Brunch Shifts
Sunday, July 19, 2009 at 6:16PM Yesterday I worked the most dreaded, the most despicable, the most disgusting shift imaginable in restaurant service: Sunday Brunch. I don’t work brunch shifts anymore, but I broke my cardinal rule at work and owed my manager a favor. He called in the debt and he called it in big time.
Working Sunday brunch is everything horrible in life: annoying people, sleep deprivation, annoying people, 10% tips, and annoying people. First of all, the shift starts at an ungodly hour considering you probably worked the night before. So if you’re lucky, you get to bed around 2 am and then you have to be awake again at 7:30 am.
Your feet are so sore that you have to wear flip-flops driving to work because every last second out of your work shoes is a precious nugget. Running around for an eight hour shift on concrete makes me feel as though I need two full foot amputations. I would just put tennis balls at the bottom of my ankles, like old people do with their walkers.
And we won’t even discuss the uniform—drenched in sweat and booze splatterings from the night shift before. When I get home there’s not an ass chance in hell I’m doing laundry. Putting back on that rank little ditty at 8 am is a real treat. And in the morning, I sleep till the very last possible second, which does not allot for a shower or breakfast. At 22, I got up earlier to make myself presentable. But at that age, running around like a maniac for eight hours, getting five hours of sleep then doing it all over again was normal. These days I’m lucky if I wipe yesterday’s mascara off from the bags under my eyes. This is why people over the age of 30 should be exempt from working brunch.
So that just sets the stage. The best possible outcome from a brunch shift these days is if I don’t put someone’s head in a blender.
And did I mention that I’m a bartender? Oh sure, TONS of people come in to get their 9 am glass of Cabernet. Or their Jack and Coke with their pancakes. Let’s face it, those of us who enjoy a bloody mary or a mimosa don’t get up until 11:00 on Sundays. And brunch is more of an afternoon affair for us. So why the fuck I have to be there at 9 am really makes about as much sense as a Diet Coke with a cheeseburger.
The first THREE HOURS of my shift I spend cursing life and guzzling tea because at that point, my life really does depend on it, both for the caffeine and to give me something to do so I don’t, you know, bludgeon myself with the muddler out of boredom. I make a game of how many times I can go pee. And sometimes, to rest my brutalized feet and ego, I just go sit on the toilet. I just sit there.
For the next THREE HOURS I make Arnold Palmers for the servers who are “just slammed” with customers. They make more money in three hours than I’ll make in eight. I’m so happy for them. And then, get this, in the LAST hour of my shift, management cuts all servers and leaves the poor-sack bartender (yesterday, this was me) to take any other table in the restaurant that might come in. “So you can make some money.” Aww, for little old me?! Golly gee, thank YOU! <fart>
And of course, in that hour, that’s when all the drinkers roll out of bed and want their mimosas. And they want to sit outside, or on the side patio, or anywhere as far away from the bar as possible. And I get it, because sitting at a bar in daylight doesn’t do great things for your self-esteem. But that of course means for yours truly running a marathon on nearly amputated feet, all for an extra 50 bucks.
There’s a few things in life that are a miracle. The Northern Lights, how Kevin Federline is famous, and the fact that I haven’t put someone’s head in a blender yet. For the safety of all humanity, let’s hope that this was my very last Sunday Brunch shift EVER.
arnold palmer, blender, brunch shift, jack and coke, uniform
Reader Comments (6)
whoa...feelin' your pain, sister...
Oh man. I used to work at the Four Season in Beverly Hills. I worked every Sunday morning because I worked at the pool and weekends were the time to make money. Painful. Every Sunday morning for three years. I feel you.
I kind of like the tennis balls on the ankles visual... (fart)
Hey Buffy!
I know this is a really bad time to ask, but...
Can you cover my Brunch shift next Sunday?
It would help me so much!
Thanks!!!
XOXO
M
....and please leave your kids at home. The last thing we wanna do is clean up your (brought from home) cheerios slaughter. Oh, and you forgot your hello kitty baby bottle. AGAIN.
Totes nailed it. There is only one other shift that is more dreaded then just regular brunch and that is MOTHER"S DAY Brunch. And i totally love the sitting on the toilet to hide game. I particularly loved the point in my career at Ford;s where I "quit" smoking and would go into the walk in to scream during a NON-ACed brunch shift. Yep, gotta love no central AC in a brick building. Sadly, my life has come to wanting to work a brunch because...well, it'd be some green in ma pocket! oy vey!!!!