1. Café Balaban was not a place I would have ever ventured into socially, or to eat, for that matter. It looked too expensive…and above me, somehow. But, as fate would have it, this became the primary place of employment during my stay in St. Louis. Two sets of double doors led to the restaurant, first into the atrium/café, with windows running the length of the room that could be opened when the temperature was pleasant. Another set of double doors led into the bar area, replete with deep reddish/maroon banquettes, hardwood floors, exposed brick, and an eight by eight mirror dominating the south wall. The mirror’s size and placement enables almost everyone in the bar to see everyone else via reflection.
A very subtle way for the mixed crowd to cruise, and very popular, too, as the bar was and still is usually packed. The near-darkness and red lights help, too. Everyone looks good under red lights. I learned that at Balaban’s.
Go downstairs from the bar, down the mirrored stairwell, treading on irregularly striped, muted reds and mauve, patterned-carpeted steps, into the “Disco Room” (as some of the waiters called it, as it looked and felt mid to late 70’s Glam down there), a.k.a. the Downstairs Dining Room. There was more brick and more banquettes. It was tasteful, in an outdated sort of way, with vaguely scandalous artwork adorning the walls. The linen, silverware, napkins, candles, place settings, all beautiful in their arrangement, the same as everywhere in the dining room, still the basement was the “ugly step-sister” to the Front Room, upstairs.
Balaban’s was/is a place one goes to see and be seen. The crowd was Jewish, St. Louis Old Money, Gay, Famous, Yuppies, City people, and well to do Suburbanites. And a table in the Front Room (or upstairs, for that matter, depending on the night, or holiday) meant one had some Clout, Money, Glamour, or Looks that the maitre de, or the owners, acknowledged via placement within the dining room. Not necessarily always, but sometimes this was the case. The Front and Back Rooms were unified in decoration, with large, European Art-Deco prints, plants, and mirrors complementing the red brick, white linen, and light wood that caught and held one’s attention by the very act of entering its space. The best waiters worked here, along with the best or most good looking, of the rest of the support staff.
The most amazing aspect about Balaban’s, to me, was the synchronicity of the staff during busy periods. I could look around the room and watch the other employees moving about, in time with the other, pulling and placing, re-filling, allowing, presenting, insuring that everything was in its proper place, and that everything was delicious and perfect. Movement felt almost choreographed yet was unspoken. The hardwood footfalls of myself and those working around me would increase or decrease in speed, depending on the volume of business. People dressed up and looked good when they ate at Balaban’s. I loved to look around the room while working. I felt glamorous and beautiful by association and inclusion.
2. I worked with a waiter named Terry. The others nicknamed him “Forrest,” as he was rather un-coordinated and far too scattered as an individual to ever be competent in the service industry. Nice guy, but waiting tables was so not for him. He became more awkward the busier he got, which was often, as brunch was/is/always will be a non-stop stream of work.
The few times we worked together, even casual observers would have no problem viewing his descent into his very own brand of clumsy, weeded insanity, running in and out of the kitchen and dining room, nothing in his hands, not knowing where to go. By then, someone on the staff would say, “Run, Forrest! Run!” And that, too, would set him off, running in all directions except the right one. I don’t know what his tables thought, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t amused.
3. Lauren.
A. My friend Lauren, the actress/waitress, was frowning in the wait station, collecting the required items for immediate delivery to her section. I asked her what was wrong. “Nobody understands the pain,” she said. “I got a section full of freaks drinkin’ iced tea and I gotta please ‘em!” She began to smile again, as it took me a while to stop laughing.
B. One night, as I had just opened my door in the 7-11 parking lot, she screamed, “You got the shot-gun, I got the panty hose! LET’S DO THIS!” The woman getting out of the car next to us got back in and drove away quickly while we laughed. Lauren has fun with words.
4. 1995, early 1996 Fucking brunch, man…the shift that tries one’s soul, like no other. It’s early and it’s on Sunday. It’s eggs and old people. It’s usually associated with a hangover (with most players-staff and customers included), it’s the before or after church crowd. It’s sports fans before the upcoming Rams loss, and it’s special needs regulars with their special needs kids. It’s fast and ugly and has nothing to do with Jesus or the true meaning of Sunday.
It’s the weekly tradition of those who have little else to look forward to. It’s multiple pots of coffee, a blueberry or chocolate chip muffin and half eaten (by the staff) egg mistakes along the back line of the kitchen. It’s looking at people looking at you as you serve them your food. It’s catching the eye of someone you find sexually attractive, even if they’re with someone else, if even for a moment. It can be fun, when you fully wake up, or have mastered your hangover.
Then it’s over at 3:00 p.m. The night waiters and staff replace the day crew, and the day crew moves to the bar to drink some of their earnings. Cigarettes are smoked, stories are swapped, joints are smoked (downstairs or in the alley), and plans for tonight are formed. I have begun to warm to my co-workers. I am less tentative, less reticent, and more comfortable in exposing more of myself to them. Some of these people, my co-workers, I think I can trust.
5. Station three in the Café always felt like a punishment, especially in the winter. There were six tables in all, three on each side of the main entrance. So, along with the usual burden of waiting one’s station, there were the extra added difficulties of (1) navigating through the overflow of people at the entrance, (2) dealing with the bitter cold (or unreal heat, in the summer) seeping into the building whenever anyone came or went (constantly), and (3) having the “stigma tables,” at which almost no one willingly sat, also for the aforementioned reasons. The patrons that did stay could also be counted on to be some of the least happy in the restaurant. My shift would pretty well be shot upon learning tonight’s shift was working in dreaded station three.
6. Expediting the food. The job of Expediter (Expo) at a restaurant usually consists of the following actions: (1) Grouping cooked/prepared orders together, applying proper garnish and sides. (2) Traying the complete order for the waiter. (3) Having a food runner or another waiter take the order to the waiter, or taking it his or herself. (And/or) (4) Wait for the waiter to appear to give him/her the complete order. (And /or) (5) Scream like a maniacal banshee until the waiter runs to the kitchen as if on fire for said order.
An example of (5).
I was working one day in dreaded station three, having a bad day anyway, and about two steps behind wherever I should have been. I went to the kitchen several times for an order that should’ve been up minutes ago but remained MIA. The Expo, kitchen, and my table were mad at me for different reasons concerning the order. The back of the house felt pressured, and the people at my table were hungry and grumpy, thereby pressuring me. As I was apologizing (again) for not having their food and pouring them even more coffee, the Expo yells out from the kitchen “LANCE! PICK UP YOUR FUCKING EGGS!”
I excused myself from their table, smiling, saying, “I think that’s your food.” They were happy when I returned with what was indeed, their food. They tipped me pretty well. I think the verbal abuse might have helped.
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