#I've never been a bartender but I have worked in food service and as a gift I am giving them a dish washer instead of a triple sink

[bludhavenbirder]

we can stay up late, swapping manly stories, and in the morning... i'm making waffles!

@aculeonervus

"The waffles are tempting, but I think closing is a late enough night for me," Dick says over his shoulder as he unloads a bussing tray of dirty glasses into the dishwasher. He puts in the drip mats and closes the door, wiping his hands on a rag before returning to the bar. He rarely had the closing shift, but another bartender had called out sick and given how often Dick dropped off the face of the earth, it felt like a good way to garner good faith from the manager. The last customers had left and the doors were locked. It was just the two of them at this point into closing.

Dick had plans that night, as always— even if his patrol was shortened, he didn't want to abandon Gotham the whole night. He had leads to follow up on. There's a part of him that wants to leave it for tomorrow, but even thinking it only makes him feel worse. As he cleans, he goes over the coming days. Dick was needed in New York the next day through Monday, and then back to midday shifts and Gotham patrols until something else calls him away. There wasn't time to offer to his new friend.

Dick didn't get to spend much time with Adam outside of work, but he enjoyed the moments they had together. There was no pity over Jason, no expectations of helping carry a city on his shoulders. Dick could at least enjoy this. He begins to wipe down bottles, fitting the caps over them as he goes. Once he's finished with the first three, he tosses them into the air and begins to juggle. He would at least take his time with his own closing tasks while Adam is still working.

"I also don't know if I have any manly stories off the top of my head, so you start," Dick says. After another moment, he catches the bottles and sets them down, picking up a fourth to wipe down.

[fitgothgirl]

Ok so I feel like this might be one of my random crazy things I get super excited about that doesn't end up coming to fruition for one reason or another buuuuuut...

In terms of side gigs and the like to catch up on my debt, I've often been thinking about bartending. Now I've never done that at all and I don't know drinks so I'm fully aware I'd need to barback for a while, which I'm cool with. I'd just want to work at a place that pools its tips though lol.

Honestly I'm drawn to it because I really do like to go out and I like night life and the energy and all that. I feel like most people think this is common but idk, with what I hear from my circle of friends and people I'm friends with online, it seems like I'm kind of the odd one out haha (I feel like the MO of the current generation of young adults is a little different overall). And I definitely do appreciate being home more often the last few years, don't get me wrong; but I crave going out more often than anyone I know and sometimes I feel kinda like the party girl lol. But I can't always just go out because then I'd be drunk and even more broke all the time. 🙃 But I feel like this kind of job would help satisfy that aspect (even though I wouldn't be drinking, but just being in the vibes), while also satisfying the part of me that misses getting into the physical flow state of fast-paced food & drink service. Plus it's a different kind of relationship between employees and customers than your average food/drink service. Overall this just seems like it would be the best money for the most fun kind of work - I've been attracted to bartending for a while regardless of financials. I just want to soak up the liveliness and provide a fun environment.

Not only am I tired of being in debt and paying so much toward credit card bills etc., but what hurts the most is holding back my bf from fun stuff. We have so many trips we want to go on and music festivals we want to try out and stuff, but we never do these big ticket items because of me. I've realized he's been paying for things for me more and not asking me to Venmo him back and it can be such a major relief (and I'm not gonna lie it does make me swoon a bit lol), but I hate the fact that that it's such a major relief like that... I hate my how my stomach turns every time we want to do any little thing at all. But worse is the stuff that isn't even brought up, knowing he doesn't do so because he knows I can't.... This is his life too, and I'm making us both miss out.

Thinking about that stuff lights a fire under me more than any amount of debt would. Although with the way I'm lagging with side gigs/applying to second jobs, one might doubt that... But I want to be better. 😭 Brain is stupid.

(Anyone who has been a barback or a bartender before, please feel free to send me any tips on getting into the industry or about starting out at one's first job)

[sheetsonfire]

Valentine

Summary: You're a chef and Will drops in at the end of your shift on Valentine's Day.

Fandom: Chicago Med

Pairing: Will Halstead x Reader

Genre: Romance/Fluff

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1303

Author's Note: Just a belated Valentine's drabble! Happy Reading!

-

"Chef, there's someone here to see you."

You glance at the clock, it reads 23:47, service has long since finished. And most of the patrons had left as well. Who would want to speak to you at this time of night?

You braced yourself for an obnoxiously drunk Valentine's couple to either be really happy or really mad at their dining experience, you never knew which one you would get. Even when your food, you thought, was pretty on point.

