The Mexican Restaurant Incident

 

In 1984 when I moved to St. Louis (my old hometown),

I was 37-years old and had no job at the time. So, I

decided to try my hand at being a server at a popular

Mexican Restaurant chain.

Funny, the management and servers were white and

Iranian, the cooks and kitchen staff mostly black. I’m

of Greek, Czech, Irish and German heritage. Not even

the customers were Mexican. Made me wonder about

the authenticity of the food. Oh well, it was a job.

How hard could that be? learn the difference between

a burrito and an enchilada and you’ve got it made.

Food, after all, is a basic human staple. As a server,

you order it from the kitchen and the cook takes care

of the rest.

You bring the order to the customer on a tray, and

ask if there will be anything else? You refill the water

glasses, smile, hand them the check, and collect your

tip when they leave. How bloody hard can that be?

Well, it turned out not to be a profession best suited

to me. Too much, Yes, sir and Yes, ma’am...would you

like frijoles with that? Green chili or red? And such.

Once I dropped a tray with five dinners on it. I made

a hell of a mess, and royally pissed off the patrons,

the management and staff as well. More than once I

placed a customer order wrong and served up food

they didn’t want. I spilled drinks, brought food that

had turned cold. I made inappropriate comments,

like, try it, the chili peppers are plenty hot.

Long story short, after three miserable weeks, the

Mexican restaurant and I parted ways. And for the

next five years even the mention of Mexican food

made me nauseous.

I was grateful, however, that my loathsome ex-

perience wasn’t with a Chinese restaurant. That

delightfully tasty cuisine happens to be one of

my favorites. Besides, those Chinese folks are

smart enough to hire all Asian waitstaff who

know the difference between Kung pao chicken

and a Poo poo platter.

                                      -30-

Chris Hanch 10-16-2021