Another day at my new job…

…at that one (Irish-y) burger joint on the first floor of the historic hotel, where I now work at:

1) The (big personality) (redheaded) (Irish-American) owner is saying that she had heard about the “no business that day” protest against ICE where people don’t go to school or work and also don’t do business or whatever, and she did consider closing down the restaurant for the day, but the protest method didn't make sense to her because it mostly just hurts the servers and staff by depriving them of income, and so she decided against it.

2) When a plate of nachos comes out across the kitchen service area and it’s for the owner, the one (younger) (plumpish) (hair streak-dyed) (mid-Southern) waitress is like, “Is that for [the owner’s first name]?”, and when they say yes, she’s like, “Then I’m going to have one,” and she grabs a nacho chip off the plate and eats it, before she heads off to go ferry it outside to her.

An evening at my new job.

I get the duty of plugging some of the ambiance-creating table lamps in to charge, and so I have to take them back to this curtained-off storage space back by the back kitchen entrance, to this little silver catering pushcart positioned under a power outlet to which is attached a massive phone charger cord terminal thing into which you can plug like twenty or so cords, since the table lamps have phone-like connectors and that’s how you plug them in every few days or so so they juice up and get sufficient electricity stored.

And, the way the cords just hang off and are tangled in these dense black tangles of wires that even extend down to lamps sitting on the lower shelves of the catering cart, it reminds me of something out of a sci-fi movie, like maybe the ship in Alien or something.

The busride home is driven by this (fat) (upper middle-aged) (pleasant enough) (African-American) driver who rides the break a lot, and since I don’t notice that at first and pinch the pressure point in my wrist, I end up getting super car-sick on the way home and I have to rest for like 40 minutes until I can feel normal enough again to go visit the one (gay) (Colombian) grad student who I know from around town, since he’s completely cleaning his apartment out since he’s graduated and moving away for an industry job.

“This is for you,” he’s like, giving me boxes of nutrition bars, “since you are in your protein era.”

I also get several shopping bags of stuff like shampoo and body wash and skincare lotion, in addition to much other food like a small dingy rigid cellophane-ish bag of these small baked shelf-stable cheese rings that are a regional specialty from where he comes from in (Colombia), where they are common snacks, he says.

Unexpected cup-cleaner.

A lot of days, I take in some tea, often herbal, to my new job at the (Irish-y) burger joint on the first floor of a historic hotel, and I do so in a ceramic-and-rubber-sleeved coffee holder cup that I think was a gift years ago from the one resthome that I used to work at.

I do this because I discovered that the air in that old building is dry “as f*ck,” as the kids say, and that if I don’t hydrate before and during my job, the air dries out my sinuses and seriously f*cks with me, even to the point of tipping my system over into developing another sinus infection.

Anyhow, I usually start off the tea with water that I boil at home, and then when I’m there, I usually refill it once or twice, mostly with scalding-hot water from the espresso-maker by the specialty coffee station, ever since the hot water nozzle on the coffee machine in "the server alley" there somehow got broken and then never fixed.

Anyhow, after doing that over the course of several weeks, I suddenly noticed that my ceramic cup looks gleaming white and almost brand new inside, apart from maybe some mild discoloration up towards the drinking-edge of the mug where water never touches or sits for any length of time.

That extremely hot water must have scalded off the tea-stains!

That must be it, I suspect.

New job developments.

So, it’s been interesting, to adjust to the one (Irish-y) burger joint in the first floor of a historic hotel that I now work at.

There’s no more free meals, although we do get a 50% discount off of 2 drinks and 1 app and 1 meal every time that we work, so long as we order it just for ourselves and not for friends or anything like that, with some exceptions like with seafood since I started working there since seafood prices have gone up so much, so if we want that we have to pay full menu price.

The menu is also huge, which means that it’s going to take me a while to eat through it and try everything, with the coffee cocktails being an especial challenge since I work mostly nights and there’s no way I’m going to have shit with espresso in it at 9 or 10pm at night, I’ll have to wait and try those on days when I work lunch shifts and can hang around after work and I have time to sip a cocktail and let the caffeine course through me at a reasonable time of day when it will have worked itself out of me by nightfall.