Setting down the labels you had been filling out you smooth down your chef whites and make your way to The Pass. The part of the kitchen where customers could see the chefs work.

Even as you're approaching you can feel the bright smile begin on your face, body warming, your chest aflutter. You knew those fiery red curls atop that tall frame anywhere.

"Will?" He turns to you at the sound of your voice, you glance at his hands. Making you smile even more as you sidestep around the bar and through the walkway to get to him.

He greets you with his own bright smile, tired eyes full of joy to see you.

"Hey, baby." You lean up to give him a soft kiss, getting a waft of aftershave and shower gel. He had clearly showered after his shift before coming to you, the smell of disinfectant and latex nowhere to be found on him.

He was in a red button-down and jeans, the red only serving to bring out the copper in his hair even more. His beard had been trimmed down and his hair styled. He looked utterly handsome.

You pull a face, keenly aware that you didn't match his fresh smell, nor his put-together look with your grubby whites and now messy bun. You kept one hand on his face, gently stroking his cheek. "I'm sorry, I smell like cooked food and grease."

He chuckles. "Honey, you know I've come home smelling far worse. It's absolutely fine."

He leans down for another kiss, you sigh happily.

"These are for you." Will hands you the roses he had been holding, and you cup his cheek, kissing him again.

"You're a sweet one hm?" Smiling at him with adoration.

"I try, I try." He winks, letting out a small laugh.

You touch Will's arm affectionately, "Just give me 15 minutes, and I'll be all yours. Jake will get you a drink, won't you Jakey?"

Jake, the bartender at your restaurant, was finishing his closing checks for the day but had kept a few bottles out for staff and himself. He smiles obligingly from across the bar, scooping up some ice for Will, starting to pour.

"No problem, Chef. Pull up a seat Doc, you can tell me some wild stories whilst your Valentine finishes up."

Will nods, still smiling at you with a twinkle in his eyes, he loved coming to meet you after work. You both worked long hours, but knowing you had the following day off together was always something to look forward to.

"Sure, man. I think I have some stories for you."

"Nice!"

-

It takes you 10 more minutes to get the kitchen signed off for the day, finally able to change back into normal human clothes that didn't smell like grease and garlic.

You scoop up the to-go bags you had put some leftovers into and make your way back out to the front. Finding Will in the middle of a particularly gross story that had Jake covering his mouth in shock and horror, incredulous laughter.

"Okay, I think that's enough gory storytelling for tonight." You tease, placing a gentle hand on Will's back.

He finishes up his drink and thanks Jake for the company, spinning off his stool.

He takes the bags from you, letting you hold your flowers which you get to inhale and appreciate more fully now. Meanwhile, Will is sneaking a whiff of the delicious treats you had sequestered.

Bidding Jake goodnight as you make your way to Will's car.

Opening the car you put your food, flowers, and things on the backseat, as you close the door you place a hand on Will's elbow,

"Babe, let me drive, you've been awake since yesterday."

"I'm alright, I just want you to sit and relax."

"Yeah, and that's what I want you to do. So go be a passenger please."

He holds his hands up in surrender, appreciative of the offer. "Yes, Chef" He winks, a cheeky expression plastered across his face. Though indeed very handsome, Will did look tired.

Before you leave the parking lot you pull something out from your shirt, having stashed it in your bra. Will raises his eyebrows, waggling them suggestively. You snort, rolling your eyes amusedly.

“Keep it in your pants, Halstead. For now, at least…” He sits patiently, waiting to see what the bra envelope contained. You hand it to him, he smiles seeing his nickname in pretty cursive on the front.

“To, Big Red”

Carefully prying the seal open, he first finds a piece of parchment that reads,

“Let’s enjoy the music, my love. Our own symphony together is always being written. Happy Valentine’s. I love you, Will.”

You sit watching his cheeks turn a little pink, “Cheesy, I know.”

He chastises you, waving you away. “Don’t knock it, it’s sweet.”

Moving to the next envelope within the first, he opens that seal too. His eyes light up once he realises what you got him for Valentine’s.

“No way.”

“Yes, way.”

“Babe, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I did, and I wanted to and we’re gonna have a great time.”

It was two tickets to see Ray LaMontagne for his next show in Chicago.

He leans forward to bring you in for a kiss, “Thank you, Y/N. I love it, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You drive into the city, reaching out a hand to stroke his neck, just glancing at him in the glow of the streetlights. You felt so lucky to have him, for him to be your Valentine.

