Every single thing that will happen during your tedious restaurant shift

What’s the most stressful job in the world? Brain surgeon, you might say. Or lion tamer. Truth is, though, they’re both easy. Try being a waiter or waitress, then we’ll talk.

Yep, there’s nothing more absolutely soul-destroying than being forced, day-in and day-out, to serve food and drinks to people you hate on minimum wage supplemented by contributions from the very customers who hate you in return. It sucks.

Of course, you probably already know that – if you’re already reading this, you’re no doubt familiar with the minutiae of slogging away in the service industry. So, for your painful enjoyment, here’s all the awful things you have to deal with during every tedious shift working at a restaurant.

11:50: A FAMILY ARE ALREADY TRYING TO GET IN

It’s not even the afternoon yet, your eyes are still half-sealed with sleepy grog and the coffee machine hasn’t yet powered up enough to allow you to steal yourself a double-shot extra creamy cappucino.

Still, despite the restaurant’s doors being firmly bolted shut, an eager-eyed young couple with three toddlers in tow are trying to get in. Help us, their child-weary faces seem to plead.

You ignore them and stare blankly into the middle distance as they mouth can you open the door through the glass. These are your last eight minutes of freedom, and you will leave these people shivering in the parking lot for every god damn minute of it.

12:00-13:00: LITERALLY NOTHING HAPPENS

The doors open, and a dribble of old people and small families sit down to eat. There are four of you working, though, so no-one really has anything to do.

You spend the first hour staring at the clock with eye-bulging intensity, occasionally breaking your gaze to do something utterly banal like folding napkins or slicing lemons or sweeping cigarette butts around the square metre slab of concrete outside the front door.

13:00: A DELUGE OF PEOPLE SUDDENLY TURN UP

This is exactly what you were supposed to have been prepared for, but you’ve still managed to forget something intrinsic to the whole process.

What’s that? None of the cutlery in the entire restaurant was washed after last night’s shift? Fantastic.

13:30: YOU MESS UP YOUR FIRST ORDER OF THE DAY

She’s gluten free, you fucking idiot, and now you’ve given her a fully-bunned burger with gluten all up over her meat. Bet those sweet potato fries aren’t even gluten free either. You don’t even know what gluten is, do you?

You’ll head back to the kitchen, tail between your legs, and spend the next half hour watching the burger she sent back grow cold as you debate whether it’s too bold to just go ahead and eat it yourself.

By the time you’ve made your mind up to do it, the deputy manager will have taken a sloppy, obnoxious bite out of it and eaten both the onion rings.

13:40: YOU START TO RUN OUT OF THINGS ON THE MENU

It’ll be something replaceable at first, like mangetout or pak choi. Then it’ll be a couple of dishes, maybe the specials: no more seabass, no more leg of lamb.

By the time it’s mid-afternoon and you’re sprinting to the shop down the road in search of bulk quantities of cooking oil and oven fries, it’ll be too late.

13:45: THE CHEF STARTS YELLING

You’re not sure why he’s shouting at you – you’re not even sure  what he’s shouting at you. All you know is that every time you push open the kitchen door, you’re met with a flurry of expletives that would make Gordon Ramsay blush.

In the meantime, the family with the two messy little kids sitting nearby can hear everything. You shoot them an apologetic glance, even though in reality you want to tell them to fucking go and fucking fuck themselves as well.

14:10: YOU TAKE A CIGARETTE BREAK

Doesn’t matter if you actually like cigarettes or not – during these hours, you’re a dyed-in-the-wool smoker.

How else are you going to con your manager into giving you 10 minutes to stand in an alleyway, staring at a brick wall and thinking to yourself how you’d like to use the lighter in your hand to burn this whole godforsaken place to the ground.

14:20: WHILE YOU WERE OUTSIDE, ALL HELL HAS BROKEN LOOSE

You return to a hellscape: customers are crowded around the kitchen door, pushing plates of half-cooked food into your hands and demanding chicken that isn’t raw or fish that isn’t seared into an ashen heap.

Table 12 have staged a walkout because their mains were taking too long, Table 4’s children have managed to knock an entire tray of drinks out of your colleague’s hand and Table 19 are kicking off to your manager because you’re all out of crème brûlée.

You contemplate whether anyone would notice you going back for another cigarette, but you’re beckoned over by the angry drunks on Table 9 before you can turn and make a run for it.

