Monday March 24/2014
If I were to tell you that my first shift at The Alexandra went seamlessly, you could probably argue that that is a bit of a stretch. But considering the circumstances, I can say I definitely held my own. Things don't go down here the way they do in Canada. In so many more ways than one. It's total bizarro world, and employment is no exception.
Canada: You're hired. Come in for a three hour orientation, six training shifts, two shadowing shifts, and then we'll see about giving you a small section of two or three tables for four hours on a Tuesday and go from there.
The UK: You're hired. You start on Saturday night. Don't fuck up.
So Saturday came. The Saturday after my flawlessly fancy date, I might add. And I was ready for battle. Combat boots and all. Skinny jeans (even typing that is a sad mockery of the word) and in proper canadian fashion, a checkered flannel button up. Later, I will be cursing myself for this choice, but regardless, I looked pretty dope. Again, in proper Canadian fashion, I showed up fifteen minutes early. Dumb. People don't do that here.
"Hi, I'm Chelsea. I'm supposed to be starting here tonight…?" Why I formed that like a question, I couldn't be sure. Suddenly I was incredibly intimidated. The place was packed, mostly with men, and I felt very small and slightly retarded.
"Oh, alright. Sure." The tall young man on the other side of the bar says as he looks around. "Paul's not here yet but I guess I can show you around."
Great.
"So this is the bar. We have four stations. There's the oval bar down at the end. We also have an upstairs balcony bar that we open on certain days. These are our main spirits, the rest are spread around the bar. Ice. Soda guns. Wine fridges. Jager and tequila down here. This is the system. Main screen, food, bar, specialty spirits, snacks and tobacco. We don't sell tobacco. Tap here to delete. I'll give you a temporary fob for now. This is the kitchen".
I'm standing in a space no bigger than three feet by five feet. One shelf, a glassware washer, a sink, and a fridge big enough to hold a bottle of ketchup, mayonnaise, and 4 bottles of malt vinegar.
"We serve food, but obviously we don't have the facility to make food, so we order it from the Bellevue down the street."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Ya, it's kind of a shitty system. Customers order, we ring it through then call up the Bellevue. They call when it's ready, and we walk to pick it up then plate it here."
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
Great.
I follow Gareth (that's his name) down a very steep, very frightening flight of stairs off the "kitchen". As we walk through what could only be described as a dungeon… or an alcoholic's heaven, Gareth points to rooms as we pass. "Storage room. Spirits room. Here's where we keep the kegs. You know how to change a keg, right?"
"Yup, sure do." I haven't changed a keg in almost two years. Who knows if I remember what the hell to do.
"White wine is stored here, red is in with the spirits. Ice box. That's the office. Here's a fob. You good?"
"Yup. Totally."
What the fuck.
"So this is your first trial shift, then?"
"My what? Oh this is a trial shift."
(Awkward smile from Gareth)
"So I'm not technically employed."
(Bigger smile. More awkwardness)
"Well shit. Guess I better actually put some effort into tonight, then."
We both laugh, but I'm mortified. I'm quickly dying inside and can feel myself begin to sweat.
I climb up the stairs and cringe at the thought that I know I'm bound to fall either up or down this death trap at least once a week. That is if I make it through my "trial shift". Fuuuuck.
I start by putting glassware away. That's relatively safe. Get to know the lay of the land and practice my pranayama deep breathing. But it's not long before eyes are glaring at me from the other side of the bar expecting me to pour their drinks and take their money (money which I still don't have memorized, despite Angela's attempt to quiz me on coin days before). A two pence coin? Really? Is that really necessary? One, two, five, ten, twenty, fifty, one pound, two pound. I know this much, but like hell if I know which is which. But damn did I find out quickly. Blue note is five, or "fiver". Orange is ten, or "tenner". Purple is twenty. Red is fifty, but you better scan that shit. Quid means pounds, and no we don't take card under ten pounds without a 50p charge. 50p, not 50 cents. A mistake I would continue to make throughout the evening. As soon as I took on my first customer, I didn't stop until 1:00am when the last bell finally rang and I withheld the urge to crash to the floor. Person after person, order after order. People growing more and more intoxicated at a substantial rate, and orders growing longer and longer at an equally aggressive pace. Then Jager-o'clock hits and it's a god damn bomb frenzy. Some things are universal. If only this wasn't one of them.