Quite oddly at first, they insist that you never leave a tip on anything you order there whether after-shift or when you’re just there with people you know, since they split tips and it would just go back into the pool anyways.

(I did that on the rare occasions that I was at the [Thai] restaurant outside of work hours and bought something there.) 

Also, I’m starting to get my banter together. Like, if people say it looks nice, I praise the lighting and say it’s awesome, it covers up my wrinkles and takes 5 years off me, and I also offer to show them around the different rooms that we have…  Different rooms are better suited for cocktails or for big groups or for receptions, so why not show people around if they’re interested? You’ll never know what will turn into business, down the road… 

Like, one (mid-50s) (tastefully-dressed) (white) lady perked up at the reception room, since she turned out to be a realtor and she said that this group that she’s part of the leadership for is always looking for new places to hold networking events, while this (young) (black) (female) and (cleancut) (white) (guy) who come in and order Sprite and hold hands looked at each other meaningfully, when I showed them that same room and listed how among other events people have held wedding rehearsal dinners there.

I also make sure to point out the room with the couches by the window, and say that people sometimes just get drinks and that’s nice for that, and at that point I remind them that our specialty coffee station is always open and does decaf stuff, too, like if they’re out and about and want to pop by for drinks or a coffee after a movie or event downtown or something.

I’ve also discovered that people don’t look through all of the (lengthy) drink menu that we give them, usually they just look at just the obvious parts at best, so I have now made sure to show people the pages where the dessert cocktails and coffee cocktails and specialty coffees are listed, so they know that those are options for them if they want them.

I mean, if people get 2 dessert cocktails, that’s like $25 more of sales right there, plus it bumps up the total that people will tip off of, too.

So, why not take a minute and point that out. 

New job.

So, the new job that I work at is a(n Irish-y) burger joint in the first floor of a historic hotel, and it really is something.

Because they had to retrofit the business into the available space, it has all these twisty corridors and rooms upon rooms of dining spaces, and there’s oddities, too, like different storage areas being in the basement next to our locker room and the several additional bathrooms that are there, too, although a basement social area is also down there for the elderly residents who live up on the upper floors of the building.

“This is the boom-boom room,” my one (eccentric) (blonde) (semi-manger) coworker was like, as she gave me the tour and gestured to one of the bathrooms down there.

Then, she spelled it out, that you can use the customer restrooms upstairs in the burger joint if you need to take like a pee, but anything heavier or more extended than that, you should really take the time and come downstairs and use the restrooms down there, because you don’t want to do anything upstairs that would bother the customers.

Overall, the burger joint is really a nice place, with split tips and a premium on a healthy respectful work culture, and plus they have specialty coffee and cocktails that I could maybe train into, to get like serious bartending and barista stuff on my resume in the long-term.

Plus, I have to take a bus to get there, and at night there’s like all this soft lighting that does wonders for me and takes like 5 years off of my face, and it feels like I’m somehow going into the big city to work.

The (big personality) (redheaded) (Irish-American) owner told me that she gets that a lot, that people come in there at night and they say that they feel like they just walked into somewhere in [one city] or [another city] or [a third city] (i.e., one of the 3 major cities that are a few hours drive from us).

It’s really crazy, too, because I first came in there during the afternoon to drop off my resume, and I simply didn’t expect that change in environment to occur from daytime-into-evening hours, in terms of how elegant and cool the space looks.

Joke of a friend…

…when I accidentally texted them the 4 digit code that gives you geotracked bus arrival info for the bus-stop near my cottage, instead of the transportation agency’s designated number (I was in such a rush that I didn’t realize that I had brought up the wrong contact info when I tapped on my text messages on my smartphone to open up what I thought was the transportation agency's contact info):

Incorrect PIN. Please try again.

. . .

(. . .)

A dream from like half a year ago –

Like half a year ago, I dreamnt –

I am sitting and eating from a large glass bowl of Dum-Dums, and I keep biting through them and chewing them, just eating Dum-Dum after Dum-Dum after Dum-Dum, although they are almost like Tootsie Roll pops with a chewable center, too, with the texture when you bite into them.

. . .

(. . .)