp, no knock bucket, tables not numbered, no training, the kitchen was on the other side of the building with no way of knowing when food was ready, white everything that quickly got irreparably stained, no sense of who is going to bus, who is going to wait tables, who is going to get drinks, no one knew where the napkins were. We were told that there were no modifications or side orders on the menu, which obviously enraged a lot of people. We weren’t allowed to seat more than three people at a table, because it didn’t “fit the aesthetics.” So when a group of four came in, we had to kindly tell them that one of them would have to sit somewhere else. IT WAS CHAOS. My thoughts throughout the day were of just walking out, but first telling the managers that they were idiots.

I am a graduate of what we call “Blue Dog Bootcamp.” Working at the Blue Dog Coffeehouse/Kitchen was not always the easiest experience, but we were tough there. We knew what had to be done, and we did it. So within the hour, with everyone still running around like waiters with their heads cut off, I took charge and became the defacto leader, making decisions and assigning people tasks to just get the job done. Regardless, someone quit within the first hour, due to the disorganization. At one point, we had five orders for cappuccinos come in. Of course, I am the only one in the whole place with ANY coffee experience. So I turn to the cheap, piece-of-crap, probably bought at Target, espresso machine and sigh. As I contemplate how I am going to make this work, I hear someone behind me “Ahem.” I turn to see a hipster doofus, lounging at one of the tables. I had seen him in the back, so I knew he was an employee of some sense. He was wearing all black, with Italian leather boots, long hair, and a beard.

“So, ladies, have you tried the coffee, yet?” he says in a smug way. The other waitresses and I practically ignore him, since, you know, we actually had customers to take care of. But he went on.
“It’s from a company called La Colooooombe. They brew based on ancient Italian traditions. You see, with coffee, Americans only care about caffeine. Europeans put more of an emphasis on the balance of flavors.”
I turn and give him a death glare. All I could think was, “Who the hell is this yahoo, and doesn’t he see we have two tables to bus, cappuccinos to make. Why doesn’t he help us?”

About an hour later, I run into Brett in a back hallway. He asks me how it is going. I tell him the honest truth. That it is chaos. That there is no system anywhere, and tables are getting missed or over-attended to, because no one has any idea what they should be doing. Mr. Fancy-Pants-Italian-Boots-Colooooombe happens to be walking by.
“Aren’t you supposed to just do your job and take care of it?” he asks me.
“I’m sorry. What exactly are you supposed to be doing?” I ask him curtly.
“I’m the owner,” he slithers back at me with a pomposity that is supposed to make me apologetic or humble or something. But, my first thought is “So you’re the MORON that had no foresight to plan this out.”
“Well I’m trying to do my job, but you need to have some sort of organization out there. You find me one job in this world where someone is just thrown out there without any training, explanation, or the needed supplies. It’s a shit-show out there,” I tell him. He looks shocked at my outburst and just turns and walks away.

An hour later, I realize that we have a full-house, and that no one’s food has come out. I run back into the kitchen to see Mr. Fancy-Pants, the chef, and two blondes with big boobs sitting around enjoying their own private breakfast.
“Uh, we have customers waiting for their food.”
Mr. Fancy-Pants doesn’t even turn to look at me, “We’ll get to it.”

I left that day, not wanting to come back. I had recently read Anthony Bourdain’s memoirs, “Kitchen Confidential” where he warns about rich snobs who think all it takes to open a restaurant is a lot of money and a couple of good things on the menu. Anyone who has spent anytime in the food industry knows it takes a lot more than that to run a successful restaurant. It takes business sense, it takes a dedication to the customers, it takes a hard-working and machine-like group of employees that know what to do, it takes an immense amount of organization to make sure you cover all your bases, that you aren’t wasting.

Later that night over some pizza, Travis and I talk it over. I had repeatedly told him that I didn’t want to go back the next day, that it was just to horrible, the owner was just too big of an asshole. He talked me out of it. Money was money, and I was lucky to find a job so quickly. I should stick it out for as long as I could. I agreed, but very very reluctantly.