His mouth upturns in a smile, eyes on the city passing by but keenly aware of your gaze.

"Am I distracting you?" He muses.

"A little, you're very pretty. I can't wait to eat, shower, sleep, and then wake up to have some fun in bed tomorrow morning."

"Oh, is that so? I think I can roll with that plan."

"You better, Mister. I've been thinking about this all day."

"Well then I can't let my best gal down then, can I?"

"When have you ever?" You sigh, lovingly stroking his shoulder before placing your hand back on the wheel.

There's a beat, and then Will lets out a small laugh, "You think I'm pretty?"

It makes you laugh too, it had obviously just occurred to him what you said.

"Very pretty. Beautiful hair, kissable lips, those sweet eyes, just pretty."

"You flatter."

"I try."

Both of you giggling for the rest of the drive, exchanging disgustingly cute compliments as people are wont to do on Valentine's, though this was the norm for you and Will. Much to the amusement of your friends who would often point out how sharply opposite your chef persona could be.

-

It’s an hour later when you’re snuggled up in bed, hunger satiated and your body smelling like figs and vanilla. Your head is on Will’s chest and your fingers are caressing across the fine hairs you find there, occasionally toying with his necklace. You love the warmth he exudes, snuggling closer as you lay half on him. He chuckles quietly at you trying to get all of him in your embrace, wrapping his arm around you a little more, kissing the top of your head as he lets his eyes drift shut.

-

Fin.

[boop-le-snoot]

masterpost • main masterlist • taglist & faq

Introductory prologue. The main pairing will be established ironstrange x reader. This story will be rated explicit, have some canon-typical violence and language. The 'fuck' harvest is bountiful this time of the year. Updates - irregular so far, I'm posting it as I go.

No y/n, no "you", no name - nickname only, no reader description - race/age/body type neutral, she/her pronouns. Please leave a comment if you spot a stray 'blushing' or the likes, I write as it flows and sometimes miss those words when I proofread. I try to be inclusive of all my readers.

"Your total is twelve dollars, seventeen cents," I rattled off on autopilot, casting a glance at the cash register and plastering an automatic smile onto my face. The pleasant expression was frozen on it, stuck like glue, despite the news I had received earlier in the day. "Thank you, have a nice day," I doubted the customer actually heard my words.

One of those business-types, wearing a tailored two-piece, with a Bluetooth headset attached to their ear and brain always a mile away, our little coffee shop a mild interruption in their daily routine of making more and more money. "Hello, how can I help you?" I addressed the next customer, my eyes unseeing, gliding over their face and to the storefront where I noticed we were running low on eclairs and carrot cake.

"Hey, Starlight," the woman's voice was familiar, tone soothing, as I snapped my eyes to meet a pair of reddish-brown ones, staring at me with concern. "The usual," our city's very own superhero; Wanda Maximoff stood before me with her head curiously tilted to the side and her brother hovering behind her, examining the assortment of various cakes on display. "Long day?"

"You have no idea," I sighed, sending off the organic, single-use cups with scribbles off to Dave, our barista. Wanda's order was large, usually about ten or twelve coffees and quite a few treats, so I donned on some nitrile gloves to package the treats while Dave handled the drinks with practiced ease. I admired his stoicism. "Might be seeing a bit less of me," the woman's eyebrows rose in displeasure at my admission.

"Tony won't be happy," Wanda mumbled, side-eyeing the backdoor behind which my boss usually resided during the day. "You got fired?" The words attracted the attention of her brother. Pietro was immediately at her side, joining into the concerned staring.

"Nope," I popped the 'p', methodically shoving the food in its packaging. "The café is expanding hours and our shifts are being split now. Jeremy is dead set on me working the graveyard shift, so I'll be here six AM to two PM," I couldn't help the sigh that left my lips.

My boss, Jeremy, had opened his boulangerie little over two years ago, and as he had predicted, it set off almost immediately. The place was located almost in the heart of the dozen corporate sky-rises full of busy, wealthy people who liked their things to be both instant and luxurious. Jeremy had fit right in with the law sharks and business vultures, if you ask me, with his penchant for demanding the impossible.

I was expecting an increase in work hours, I wasn't going to lie - our little cafe was busy nearly all the time it was open - but the fact that he chose to split a day's shift came as a punch to the gut. Like most service staff, I made most of my money from the tips, and they and they only were the only reason I stayed in a place with a shrew for a boss and the worst health insurance in the area. Thankfully, the rich businessmen from local offices didn't count their money and left me more than generous tips.

