An ode to Durham’s drunk food servers
We love you, no really.
We belt out ‘That’s Amore’ and leave Klute triumphantly just after 2am but there’s only one place to pile into next – the warm, safe haven of Durham’s takeout scene. But imagine actually working there.
As one reflects on the night’s debaucherous gossip, we fail to pass a thought to the other side of the counter. The heroes of our generation. The noble men and women handing over our cardboard based reward for surviving the night have to put up with our shit on the daily.
Not only do they obey to our every demand, “No! I’ve changed my mind can you change it to curry sauce?” But they attempt to decipher our drunken dialect, the slurs and stutters as we try to order anything carb based.
‘Chicken strippers and cheesy chips’ becomes near impossible to articulate. No wonder the queues seem go on forever, none of us can speak fucking English properly. But no – they don’t complain. They diligently change our order for the third time and wait for us to finish as we bump into a mate in the queue – who has now, in the fading hours of 2.30am, gone from a mere acquaintance to a long lost brother.
Niched, from Falafel Al Hana, told the Tab: “It’s tiring at times but I’ve got used to it really, the people are very funny.”
Mizha, from Wednesday’s saviour Urban Oven added: “I have a lot of fun here, it definitely needs patience, but it’s fun”.
A bit of grub after partying is undoubtably the best part of the night. After a few sweaty hours and a fist full of rejections, we just want to console ourselves over our sexual incompetence with something incomprehensibly greasy. Drunk food servers don’t judge you, they get the job done.
Give them a cheeky grin and say thanks, a bit of positivity will light up the shift for them. It’s the least we can do, without them we’re nothing. NOTHING.