I had gotten an e-mail the night before asking me to come to a training at noon for my new job. I obviously have nothing else to do yet, so I agreed. Travis works only five blocks from my restaurant, so we made plans to meet for lunch.

He told me what subways to take, and to get out at Grand Central. He told me about a quick exit out of the station. I was to call him once I was up on the street, and he would give me directions. I called him, and he told me to head east.
“Which way is East?”
“Head away from Grand Central Station.”
“Which building is Grand Central Station?”
“It’s the monstrous looking one.” I look around me at the steel, glass, and concrete behemoths that all stand 40 stories high.
“Travis, they are all monstrous looking.”

Eventually I figure it out and meet up with him in Bryant Park which is right in front of his building. We went and got some gyros and ate them in the park together.

Afterwards, I headed to my “training” which turned out to be only about 15 minutes long. It was disorganized, and I ended up just meeting the chef and talking to Brett in more detail about the restaurant. This all should have been big flashing warning signs of what was to come. But the story of Restaurant 1945 and Mr. Fancy Pants is a story for another day.

For fifteen minutes while Brett left me alone in the restaurant to try and find me a W-4 to fill out, I quickly snapped some pictures of the view. It was amazing. I could see Travis’ office from where I was. I could see all of Bryant Park where I had just sat.

I am wildly proud of my boyfriend. He is so smart and ambitious, and he is very successful in his job. But I can’t help but sometimes envy his success. I haven’t found anything yet that uses my degree and my experience, and I often wish I had a job that was interesting and where I was respected for what I have to offer. For one moment, even though I’m nothing but a waitress right now, I could see his office has a small space way below me. And for a moment, it felt really good.

I woke up still feeling down from my difficult first day and mourning the loss of all of my books and DVDs. Before Travis left for work, he sat down beside me on the bed and ran his fingers through my hair. Things haven’t been easy since I’ve gotten here but having him has made all the difference. More than just the lovey-dovey boyfriend stuff, he is a fantastic partner in all this. He told me to sleep as long as I wanted and that there was a message for me on the whiteboard when I decided to get up. I slept for an hour or so more before I checked the message. It said, “Good morning, girl! Hungry? I recommend going for some delicious bagels @ the Bagel Mill.” He had drawn a map of how to get there from our apartment. I got ready and ventured out. I ordered an everything bagel. The man behind the counter asked me what kind of cream cheese, and then pointed down. The display fridge was full of metal containers overflowing with a variety of cream cheeses. It looked the way a European gelato shop often does. Big swirly buckets of delicious artistry. I ordered the jalapeno cream cheese. I took my bagel and coffee and left the shop since there were no seats. The previous day on my misadventure to the grocery store I had passed a park, so I headed back in that direction and found a bench in the park to rest upon. I took a bite of my bagel and realized that it was the first real bagel I had ever had. Sure I’ve had “bagels.” But this was a different experience entirely. It was so crisp and toasty on the outside, a perfect amount of “everything” on it. The inside of the bagel was unearthly doughy and moist. The cream cheese was airy, fluffy, yet heavy upon the doughy cloud inside that bagel. I was in heaven.

Let me illustrate my first day in New York by describing the end of the day.

I sat on my futon with my knees curled up to my chest. Travis had his arms around me. I choked back tears as I told him, “It wasn’t a bad day. It was a rough day.”

I slept horribly my first night in New York. I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in six weeks, I was not used to the humidity, cars honking outside, our air conditioner clucking all night. Travis left for work at about seven or so. He kissed me goodbye and wished me a good first day in the city. I had decided the day before that I would spend my first day in New York just exploring, getting used to my neighborhood, before jumping right into the job search. Everybody I spoke to agreed that it would be for the best. Yet, I’m me. I’m a workaholic and type A extreme. As soon as Travis left, I sat up in bed, grabbed my computer and started searching.