The coffee machine beeped for the last time as Dave passed me the three cupholders before I carefully bagged them, arranging the treats on top. I saw Wanda lick her lips at the aromas coming from the paper bag before Pietro snatched them out of my grasp. I rattled off the total, catching Wanda's eye as she passed me several twenty dollar bills, waving off my attempt to return the change.

"Penny for your wandering thoughts?" She smiled warmly as I chuckled at the question I've grown to expect with a quiet sort of joy.

The first time she'd wandered in, soaking wet from the rain and looking as lost as a child in a mall, ten minutes before closing time, I was reading my book right at the counter as I waited for the coffee machine to clean itself. I hadn't even noticed the quiet woman until her words startled me out of the book-induced trance and I shamefully had to ask her to repeat herself, hastily shoving my book under the counter. She smiled at me, shyly, and asked me about my reading instead of rattling an order for one of the sickly sweet caffeine concoctions female customers seemed to love. And she returned in a few days, asking the same question after taking a careful look at my face.

"And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about." I took a careful moment to recall a paragraph from the book I was currently reading, Murakami's 'Kafka on the Shore'. It seemed fitting, with all that had been going on in my life recently. I was still caught in the middle of the storm, unsure if I'd make it out but hoping for it nonetheless.

"That's beautiful," Pietro smiled at me, the tips of his silver hair reflecting the lights of the cafe's baroque style chandeliers. I barely managed to smile at him as he was already speeding off, the entrance door banging shut behind a blur of white and blue. Each time he did that, I couldn't help but wonder how he managed to not spill any of the hot beverages.

"Because it's true," Wanda added with a comforting smile. I nodded in agreement, hoping some of her positive attitude would dissipate the sense of doom I'd been lugging around all day. She departed, taking the sense of comfort with her, as I caught the tail end of something shouted in Sokovian - something that sounded exactly in place, coming from one disgruntled sibling to another.

When the residents of the nearby Stark tower began frequenting my workplace, I barely had the composure to stifle my quiet fangirling to socially acceptable levels. Not long after the Scarlet Witch turned a semi-regular, she started bringing her colleagues with her - Hawkeye at first, who was a decent, normal dude; he looked like an exasperated dad and Pietro appeared every thing the rambunctious son, as the younger man peppered the older man with questions about the cakes on our display.

They all had fancy names, but at the bottom of it, a chocolate cake was a chocolate cake. That much I told them, with a snort, earning myself a lopsided grin and a generous tip as I patiently listed off the more commonly used, simplified designations for the twins as the knowledge of them being European immigrants crossed my mind.

After Hawkeye came the Black Widow, and then Captain America with a sunny smile and his moody boyfriend in tow. While Bucky Barnes' expression was generally sour, the man had a wicked sweet tooth, shoveling frosted, glazed treats at the rate of a competitive eater. Both men were extremely polite if not very chatty and tipped well.

Tony Stark himself - well, he was a special one. His sense of humour trailed on the fine line of obscene, oftentimes raising the eyebrows of nearby people standing in line. I wasn't born yesterday, either: years of customer service work left me with little-to-no surprise regarding overzealous men and I could quip back equally as sharply, just slightly south of Tony's own jokes. He never overstepped, however, and with time, I developed a quiet appreciation for our small talks.

Which did brighten up my day, if only a little. "A little birdy told me your boss is being a douchebag. Want me to clean up that muck?" Tony was, as usual, wearing a bespoke suit and sunglasses, which he'd pushed up to his forehead as he frivolously leaned on the counter after placing his order.

I sighed, remembering Wanda's words. I didn't know what to expect from the eccentric billionaire; last of all, I didn't want any handouts. I'd started a search for a second part-time job the very day I got told my pay would be essentially cut in half. "No need, Mr. Stark, I'm gonna be fine and dandy," I replied with a smile that I was sure didn't really reach my eyes. "We'll still be able to resume our nice chit-chat at brunch on Saturdays," I winked, hoping to keep up the usual light atmosphere of our banter.

"I told you to call me Tony!" He exclaimed, like always, shaking his head and glaring at the back door. "Yeah, no," the man had absolutely no chill. "I'll still sic the IRS on him," the last part was said quietly. Mr. Stark often spoke to himself.

I laughed at the rich-kid, spoilt way he was acting. A grown man with an attitude of a teenager and a sweet tooth to match one - except for his coffee. That was always the strongest, blackest one we had on hand. I hadn't even heard of a triple espresso until Mr. Stark had waltzed in, skipping the line and filling the air around him with the smells of cologne that smelled like money, motor oil, iron and soot.

