Homegirl
Tobias started working at the restaurant two days ago. He comes from within the industry – unlike me, who, my coworkers are convinced, comes straight from a Hello Kitty warehouse. On his second day, we were paired together on the garde manger station for Friday dinner service. It was an intense rush, with two hard pushes, and though I couldn’t have done it alone, I thought the two of us did a pretty solid job, communicating and working together to put out the small bites and appetizers.
I thought wrong.
During a fleeting quiet moment between orders, Tobias walked to the sink to rinse out his bain of tools. “You doing okay, man?” Michael asked, manning the entremetier station.
“Oh yeah,” Tobias said, shutting off the water with a nod in my direction. “I got homegirl over there … helping … me.”
Michael raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes spoke a mouthful: I get it. I’m sorry you have to work with her. She’s useless. She fucked up a béchamel once. She’s not one of us. The two of them shared a knowing snort and glanced at me, turning red around the ears when they saw I was watching.
I just raised my arms in anger that was real but guised as false. “Dude,” I said.
Tobias mumbled something, backtracking without much effort, and I turned around, opening the lowboy to refresh our mise en place for the next wave of diners.
—
*Names have been changed.
I’m not going to come out swinging against your co-workers, but for your consideration: someone at ICP once told me they hated my work so much it made them physically ill. Part of it was my inexperience at the time, part of it was their taste, but a big part was simply beig a fish out of water in a new place with new expectations.
Now, in the industry, she couldn’t even hold my bag.
You’re smart and driven. Live through this, and you’ll get where you want.