I applied and browsed for an hour or so, when all of a sudden I got an e-mail wanting me to go to an interview that day. It was in midtown, so I figured at the very least I could go see Times Square and get my sightseeing in for the day. I quickly got ready and headed out. It took me a while to find the subway. Everybody walks really fast, and no one has the patience for you to stop walking and look at a street sign. The subways are great once you have them figured out, but at first they are SO confusing. A huge, massive maze with secret entrances and exits. I immediately felt disoriented. When I arrived in Times Square, I was overwhelmed with the desire to not look like a tourist. So I only quickly snapped this picture and tried to look quick and determined, like a real New Yorker. But I failed. How could I not gaze up at these flashing lights and monstrous buildings. It was like a moth. I was tripping over myself trying to walk to this interview.

I was super early to the interview (I had allayed extra time for myself in the event of getting lost), so I decided to grab lunch. Lunch in midtown is like feeding time at the zoo. I went to a burrito shop where people pushed and shoved to get to the front of the line. When I took two seconds to consider whether I wanted black or pinto beans, a herd of suits behind me groaned with agony. Plus, I couldn’t understand what any of the cashiers or food preparers were asking me, because they were talking faster than my brain could comprehend.

I headed over to the hotel where the interview was going to be. It was for a waitressing position. I went to the lobby and was directed to the 44th floor. On the elevator, I ran into the manager, Brett. When we got off the elevator, he showed me the space where the restaurant will be. Honestly, I didn’t notice that it was not put together at all. I was naturally staring at the most gorgeous view over the whole city. It was amazing to have been five minutes early in the heart of honking cars, pushing people, garbage smells, then all of a sudden in the silence of the sky looking down at it all happening before me. He showed me the space, then turned to me.
“So the job’s yours if you want it.”
“Uh, sure?” We shook hands, and he walked me to the elevator.
“So, I’ll see you 6am Friday morning?” I nod. “Do you have any waitressing experience?” I laugh at the inappropriate timing of this question. He had already hired me, right?
“Yes, I have plenty of waitressing experience.”

I left the hotel in shock. I had been in New York for less than 24 hours, and I had a job? I thought that was unheard of. I thought I was going to be unemployed for weeks. I was actually kind of disappointing. I was looking forward to a brief period of unemployment. I had done what everybody had warned me against, rushing into something. I meander my way home.

I try to take a nap, but the buzzer in our apartment keeps going off. I try to talk to whoever is buzzing up, but this person has a heavy, undistinguishable accent. I have no idea what they are saying. So I don’t buzz them in and continue my nap.

I wake up later and head out to find a grocery store to cook dinner. It takes me 20 minutes or so to find a crowded one where aisles have no rhyme or reason. I finally get what I need and head home to make dinner for my hard-working boyfriend. Our kitchen is…small. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the heat down on the burner and over-cooked everything, but it still turned out okay. Travis comes home and kisses me “hello.”

“So where are your two boxes?” he asks me.
“Huh?”
“The two big boxes you got today,” I am still looking at him in confusion. “Are you kidding, Chrissy? The neighbors saw them downstairs by the mailbox and mentioned it to me when I came home.”
Two big boxes? My parents had shipped two big boxes for me, full of every DVD and every book that I own. Those two boxes.

We sit down on the futon to eat dinner when someone knocks on our door. I hear Travis talking to someone, but I can’t hear what they say. He comes back and sits down.
“That was the neighbors. They seem to think they were stolen. Boxes get stolen a lot in this building, and they definitely saw them inside the building.”

This is when I start to break down. I think of all those signed copies. The gifts from friends. The 70+ DVDs, I have collected for the last 7 years or so. Gone like that. I think of that person buzzing my apartment. I’m an idiot. It was the mailman. I went about my business while someone pilfered some of my most treasured belongings.

