Places

Places we exist: my home away from home 

It smells of burnt dust from the space heater situated at my feet, with a slight hint of gas coming from the burners that have been left on in the event kitchen. Every once in a while, you get a whiff of some delicious meat that Table 30 ordered or someone who walked in reeking of cigarettes.

Everyone is dressed to the nines. The Prada bag, Louboutin red bottoms, an Armani dress, and enough diamonds to pay for my college tuition. I, however, wear black tights, shoes, and a dress; it has to be the perfect level of conservative but still just slutty enough to make tips. 

Jazz is playing through the speakers, just slightly too loud, but once the pianist arrives, you can finally breathe again as a weight you didn't even know you had floats off your shoulders. Every once in a while, you hear the obnoxious laugh of some old lady at a table nearby and wonder what she could possibly be laughing at when sitting at a table with two 60-year-old white men. 

Walking into that space evokes an unstable wave of emotions. It begins with dread as I open the restaurant, but a sense of comfort arises as I see the other hostesses and my boyfriend, who always meets me in the coat room with a seltzer. 

There are three main streams of conversations that could be overheard at any moment; one is the joyous experiences and laughter from guests (which quickly becomes insufferable). The second one is the shouting and bitching from the chef in the back of the kitchen and at the service stations. And last, but most importantly, is my conversations. The conversations amongst the hosts are some of the most wholesome but wildly concerning conversations to be had in any establishment. 

Maybe it is the job description, but stroking the egos of the rich, laughing at the offensive jokes that spew out of old men's mouths, I am the proper, feminine, polite version of myself. I am forced to allow people to disrespect and speak down to me; I am a woman in the fine dining service industry; I can't even begin to explain the things that people have said to me. One plus is that my social anxiety has disintegrated, for the most part; I have come to understand myself in the context of the world and people surrounding me to levels that I didn't know were possible.

I'm unable to predict who I will be when I finally leave this archaic restaurant. However, I am confident that when I do find the courage to quit, it will feel like I am leaving my family behind and friendships that have shaped this chapter of my life. But thankfully I know the “weight” that I speak of will have left for good and not just the night. 

February 2025