"One guinness, three fosters, a gin and slim tonic, vodka white, two jameson and ginger, oh and six jagerbombs. No make that seven. And one more guinness."
"Right, got it."
Get to the till… One guinness, two fosters. No two guinness, three fosters, gin and soda, vodka what? Two jameson and ginger, how many jagerbombs? And one more what? Shit, bugger, wank, shit.
"Hey, miss! Make that 8 jagerbombs! And two tequila shots. Do you have lemon and salt?"
How the fuck should I know if we have lemon and salt. Who does tequila shots with lemon anyways, you tool?
"Of course, right away."
Kill me now. This is why they don't have a kitchen. To prevent poor shmucks like me from sticking my head in the oven.
This continued for seven straight hours. Non stop. And time only made it worse. Factor in that ridiculous flannel that I thought was so dope and you have a drenched Canadian, exhausted, and scared shitless. Lest we forget I'm in Europe. No tips. I'm literally sweating my balls off for minimum wage. There is no justice in the world. Life is an evil, pitiless bitch, who's obviously never been a bar maid. Oh and to top it all off, and further prove the ruthlessness of the universe, my body decided to have some kind of deranged chemical reaction to God knows what. Stress, overheating, allergy to my own perspiration, all of the above. Whatever it was, my eye decided to swell up to the point that I could hardly see out of it. I'm talking serious Quasimodo shit. No exaggerating.
Great.
When the closing bell finally rang, it took everything in my power not to get down on my knees and praise Jesus. Convert right then and there. Born again bar wench finds God on the beer stained, bottle cap ridden floor of the mighty Alexandra.
But I didn't have time to find Jesus. The bar had closed and now it was my job to close it down. Allow me to once again compare.
Canada: Bar closes. Clear tables, wash glassware, wipe and reset tables, restock, cash out, go home.
The UK: Bar closes. Start to clean while continually reminding people to get the fuck out. Clear tables, gather glassware, wash glassware, put away glassware. Wash glassware, put away glassware, wash glassware, put away glassware, wash glassware… you get the point. Take down beer stations, put beer catchers, mats, and every fucking other thing through the dishwasher. Restock, restock, restock, restock. Gather all bottles and trash and take outside, take down all cardboard, fold cardboard, tape up cardboard, label cardboard, send cardboard outside. Restock and store crisps packets, wipe down all tables and stack stools, wipe down bar, clear and close down smoking terrace, and patio. Empty and wash ash trays, sweep floors, MOP floors. Wash glassware, put away glassware. Note spillage, initial check list, and fight with every ounce of your being to stay awake. I'm missing things. I know it. It goes on forever. Spoiled fucking Canadians.
But it's not all the devil's work. At the end of the night, you can drink whatever drinks customers bought for you on your shift, and Paul usually buys food for closers on weekends. Free food and booze. Aint nothing wrong with that. It's not three hundred bucks in tips, but I like food. And I've quickly grown a lot more fond of liquor living here, if that's even possible.
Somehow, through all the chaos and heavy perspiration, I managed to make a good impression. Paul said he was impressed and would see me tomorrow. Guess that means I work here.
"Well done tonight, Canadian." Someone says to me. There was no room in my head for useless information like names.
"Thanks. I felt like I got fucked sideways, but thanks."
"Ha! And that wasn't even busy."
Great.
