Author Information

Articles by this author:

  • I’m just a small-town waitress who was fired for saying too much in too public of a space. No hard feelings.
  • Recently, fast-food workers across the country have gone on strike to demand higher wages and more hours. They want to be able to make a decent living and stay out of poverty just like anyone else
  • One of the more bizarre things that happened this summer was that a table asked me if I knew who Rebecca DeWinter was.
  • Being a P.A. is the least glamorous thing you can do at Fashion Week. Aside from the fleeting importance you feel when you use the walkie-talkie for the first time
  • As servers, not only are we selling food, we’re also selling ourselves. We are a product the customer pays for in tips. We must make ourselves look desirable, we must act deferentially, we must flirt.
  •    The last day of summer camp was Awards Day. The people in charge had decided that all the campers, even the especially bratty ones who repeated everything you said for hours at a time, were deserving of special recognition. With nearly 200 campers, we had to get creative, which is why some kid went home to her bemused parents and showed them her award for Best Rendition of “Fergalicious” Sung While Dancing on a Picnic Table.
        In that same spirit, here are my completely meaningless awards for the 2013 season.

  •    These are the lemonade commercial days of summer. Everything is hazy and golden like an old photograph. Children catch fireflies in jars and old women fan themselves as they gently push the porch swing back and forth with their toes.
        Yeah, right.

  •    “What was your first job in a restaurant?” I asked.
       “I was a hostess,” she answered. “I was 17. I didn’t even apply for the job.”
        Our waiter placed the appetizer, fried stuffed squash blossoms, in front of us.
        “Bon appetit,” he said in an accent that sounded authentically French.

  •    My first job in food service was as a dishwasher at a deli-cafe-catering company. It was the summer of my junior year in high school.

  • I remember a man, slicked-back hair, wire-rimmed glasses. He wore ironed blue button-down shirts with white collars and cuffs and a pink tie, pressed slacks, shining black shoes. He often carried a briefcase and he always kept his hand on his mother’s elbow, gently guiding her into her seat at their usual table in my section for their usual Thursday night dinner