The moment I opened my e-mail at home, I felt my gloomy mood worsen, Mr. Stark's words echoing in my head. I'd sent my resumes to two dozen places and only a handful even bothered to reply - all preemptive rejections, there weren't businesses needing a part-time employee with a useless degree, who could only work evenings. Except bars, but they required some sort of certificate for bartenders and lots and lots of bare skin for waitresses. I tried to steer away from that part of the industry as much as I could, saving it as a last resort option.

It had come down to browsing Craigslist as I ate my way through a carton of cheap take-out, too exhausted to cook and too anxious to go out to the nearby bodega after 9 PM. One more negative side of working late shift - making my way home in the dead of the night in NYC and hoping Spider-Man was hanging out nearby should a thug decide on me to be their next victim. The joys of big city life.

As the column of various ads stared at me with various suspicious offers to make quick money, ads for 'young, sociable women' and I stared back at them in muted disgust. The 'looking for a job' section was much more sensible with the few ads I'd clicked on out of curiosity depicting people seemingly in a similar situation as me - short on money but not desperate enough to surrender their dignity to corporate greed. The decision was momentary - I'd started typing and hit the post button before I was through with my food, slapping my old laptop shut as soon as the as posted.

Hopefully, the creeps will stay away. The next couple of days stretched out slowly as I got up at the crack of dawn to open the shop, served the early birds whilst sipping my own matcha latte and clocked out not a second later than 2PM, taking home half the usual amount of tips. My e-mail remained as silent as ever, only a few suspicious replies to my ad, texts that I didn't even bother replying to. Human trafficking and pyramid schemes, was that all that NYC had to offer?

Apparently, not. Around 6PM, my phone dinged as a notification popped up and I scrambled to read it - all too aware of the upcoming rent day, and was pleasantly surprised with the contents of the e-mail, re-reading it several times to make sure there weren't any hidden stones under the water. I replied with my phone number, not expecting it to ring within minutes of hitting the send button.

"Hello?"

"Hi, we just corresponded," the voice on the other side was feminine but slightly rough, as if it's owner spent days chain-smoking. "I would like to invite you for a small interview, if you wouldn't mind."

I chewed on my lip in contemplation. "Could I ask you some questions first?" The levels of anxiety, I thought, were reasonable in the situation. It mutely gnawed at my chest.

"Sure," the woman agreed amicably. "My name is Odette, by the way," she mentioned off-handedly, the name fitting her voice in a strange way.

"Uh, well," I stammered. "You mentioned it's a herbal medicine shop, you're not selling weed under the counter, are you?" I voiced my worries meekly, hoping for an honest answer.

The woman laughed, a sharp, terse sound. "No, dear, I do not sell or possess anything illegal. I merely offer supplies for the locals that prefer natural, alternative medicine." She sounded jovial.

"Like - um, healing crystals?" I vaguely remembered reading about them on the internet, or seeing them in a YouTube video, perhaps.

"Yes, we sell those, too," her tone grew more joyful at the mention of the shiny rocks. I didn't think that they actually cured anything, to be honest, however I was willing to give it some credit - the placebo effect was a scientific fact. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

"Okay then," I chuckled nervously. "I'm free tomorrow after 3 PM."

"Grand. The shop is open until 10 PM, just say your name at the counter and I'll be right with you."

As soon as I hung up, relief and curiosity and trepidation blossomed within me, imagination unhelpfully supplying images of human trafficking documentaries, basements with chains and other, less horrifying but still unusual things. The pep talk over a wine glass that I had was necessary: it was a herbal shop, for fuck's sake. Worst case, I'm going to work with Karens who think the Earth is flat and quartz cures cancer. I could even get a funny story or two out of those, something to share with Bucky or Wanda in lieu of the usual book quotes I entertain them with.

The day went by smoothly, the café no more and no less busy than usual so after a brief detour back home to put on something that didn't smell like coffee grounds and yeast: comfortable pants and a soft sweater, something that would keep me warm but would not unnecessarily restrict any movement. My good luck charm, a large oval necklace with a shiny gold star in the middle, hung heavily around my neck, providing quiet comfort.

Heart thudding in my chest, I approached the old-style, inconspicuous building, double-checking the address before opening the old, heavy wooden door right at the corner of the building. It was like a movie scene, in a way - the day was overcast, meager sun rays shining through the lead curtain of clouds, the streets were clear and few honks rung out in the far end of block, sending a flock of pigeons into a lazy scatter over the slanted roof. The door creaked softly, the handle cold under my touch, instantly filling my nose with a strong smell of herbs so plentiful, I could not distinguish one from another.