But the next day was Sunday, and although still steadily busy, no where near the chaos of my previous near death experience. There were moments to breathe, chat with customers and fellow staff, and I made sure to wear much less clothing (Quasi did not return). My faith was restored. That is, until someone brought up St. Paddy's day. Why Chelsea? Why couldn't you use your tiny excuse for a brain and wait until AFTER the most insane weekend of the year to get a job at an irish bar that is, on any regular day of the week, packed to the brim with Irishmen?
"What a shit storm it's going to be." This person continues. "Not only is it St. Paddy's next weekend, but the Six Nations finals. We're going to get raped."
I think I actually stopped breathing.
Excuse me, I suddenly need to go home and drink myself into a deep coma.
But it's ok. I've managed to quickly accumulate a large support system, some call it a fan club, comprised of a wide variety of guinness gulping regulars. It began with the older geezers. Vinny, Paul, Ted, Gary, Tommy. And shortly followed with the young group of Irishmen that I swear frequent the bar more than I do. Anton, Gavin, Nuts (Declan), and Chris. Then there is the bar's token couple, Heather and Pat. A relationship that for the longest time I assumed was a butch lesbian and her beard kind of situation, as apposed to a happily married for 30 years type situation. In fairness, she clearly wears the trousers, and quite manly ones at that. Always the one to order- guinness for herself, foster's top for her man wife. And as the night progresses, it's still fosters top for him and double brandy for her. But they are good craic. She tips on occasion and always has my back when creepy ancient Greek Peter talks about wanting to take me away somewhere private for 30 minutes. Not surprisingly, her response to that was, "Sorry Peter, but I'm pretty sure Chelsea likes girls. Isn't that right, Chelsea?" Atta girl, Heather. Well done. Quick and very effective. However, upon reflection, I can't help but wonder if this save had a hidden agenda. Perhaps she really is a lesbian….
As for the seasoned vets, their drink of choice is obviously guinness. And never less than six or seven, generally all before 5pm. Not that a girl should pick favourites, but Vinny is definitely ranked highly. If you were to picture a Vinny, I assure you, your idea wouldn't be far from accurate. A big, loud, round fella, with the closest to a cockney accent I've heard to date. So much so, that while on the phone, resentfully ordering food from the Bellevue, I head him say he hadn't realized I was "on the dog". He's always the first about my dates, and which man I've got in the running this week. He does not approve of very tall, very beautiful Sean solely based on the team he plays for. Oh, did I not mention very tall, very beautiful Sean is a semi-professional football player? Yes, yes he is. His eight pack will confirm that for you.
Paul is a good man. Probably the most frequent visitor to the Alex. Bald, chilled, and knows just when to wink at me to calm my franticness behind the bar.
Ted is an old ass Aussie who will literally talk your ear off if given the opportunity. Therefor, if you're wise, conversation with him is kept to a minimal, answers remain one worded, and always looking busy in his presence is mandatory.
Gary I see least of all, but just cute as a button. This proud, Irish bloke is determined to convince me to marry an Irish farmer. Not because he prides himself in the hardworking, fetching men his country produces. No, no. He wants me to marry him for his land. Divorce the poor potato grower and and take him for all he's worth.
And finally, we get to Tommy. Oh Tommy. Another Irishman, but this one's lived in London for over forty years. Needless to say the man is archaic. And without teeth, which at the best of times makes it nearly impossible to understand what he's saying. Add several guinness to the mix and you simply nod and smile. And high five him. Tommy loves to high five.
As for the younger portion of the fan club, well I can guarantee that in 20 years, they'll have effortlessly filled the shoes of Paul, Tommy, Gary, Ted, and Vinny. Although I wouldn't be surprised if Tommy still existed by then. How these men lead fully functioning lives is beyond me. Day in, day out, there they are. In the same corner of the bar, sipping their fosters and guinness, shouting my praises every time I pass by, which obviously bothers me very little.
"CHELLLLSEA!!! Looking as gorgeous as ever today!"
"CHELLLLSEA!!! You are one well put together female."
And my favourite consists of the adjective "savage" to describe my incredibly sexy looks.