14:40: THE TILLS STOP WORKING

Just as the lunchtime rush starts to die down, the PDQs throw a hissy fit and the entire computer system decides to reboot itself. You’re left to make awkward small talk with the beleaguered grandparents on Table 4 as your boss intermittently hits the side of the register and swears under his breath.

After 15 minutes and no luck, you bit the bullet and start to take payments with a manual card machine like it’s the 1960s. You will inevitably screw up, and the substantial loss of money you’ve caused will be docked from your wages.

15:00: YOUR BOSS ASKS YOU TO STAY

“Sorry, but Stephanie’s been feeling really ill all day and she was on the rota for tonight. Can you cover for her?”

You know Stephanie is only skiving so she can go to a party tonight, and you watch as she shuffles out of the door only to fling off her apron and jump gleefully into her friend’s Fiat. Bitch.

Still, saying no would be career suicide, so you clench your jaw and nod at your manager with the hateful rage of a thousand burning fires behind your eyes.

15:15: YOU HAVE TO START MANUALLY DISHING OUT SAUCES

Of course, Stephanie’s parting gift was the fact she forgot to portion out the sauces which she fucking promised to do. Now the 3pm kids’ party have turned up, and they want 10 pots of ketchup and 10 pots of mayo to go with their childrens’ chicken tender meals.

Cue 15 minutes of slopping wholesale sauces all over your hands and forearms as you try to migrate gloopy spoonfuls from an vast plastic vat into tiny, delicate ramekins.

If one of the parents asks for Dijon mustard when you get back to the table, they’re getting a faceful of unbranded tomato sauce.

15:30: A CHILD IS SICK EVERYWHERE

You’re baffled by the volume and scope of vomit that such a small creature can unleash: like an erupting volcano, the guilty looking toddler spews forth enough sick to cover a 10-person table.

Arming yourself with reams and reams of blue roll from the kitchen, you prepare for the cleanup. After all, for all the fretful “we shouldn’t have let him eat all that cheese” apologies, the parents won’t be lifting a finger to help.

16:00: YOU TAKE ADVANTAGE OF A LULL TO POLISH CUTLERY

The restaurant has emptied out, so you’re left with nothing but yourself, your disturbed mind and boring Greg behind the bar who wants to tell you all about his Sports Science foundation year.

Luckily, you can drown out his inane chat with the clink of gravy-covered knives and forks and the nauseating fumes of the murky vinegar-water you’re using to polish them. It’s the little things.

17:00: YOU’RE FINALLY GIVEN A BREAK

Like a peeking ray of sunshine in a sky of thick, odious clouds, your boss peeps out of his office hideaway to tell you you’re allowed half an hour off to grab a bite to eat before the evening rush begins.

You’ll spend most of it fretting over what to order, even though the entire menu is seared onto the insides of your eyelids by now. You panic and fork out the shrapnel in your pocket for something fucking stupid, like a veggie burger, before being forced to eat it off a half-dirty plate with the dregs of the chip pan because the chef knew it was for you and took that as a reason not to even remotely try.

Still, at least you get 30 per cent off.

17:20: YOUR BREAK IS CUT SHORT BECAUSE THERE ARE CUSTOMERS AND YOUR BOSS IS FREAKING OUT

Moments into your second mouthful, your manager bursts in again and tells you to clock back in because a swarm of customers have filled the restaurant without any warning.

By the time you’ve taken three tables’ drinks orders and sorted out a wonky table with a folded serviette, your meal will be colder than when it came out of the freezer.

18:30: SOMEONE HAS MESSED UP THE RESERVATIONS

Mr Brennan called three weeks ago to request Table 10 for eight people for exactly this time, but whoever took the reservation scribbled it in the diary in crayon as “Mr Br 10 830 plz,” so how can you be blamed for giving the opulent alcove table to a kind elderly couple?

Mr Brennan and his guests, meanwhile, will have to sit between the fire exit and the door to the men’s loos. Mr Brennan and his guests will not be leaving you a tip.

19:30: YOU RUN OUT OF EVERYTHING ON THE MENU

By mid-evening, you’ll have pretty much gone completely off-piste when it comes to the menu. If someone wants to order the tagliatelle ragu with garlic ciabatta you’ll offer them two of the kids’ spaghetti bolognese portions with a slice of buttered bread on the side, and they better fucking like it.

Of course, they won’t, and you’ll soon realise there’s nothing more shameful and demoralising than making the third trip to an unhappy table to tell them “I’m so sorry, but we don’t actually have that either.”

