I Was The Happiest When I Worked As A Waitress
Shame I felt like I wasn’t enough…
I never planned a career in hospitality. In fact, I studied economics and German.
It was only when I moved to Italy that I ended up working in a restaurant. It was the most obvious choice. A job I could do since my language knowledge wasn’t up to scratch. A field that welcomes you with open arms from all walks of life.
It felt alien and unfamiliar.
Waiters running around rushed off their feet. Corks popping. Cutlery clanking. Nothing I’d ever done before. But, I didn’t dwell on it for long as I regarded waitressing only as a temporary fix.
I’ll never forget what my then — more experienced waiter — boyfriend said on my first day:
“Ana, two things to bear in mind. In a restaurant, you must be quick and have to get your finger out”.
He meant the idiomatic expression of diligent work, but I didn’t handle instructions very well. And his words only reinforced my feeling of inadequateness at the time.
How could I carry four plates at once when I couldn’t guarantee the safe delivery of one? Like I was supposed to be born with the skills required for any job.
I was convinced of one thing, though that “fast-paced” matched my requirements. I had stamina in abundance. An ability of physical endurance that -despite being middle-aged — I still possess to date.
So, my journey in the service job had begun.
A busy restaurant had its appeal
I was outgoing at the time, and socializing came effortlessly. For a young adult with so much yet to learn, it was the right place to be.
How could it have not been?
When handsome Italian men occasionally passed their plates — as a “gesture of kindness” — slipping a piece of paper underneath, with their phone numbers written on it.
I should’ve refused, but it felt exciting. It broke professional boundaries.
Tucking the numbers in my apron pocket broke my own code of ethics.
I never called any of them or admitted any of it to my (then) boyfriend.
But I was flattered. Their flirting reinforced my confidence.
And interacting with diners helped me come out of my shell and learn the language. I didn’t know it then, but waiting tables was slowly shaping me. It taught me skills that still serve me well today.
It was the perfect job for me.
I power walked across the room for fourteen, sixteen hours a day and watched out for the customers’ wishes like a hawk.
I’d scan the room in its entirety, and when someone signalled, I’d fly over to the table and be at their service like a Genie.
The vibrant atmosphere quickly grew on me. And so did being part of a team. It gave me a sense of belonging.
Not to mention the extra food because the chefs were worried that my (then) eight-stone body would quickly run out of steam.
I never told them they needn’t have worried. I knew the extra portions expressed their appreciation for my work. A silent “thank you”, adorned with Hollandaise sauce.
So, when a chef gave me food, I ate it. When they told me about their culinary secrets, I listened.
Chefs are notoriously hard to work with, and I quickly learnt to not question the bonus roast but gulp it down between serving customers.
I felt the most alive (even if I could’ve died)
I was open to social interactions at the time. Unlike now. I’m happy to withdraw from the hustle and bustle. But when I think back to those years, memories come back flooding.
So many memories, good and bad alike.
Like the time I worked in a hotel, and we threw a party for an elder customer.
I remember vividly. It was his birthday. We were dancing by the pool, and champagne was flowing. But it could’ve been prosecco. I was too affected by it to remember well. Everyone was having a good time.
At the peak of the night, my young male colleagues thought it was time to level up the fun, and they started pushing the guests into the water. Seniors were falling in the pool like stones, and I wondered how long it’d take until an ambulance got called.
It never did. The old folks handled the fun surprisingly well. As for me, the night could’ve had a different ending.
I was dancing with the others — oblivious to my surroundings — when two waiters joined us. “Having fun, are we? — they asked while laughing and moving to the music. Like having fun was their only intention. Sneaky rouges.
At some point, they closed in on me, and one of them grabbed me by the arms while the other got hold of my legs.
I knew what was coming. And I giggled while the boys carried me towards the pool.
Clearly, my common sense was replaced by alcohol. It didn’t even occur to me that I should tell them I wasn’t a good swimmer.
So, instead of warning them off or wriggling out of their grip, I kept laughing and thought: “Let’s get it over and done with”. And boy, we did!
Only once I landed in the water and started to sink, did I realize that I was in deep trouble. No pun intended. As much as I was trying to take control, panic had swiped the little muscle memories I had, to swim to safety.
My clothes felt heavy. Gosh, so heavy, they weighed me down.
While I was flailing in the water, people casually stood by the pool, watching the scene unfold. I couldn’t convince them of my predicament.
I still chuckle now when I think. As if being a lousy swimmer wasn’t enough, I did a subpar job at drowning, too.
Eventually, a young man recognized the signs and jumped into the water, but by then my brain had switched into survival mode. I have no memories of him carrying me to the poolside. Or me saying: “Hey dude, thanks for saving my drunk a*s”.
All I knew was that I was safe and grateful for holding onto the ladder rail as I climbed out. He was a certified lifeguard, later told me.
The temporary shock made me laugh hysterically. As you should do when you miss an appointment with our Father.
Yet, this experience never truly traumatized me.
It must’ve been the champagne (or prosecco) to take the edge off. Or that I was too young to grasp my own mortality. Possibly a mixture of the two.
Once I changed into dry clothes and stepped onto the roof terrace where my room was located, a fraction of the Adriatic Sea spread out in front of me.
It was Heaven.
Not the one I almost went to earlier, an Earthly one.
The one where the wind tousled my hair. The one where I could sit on a shabby chair and close my eyes at the end of my shifts.
A Heaven where I listened to the waves crashing against the shore.
Life was good again. And the rooftop — to this day — has remained my happy place.
But something was amiss, and I felt like I wasn’t enough
I couldn’t help the feeling.
Or ignore the reactions I got when people asked me what I did for a living. “Oh, a waitress, I see” — they’d say. Unable to finish their sentence. Like waiting tables was something to be ashamed of. A job that doesn’t require skills. Or education. Not good enough for society. Not enough to get a loan or a mortgage.
Not enough for a person to be taken seriously.
They couldn’t compliment me or say: “Wow, you’ve done well for yourself” because the bar to entry was low, and my salary barely allowed me to pay the bills.
No one saw the gruelling work behind the scenes. Or the tediously long shifts. The -sometimes — hostile and lazy colleagues made teamwork like hell.
We just ran, like we ran for our lives.
Because a bottle of Pinot Grigio was needed at table five, and the blond guy at the corner table asked for more salad.
No one heard when customers would call us “darling” while looking down on us. As if belittling the waitress would give them power in front of their wives.
On those occasions, a small amount of wine would be “accidentally” spilt on the table. And the wait for the next course might have been a little longer.
We always found ways to discreetly get back at insolence. To preserve our dignity and our worthiness. To be able to serve the next customer with the kindness they deserved.
After six years, I’d seen enough and wanted out. The hours were long, the pay was a pittance, and I got tired of constantly training new arrivals.
There comes a time in our lives when a change is needed. And that was mine.
But, today (twenty-odd -years later), I often reflect — while sitting at my desk in a classy, office building — that during my waitressing years I felt the happiest.
Despite the long hours, (occasionally) rude customers, and perpetual lack of staffing.
How so?
Because I felt alive.
Because waitressing — amongst others — requires three crucial elements that contribute to what we humans call happiness.
Moving your body, talking to others, and being of service.
Would I do it again for a decent pay and less hours?
Where do I sign?