On weekends, the gents will spend my entire shift between their designated bar corner and the doorway for frequent fag breaks. As the night progresses, they will usually begin to chant the Chelsea football team's theme, in my honour, of course. My hand will be kissed when I set down their guinness, attempts to dance with me will be had when reaching over to grab empty glassware, and so on and so forth. And like clockwork, by midnight, they have all switched to screwdrivers, perhaps with the idea that the vitamin C will help them cope with life come morning. But there is one of them in particular that stands out from the rest, and I will tell you why.
If memory serves you well, you may recall a vivid fantasy I day dreamed about whilst commuting from one London airport to another. My very first hours here spent conjuring up the perfect love story about a wealthy stranger who frequents my bar and after weeks of admiring me, sweeps me off my feet and carries me to my happily ever after. Well, I wouldn't go as far as to say this dream became a reality, but the general premise (minus a few sheep, the Hugh Grant accent, and the overall romantic feel) in some form, actually came to be. Kind of. Meet Chris. Arguably the leader of the younger group of Irish regulars. Much like my fantasy, I knew he fancied me instantly. But unlike my fantasy, instead of telling me he was going to marry me one day, our first interaction consisted of him looking straight into my eyes, pointing at me and saying, "Shotgun." A tad less romantic than a girl would hope, but it did the job I suppose. Not a single member of the Dead Rabbits hit on me, let alone asked me out following that slightly infantile declaration. Every day after our meeting I would come to work and there he was. And every day he would ask when I was going to let him take me out. And every day my answer was, not gonna happen. If life has taught me anything, it's that a man who drinks more guinness than a human breathes air, is not one to fraternize with. One night, on an odd occasion where my shift ended before the day did, I walked out the front doors and there was Chris, alone at the door way, fag in hand.
"Night Christopher"
"Hey." He grabbed my hand as I passed by and pulled me closer to him. "Let me take you out, already."
I looked at him and for the first time, actually saw how attractive he was. His eyes had me locked, and for a brief moment I could feel my mouth forming the word yes.
"Maybe."
"Maybe means no."
"Maybe. Goodnight Christopher." I pulled myself away from his suddenly very magnetic body, and walked away, grinning from ear to ear.
The realization that I was actually attracted to Amsterdam Vallen, made turning him down more and more of a challenge. He made it impossible to avoid him, and those stupid green eyes of his. Always standing in the bar entrance so I was forced to brush passed him every time I collected glassware, which if you read any of my cleaning duties, you'd know how very often this was. But I stood strong. In no way was I going to let history repeat itself. Falling for a man who already has a life long romance with a pint of beer is a mistake you only make once.
I placed Christopher's guinness on the bar, actively averting eye contact. He grabbed my hand.
"Chelsea. Just tell me you'll go out with me." Failing miserably, I stared into those stupid green eyes. That stupid Irish accent, and his stupid ginger beard didn't help things either. The answer is no, Chelsea. Just say no. Those stupid green eyes. Why did he have to stand so close to me? And smell so fantastic. Damn it. I mean really, who said anything about falling? One date wasn't going to have me weak at the knees, contemplating the number of sheep we were going to have on our quaint little Irish farm, with our Irish cottage surrounded by our stone wall, on a hill in the countryside. Absolutely not. So what was the harm in one date? There wasn't any. There was, actually. A lot of harm. What if the date went terribly? He's at the bar more than I am. He's practically a piece of the furniture. The awkwardness that would surely ensue if things went awry. And the talk. Good god, the talk. This bar is like high school. I would never hear the end of it, once everyone caught wind of our extra curricular activities. No, this was nothing but a bad idea.
"Ok."
"…What? Really?"
I was just as surprised as Chris, if not more.
"Ok. Let's do it. I will go on a date with you."
"….Really?"
"Don't make me change my mind." I turned away, completely bewildered, but beaming madly.
Oh, Chelsea. Such a fool.
No comments:
Post a Comment