20:00: YOUR CUSTOMERS ARE ALL ANGRY AT YOU, SO YOU HIDE IN THE WALK-IN FRIDGE

Half of them can’t have what they want because you’ve run out of it; half of them got what it wanted, and turned up too salty/dry/burnt/raw/late. Either way, they’re not blaming the woeful management or the incompetent chefs – they’re blaming you.

Every foray onto the restaurant floor only gets you a room full of death stares, impatient clicks and people trying to threaten you with leaving or bad TripAdvisor reviews.

You head to the fridge on the pretence of needing to grab a carton of milk, and you bolt yourself inside for every possible minute you can before being forced to face your guests again. This is your cold, unquestioning place of refuge. They can’t get you in here.

20:20: THE CHEF IS STILL YELLING

A quick trip to the kitchen before you head back into the restaurant, and you’re greeted with a foul-mouthed tirade from the chef which you’re pretty sure has been going on for several hours, whether you were there or not.

* Kitchen door swings open *

WHYAREYOUPUTTINGSOMANYFUCKINGTICKETSTHROUGHISONLYMEINTHEFUCKINGKITCHENYOUTHINKICANDOALLTHISONMYOWNYOUFUCKI-

* Kitchen door swings shut behind you *

20:40: YOU START INVENTING JOBS TO WASTE TIME

Things have marginally calmed down, but you’re still not in the mood to spend too much time with your sour-faced customers. But hey, there’s probably a few ashtrays outside which need collecting. You should probably unpack some boxes of aprons too, you know, in case you need them.

What’s that? There’s 20 empty salt shakers out back which need carefully and laboriously filling up? I literally cannot think of a better time to do that than right now.

21:00: HUNGER TAKES OVER, SO YOU START EATING LEFTOVERS

You’re starting to clear away people’s plates, and with every half-chewed steak and untouched prawn that you scrape into the bin you start to realise just how famished all this hard work has made you.

You’ll last all of 10 minutes before you find yourself bent over the kitchen counter, gnawing at the already slobbered-on beef rib that Table 13 left behind while shoving fistfuls of Table 21’s decimated cheeseboard into your mouth.

Your duty manager walks in, catching you right in the middle of your disgusting, gluttonous display. He says nothing. You say nothing. Your actions have spoken for the both of you.

21:30: YOU TAKE ANOTHER CIGARETTE BREAK

Why won’t you let me go hooooooooooooooooooooome.

21:40: YOU REALISE YOU’VE BEEN PUT ON THE ROTA FOR THE FOLLOWING MORNING

As you head back inside, you realise that your shifts have been changed. You start at 11am the next day, and you’re on until close. Greg’s only working ’til 3. Stephanie isn’t even working at all.

You close your eyes, inhale deeply, and try to convince yourself you’ll be able to spend all this money when you finally get a day off. In three weeks.

21:45: EVERYBODY WANTS TO ORDER DESSERT

Why? Why do you need profiteroles now, sir? What good will the millionaire’s shortbread cheesecake do you now, madame? Have you not gorged yourselves enough?

All hopes of clocking off before midnight are dashed as you retreat to the kitchen to painstakingly craft six portions of Eton Mess, eight chocolate fudge sundaes and seven apple pies, seeing as the sous-chef has already buggered off home.

22:00: PEOPLE ARE LEAVING, BUT THEY’RE NOT LEAVING TIPS

Your customers start to trundle out of the restaurant, leaving nothing in their wake but drink-splattered tables and discarded grubby napkins. You check the tip trays on their tables. Nothing at all from the old blokes on Table 1. An apologetic agglomeration of coppers from the teenage couple on Table 16.

Fearing you’ll be going home with nothing more than the fiver in your pocket, you start to employ dirty tactics. You moan pitifully about your student loan to some of your guests; you invent medical bills you can’t possibly pay off.

When the old lady on Table 4 accidentally inputs a £29.00 tip on top of a £28.50 bill, you say nothing. Now is not a time for moral behaviour – it’s poor old you versus the world.

23:30: THERE’S STILL ONE TABLE HERE AND THEY ARE POINT BLANK REFUSING TO LEAVE

You were meant to close an hour ago, but the one remaining table are still steadily nursing their coffees with absolutely no intent of leaving before the new day breaks. You don’t even have the energy to care anymore.

As you pour yourself a shot of tequila from the bar and start cleaning up for your shift the next morning, you contemplate packing it all in and just becoming a stripper instead. At least then you’d get tips.