I will stop writing about this.

I will stop writing about broken glasses and drunken customers and closing duties. The man who saw his check, wrapped his arms around me and tried to toss me into the lake. The way that same water felt, soaking my uniform in post-shift dives off the dock. 

I will stop writing, because no one wants to read it. You may want to imagine your servers as frozen in time, locked into their restaurants and bars. Like a child believes their teacher must sleep on the nurse’s office cots or beneath their big oak desk. To hear of drugs done off bathroom sinks and arguments had over undercooked chicken is to break the spell. 

That spell is crafted carefully, held together by scrambling managers and their best (usually most desperate) efforts. Keep the candles lit, polish each spoon, shoo away the resident mice, launder the linens. Neverending lists, seven day work weeks. Alcoholics serving shots, exes brushing shoulders in walk-in freezers. Restaurants are the catch-all dish for manic talent, the kind of blind confidence and charisma that could fill legislatures. 

Behind the bar there are the would-be senators of alternate universes. Today they will be your server and they’d love to tell you about tonight’s specials. 

I will stop writing about this. Everyone’s told me to stop talking about this. 

When I was 16 and spending my days behind a pizzeria counter, I thought I had cracked the code to joy. I wanted to spill the secret to it all, tell my parents, with their pensions and insurance benefits, that they had it all wrong.

Fulfillment hid in pots of sweet red sauce and beneath cocktail shakers. The kind of people I was searching for were working late for $2.13 an hour. 

  I will stop writing about this. I will keep the curtain closed on all this wonderful chaos. Pay no mind to the stoned line cooks and full dish-pit, it is all part of the show. 

You may wish to believe that a restaurant and its people cease to exist past your departure. Figuratively, they probably do. But the tapestry they weave for you, from the playlist to the bathroom tile, grinds on without you. Until the lights go down and every table’s bussed, it’s a living, breathing organism. 

Some think this world is for the dejected, for the dumb and the lost. 

Most of us are dumb and lost, dejected at heart, whether we’re the would-be senators of this world or another. It’s a miracle we get up each day, whether we pour you your beer or email you a spreadsheet. Perhaps those of us in aprons can afford to be more honest about the crazy of it all. 

I hope this menu finds you well.

Can I get you started with something to drink? 

Please see our attached draft list. 

Best,