I tell Travis to keep eating his dinner. I’ll be okay. His arm sweeps around my shoulder. I tell him I’m fine. He holds me tighter, and I start to cry. He tells me we’ll build back my collection. We’ll buy new ones. We’ll figure it out. He’ll help me buy new ones. But, it just isn’t the point. Some of those things are irreplaceable, and on top of it, I felt like my first day in New York was not at all what I expected. The city just kicked my ass.

Yes! I am finally in New York City! More than anything I was just anxious to start my new life, being in limbo was practically unbearable. Travis was at the airport to pick me up. I told myself not to cry, because I am just not that sappy. It was so good to see him and unbelievable to feel his arms around me once more. It was raining pretty hard, so I unfortunately could not snag a good picture of the city as we were driving in. Once we got to the apartment, Travis asked me to wait outside for a minute. Then he slowly brought me in with my eyes closed. When I finally opened them, I saw my adorable little apartment that I had only seen in pictures, and in a very blurry tour courtesy of Skype. He had sprinkled rose petals for me and lit candles. As I looked around for the first time, he told me “Welcome Home.” He proceeded to pull out a letter he had written to me that morning. It was so beautiful that I finally lost it and felt the warm tears stream down my cheeks. I was so happy! Later, we went out to grab some dinner in our neighborhood. We took this picture before heading out. We walked around our new neighborhood as he pointed out a variety of things to me. We live outside the heart of Manhattan, but there are still stores and restaurants everywhere. Actually I am not sure if there any part of Manhattan is not the heart. The whole city seems to be constantly vibrating and beating. There is so much going on. Newspaper vendors, people walking REALLY fast, and people love honking their horns here. We eventually found a hip little Thai place. The food was okay, but I was more excited to just be in the city with my boy than anything else.

The day before I left, I spent most of the day doing laundry, packing, etc. I also went to a brunch where my parents got to meet Travis’s parents for the first time. It went very well, and everyone liked each other. As a going away present, Travis’s mom gave me the bag tag you see on my luggage. I’m just a sucker for retro things.

My birthday! No, it was not a wild and crazy night, but it was exactly what I wanted. I took it easy and spent quality time with family and friends. I got lots of phone calls, texts, facebook posts, etc. So I definitely felt the love. I was, not surprisingly, a bit hung over the next day and didn’t want to go out and party hard or anything. A small group of friends met me at Amendment 21 which bizarrely closed at midnight. The small Mortimer moose you see in the picture was given to me by Drew, who found it in North Dakota.

Danguole and I were reunited after a long period of separation. She went to Columbia, I went to Seattle, she went to North Dakota. Finally, we were both in Reno and went out for one of our “Ladies’ Nights” which in the past have included such events as accidentally walking into a swinger’s bar, gambling the night away, and dancing with complete strangers at Jazz Clubs in San Francisco. This time we decided to just have dinner at Bertha Miranda’s, easily some of the best Mexican food in Reno.

Once we sat down, we both ordered margaritas. The waiter offered to get us a pitcher to share. All I could think of was my three hour wait at the DMV to renew my driver’s license, so I said yes. Thankfully Danguole agreed to the pitcher as well. It was HUGE! Once we each had one glass of the pitcher and realized how much more we had to go, Danguole called her boyfriend and arranged a designated driver for ourselves. Once we had finished the pitchers there was no stopping us. We went to two more bars, having two beers each at each bar. We laughed, talked about feminism, knitting, our jobs, music, our boyfriends. Neither of us are big drinkers, and when we have gone out together, we never really get drunk. But by the time we left Lincoln Lounge at 2am, it was my birthday and we were plastered. An awesome sendoff before leaving Reno, and an equally fantastic beginning to my 24th year of life.

Another thing on my to-do before leaving Reno list was to get my haircut. I went to 7 Salon which I’ve found to be the most reliable place in Reno. It wasn’t anything drastic, but I just wanted a trim before I headed to New York, where I’m sure haircuts are much more expensive. I love how straight stylists always seem to get my hair.