Inside didn't look any less intriguing: the décor was outdated but somehow fitting and homely, high wooden shelves stocked with glass jars and wooden boxes with neatly placed labels on them. The counter was empty - save for a large, golden bell, which I timidly pressed.

The woman who emerged from behind the worn cotton curtains behind the counter most certainly was impressive. Tall and broad, with dark eyebrows and even darker eyes, she critically surveyed me for a moment, making me shiver under her gaze - and then she smiled, revealing rows of pearly white teeth and instantaneously losing the imposing aura around her.

"Um, hi- I'm-" I didn't get to finish my nervous stammering.

She interrupted me with a careless wave of her hand. "Here for the interview. Yes. Welcome, Star," her eyes briefly fell on my necklace while I struggled to swallow the unease.

I hadn't told her my nickname - to be honest, these days, I heard it more often than my given name. People quickly took notice of my love of star-patterned items and teased me relentlessly over it, losing heat only when I calmly went along with it, too used to hearing the same jokes since my early childhood.

Odette motioned me over, parting the curtains to reveal a tiny, but tastefully decorated hall with two doors on each side and a staircase at the far end of it. I followed her into the room on the left, which turned out to be a peculiar sort of office. I thought I noticed an Ouija board in there but wisely kept my mouth shut.

"I live on the floor above the shop so don't go throwing any parties while you're on the job," she remarked playfully, gesturing to a pot of tea. "It's peppermint, does wonders for calming one's demeanor," the gesture was sweet - and very telling.

I wondered if I looked as spooked as I felt. After all, it didn't seem like Odette and her business were fishy in any way, and the décor and atmosphere were quite... Appealing, in a way. Something magical, something belonging in Europe or on a high schooler's Pinterest board. I sipped my tea in-between questions, thinking how maybe, I could actually grow accustomed to this place.

The shopkeeper acted as if I'd already accepted the job and I - well, it's not like I had any other options waiting for me. The pay was more than I expected it to be, for such a small bodega and a part-time shift, and it would help me cover my bills with enough to spare. The customers were said to be mostly regular and undemanding, with a few rare exceptions, and should I need assistance, the owner was always a call and a floor away.

With a considerably lighter heart, I left to pad the damp sidewalk back towards my house. Thankfully, my new workplace was only a short walk away.

The tag list is open until the story is finished. Please use the 'taglist' Google form to request (top of the fic, clickable link).

@mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites

[volkanaltinors]

How Being a Line Cook Ruined Me!

By Ivy Knight

After a ten-, 12-, 14-hour shift, all you want is oblivion: beer, shots, coke, pills. Your idea of winding down after work doesn't include curling up with a glass of red wine and a good book. You wind down by chain smoking in basement apartments, grinding your teeth in between dipping your head for a rail as you re-hash the finer points of that night's service.

I spent ten years in the trenches of professional restaurant kitchens. While other twentysomethings were taking jobs in the real world—working in offices where people got eight hours of sleep every night, dressed like fully grown adults, and didn't use the word 'fuck' in every other sentence—I was stuck in a scene where shit talk, farting, and sexist ignorance were encouraged. It was like working in a prison, but without the rape. When I emerged from the professional kitchen ten years later, I walked out into the real world with a severe case of arrested development.

It was actually while still working as a line cook that I began a side gig as a food writer. My editor would send me out to cover media events for his publication. At first this was terrifying because I had no clothes—I mean, none that were suitable. My wardrobe consisted of jeans, T-shirts, and threadbare Converse high tops for everyday, and one pair of heels and a selection of prostitute-y rags for special occasions. I could not go to a wine tasting at the Four Seasons in flashy-trashy hooker clothes I'd picked up in Chinatown.

Eventually I got a wardrobe together, but it wasn't easy. At least not compared to the other writers I'd be seated with at the media tables; they had all gone to journalism school (J-school, as they called it) and were all getting paid humane wages, while I worked as a dirty line cook making $12 per hour.

The lack of money seeped into all aspects of my life, and it worked just as effectively toward making me into a boorish trash-talker with no table manners as the constant flood of swearing and brute work in the kitchen did.

When you have no money and you're surrounded by people with no money, there is no shame in using a cheque-cashing place to cash your cheque because you can't get your shit together to open a bank account, let alone get a credit card. There is no shame in getting your phone cut off—or your cable, or your heat. There is no shame in bumming smokes or returning empties to afford bus fare to get to work. Shopping secondhand, never going out to dinner—it all comes part and parcel with being poor and everyone you work with (with the exception of the head chef and the front-of-house servers and bartenders) is in the same fucking boat.

When you exist outside of regular society, when the nine-to-five gig is as foreign to you as going somewhere hot for a vacation, it makes it easier to indulge in the wilder, untamed side of things. If you have to be in your office every day at 9 AM, it is less likely that you'll decide to go shot-for-shot with a 300-pound line cook in an impromptu 1:30 AM drinking contest. It is less likely that you'll decide to drop molly and snort some Hollywoods off the back of a toilet in a dive bar.

After a ten-, 12-, 14-hour shift, all you want is oblivion: beer, shots, coke, pills. Your idea of winding down after work doesn't include curling up with a glass of red wine and a good book. You wind down by chain smoking in basement apartments, grinding your teeth in between dipping your head for a rail as you re-hash the finer points of that night's service.

To sit at the food media table with all that shit in your wheelhouse, you realize you're not really equipped to deal with things like small talk and polite society. How does one engage in conversation with a well-established food writer and cookbook author whose only experience in a real kitchen was at a Cordon Bleu in France while on vacation in Paris?

How does one even begin to try to relate to that?

Eventually, I did. I've been out of the kitchen for three years now; I have a bank account and a credit card, but I still stay up all hours of the night and swear like a sailor.

I can also spot a shitty menu a mile away. A Caprese salad in February? No thanks, I'll wait until tomatoes are in season. If I see a lot of weird flavour combinations and super-long lists of ingredients in a dish, then I know I'm dealing with some kid who got promoted to chef too fast and who is too busy re-inventing cuisine to bother with nailing the basics. If the menu reads like an early 90s catering sheet from the set of Fresh Prince—all pineapple salsa and balsamic glaze—then I know that the chef is an old hack who hasn't had a new idea since Emeril was relevant.

You become efficient to the point of seeming mad. The efficiency required to properly set up your station and execute service will sink into your everyday routines. I pack my makeup kit in reverse order so that each item is at the ready when I need it. I set up mise en place when I cook pork chops at home. I chop herbs and put them in a ramekin beside the other ramekins and cups of prepped ingredients. I'm cooking at home for no one. It doesn't matter, I'm always prepared.

In the professional kitchen, we say 'behind you' about a million times per shift, but I have said 'behind you' to inanimate objects and strangers on the street. It's the catch-all phrase that alerts others in the kitchen to your presence so they don't turn and accidentally stab you with a boning knife or douse you in molten caramel.

After spending countless nights sweating over raging burners with a chef screaming bloody murder, you with your head down, turning out plate after plate of great shit despite the pulsing hangover, the frantic rush and the clanging madness of dinner service in a busy restaurant… the number one thing you'll take into the real world after being a line cook is this: You might not be great at small talk or polite company, but you know that you are tough, that nothing is impossible and that you can pretty much crush anything any motherfucker throws at you.

This article originally appeared on MUNCHIES on February 12, 2015.

[country-corner]

@relelvance, the post was about when servers approach your table and speaking. And you must have missed that I was in the industry myself so my reply came from that experience. I took the question a step further and defined her statement as fine if used as a greeting (which you must have missed as well), but to continue on with any other kind of conversation beyond the order is rude.

I also took it further by adding that good service deserves a tip (aka a gratuity: something given in gratitude) while bad service doesn't. And defining how a tip was when I worked in restaurants and how it was not a requirement, but a sign on how good or bad the server was (again something you seem to have missed). When I worked as a waiter in the 80's I got some really good tips (including $100 more than once) when I did a good job, but when I had an occasional off day I got little to nothing in tips, but that was normal for all the waitstaff and we didn't cry like a spoiled brat because we didn't get a tip, we knew we screwed up on that table.

Best advice I got from an elderly waitress, who had been working for over 30 years, was that the best reply to a really bad waiter or waitress and biggest message to the management is to leave 2 cents as the tip, because no tip could mean the person was just tight on their budget or short of cash.

If you want to give a tip to the server who delivered my food with his thumb in the middle of my food, then go right ahead, but the bartender who saw what the waiter did, came out apologized, took my plate back for a replacement meal and told the manager. The manager took off the 30% tip that they automatically add onto the ticket (it was a semi-upscale establishment) and gave me a discount on the meal because of what the server did. But you be you and give a tip for that thumb in your mashed potatoes.

If you want to tip the waitress who kept interrupting our business lunch with trying to start a conversation about her brother who was the local HS quarterback go right ahead. It made the short time we scheduled for lunch and the meeting even tighter with her interruptions and we didn't get half the items talked about we wanted too, before the guy I was having lunch with had to catch a flight. So go right ahead and tip the rude waitress.

If a tip is a requirement then might as well add the 20% to 45% (the tip percentages I've been told by different waitstaff over the years) onto the price of each item on the menu when it's printed, so you don't have to do the calculations yourself. Oh wait, some restaurants already do that, but don't tell the customers. So the waitstaff gets a double tip for that meal if the customer leaves a tip on the table or add it to the credit card receipt.

I'll even go further now, if a restaurant factors in a tip percentage off sales receipts for each waiter or waitress as part of their wages or they take all the tips and splits them between everyone who worked that day (I've heard cases of both happening) then that business needs to be sued by the staff and closed. They get paid a wage and the tip is a sign of how good or bad the service they gave was and should never be a requirement.

Things that use to be done in gratitude, today are felt to be required by too many people. Get stuffed if you think I owe someone a tip for bad service. They deserve little or no tip. Go back to the third paragraph and re-read the advice given by a waitress who had been in the industry for over 30 years.

[as-above-is-moving]

"Lattes are made with espresso and milk. Some of them have flavoring added to them, usually very sweet." Roland answered. "Think; caramel, chocolate, vanilla, hazelnut, those kinds of things. Although if you usually take your coffee black, I don't think you'd be a big fan of it. I think I have something in mind--so long as you trust me."

Roland got right to work, setting up the espresso machine to pull some shots. The two other baristas on staff that day were taking care of the couple of customers that came in, leaving the vampire to take care of his guest. They were absolutely listening in though--and one of them was NOT very subtle about the loud 'HAH!' she let out when Butch asked Roland his very blunt question. The other barista elbowed her in the side, but it was too late. Their boss wasn't bothered, though. He glanced over at them with an amused smile, then went back to working his magic and talking to Butch.

"Don't mind them." Roland smiled. "They're mischievous, but they're harmless. As for me, 'blood sucking' has never been a business practice. It's as natural and necessary as humans needing food and water."

He continued as his hands worked quickly to set up two clear glass cups--he pulled out matches from his apron and struck one, letting it burn a little before laying it on the counter and covering it with one of the glasses. While it fizzled out and the smoke was trapped inside, he was preparing the second glass with a little syrup and the espresso.

"I actually started out bartending. After my service in the military ended, there weren't many places willing to hire a vampire. I found a bar that was a little more accepting of us 'less savory monsters', and found I quite enjoyed the socializing and the craft of it. I've always loved coffee, though--grew up on the stuff, had at least two cups a day. Then I had a thought one night at work; 'why don't I do both? I haven't seen anyone prepare coffee like a cocktail before. What would that look like?' Turns out, it's actually pretty fun. There's a lot of cool stuff you can do with coffee."

Though he’s taken notice of their presence, the cowboy seems oblivious to the unspoken back and forth shared between the baristas, more so focused on the man who had invited him into the shop. Though, he does catch that bit about Roland being off work today… did he come in just to make him a drink? Butch would honestly probably feel a little bad if he weren’t so flattered.

When the vampire returns, Butch appears thoughtful at the mention of sweetener though he can’t help but answer honestly, “Mm, I usually jus’ take mine thick n’ bitter.” He preferred his coffee black as the night with no additives—all that extra stuff drowned out the taste of the coffee itself! But he had never been here before and he had never been opposed to trying new things… wait, what had he said? A “latte”?

“Somehow you’d be right.” The cowboy laughs. “What’s a latte, anyhow? He asks, that content smile not leaving his face. “Sounds fancy…y’know what, jus’ give me somethin’ y’think I’ll like—surprise me.” He decides with a shrug, keen on anything that will give him a little bit of caffeine, though he’s not exactly used to the amount of caffeine generally used these days to flavor such beverages. If Roland thought he was high energy now, just wait until he got some of that sweet sugar into his system!

“So how’d you get into th’ coffee makin’ business an’ away from the blood suckin’ one, anyhow?” Now that may have been an inappropriate question depending on how the other viewed it but it’s full of genuine curiosity. Roland indeed didn’t strike him as the traditional undead… he seemed much more civilized and a lot less blood thirsty! He much preferred it that way.