Let’s call it “Capital Coffee and Tea”: a medium-sized independently owned restaurant possibly on the verge of closing to the fact that a district my boss once described as “the gay capital of the capital” is now in limbo between Georgetown and the Golden Triangle, an area which now contains two used bookstores, a few decent bars and a mediocre comedy spot called the Bier Baron (but more on that in another post).
I’d last worked in a similar place eight years ago, during my first summer off of college. Back then, I was so interested in my work that I’d steal away to take naps in the bathroom, or one time on the front couches during a particularly empty weekday afternoon. Otherwise I was clock-watching. I routinely fucked up the cash register and fought with co-workers on the sandwich/salad line. And yet there I proved invincible, unfireable, able to last through the whole summer with a little spending money in my pocket.
Fast forward to now, when I have learned to take pride in my work and be more goal-oriented, more willing to take care of the silly little details, make an effort to stay busy, and yet every day is precarious, each order or task a potential landmine with which to send me out the door.
Welcome to the 2014 economy? Or more likely just a random sample size within the service industry, always a place with more demand than opportunity despite the fact that few seem to relish the chance. Some hate the customers, some hate their bosses, and the unlucky ones experience the brunt of both.
Somehow then, what’s been adjusted accordingly, is both my desire for “self-activation” and a decrease in confidence over job security and feeling of stability.
This job wasn’t intended to yield much blog material, but what else can I squeeze out of it other than the now esoteric knowledge of how to make a cappuccino or mocha smoothie; does anyone have a semi-automatic espresso machine for the home they’d like some instruction on? I may be able to help.
DuPont Circle is not a bad place to sit and get work done, especially in contrast to an overhyped hipster hell-hole like “Baked and Wired”, which somehow found its way onto all the lists of “best coffee houses in DC” despite ironically having no internet connection, the better to get you out of the sitting room and back out into Georgetown. Capital Coffee itself has a pay-to-play policy, which isn’t usually enforced, and anyway, everyone who sat there doing work for the day at least bought something to eat or drink while they were there. The boss said to kick anyone out who hadn’t paid for food every three hours, but I never saw this happen either, and if asked I probably would have refused.
A petty practice like is the kind of thing which would have sent Dakota the customer to Starbucks faster than you could say “Tall Caramel Macchiato.”
Capital Coffee is bloated with characters on either side of the register. The customers include pretty girls and their dogs, and one old man and his dog named “Mr. Billy” who comes in every day. A balding man named “Bradley” comes in at around four with four different newspapers and is the only person in the cafe who ever orders fried eggs, or anything with eggs other than an omelette.
My favorite customer, whose name I will omit, is a a best-selling author who does all his writing neatly by hand in the coffee shop. He will chat with the staff on their break about current events and writing. I found out from him that published authors have their own secret workshop groups, where they go over each other’s drafts. This author thinks it takes six or seven drafts before your work is publishable. I hope he is incorrect. But then, he strikes me as a particularly dedicated, methodical writer, more of the kind who can plug away for hours rather than compose in short bursts of creativity. I could not imagine writing out a book by hand, so I am extremely impressed. I find it easier to type stream-of-conscious style, and if I tried to hand write a story, too many thoughts would speed on by, never to return.
On the other side are a lot of college and grad students, or people in between. I believe during my time there I was the oldest staff member in the coffee shop, which made me feel both distinguished and a little out of place, as if I was about four or five years too late for this work, which may be true. During the empty night shift, staffers shoot the breeze, text on their phones, make themselves food in the back. The Artist Formerly Known as Jacob tells me that he is a transgender Marxist who believes that the bosses (two Jewish lesbians from Philadelphia) are exploiting we the workers and to always be on guard and remember the implied chain of command. Ergo: you are replaceable and also by the way the capitalist system must be destroyed. He/she dyes their hair green, has tattoos, rings on all the body parts and looks slightly emaciated.
I imagine that in ten years they will be a corporate lawyer.
Bridging the gap is two-faced Sal Mustaschio, a squat man of ambiguous Mediterranean descent who reminds me of a character in the book I’m reading, “The Winter of Our Discontent” by John Steinbeck. Sal trains all the new staff, but usually prefers to work the morning/afternoon shifts all by himself. At first I thought that this was due to stubbornness, and that is partly the case; Sal has his way of doing things, and takes pride in his ability to manage busy lunch rushes, running in and out of the dining room with sandwiches and drinks. But it also means that Sal is equally protective of the tiny kitchen as he of the tip jar.
Money is very important to Sal. He explains to me that every mistake you make costs money; every time you spill coffee grinds, every time you run the water to wash the dishes, and most especially, every extra napkin that you hand out to customers (herein lies a paradox, for I am also supposed to make sure everything is well stocked at all times. But not TOO well stocked). Sal hisses in the kitchen with me about customers he considers to be cheap. He hates when customers ask about prices. He says if you’re weighing the prices you have no business being in Capital Coffee. Sal also can’t understand why the woman who makes a seven figure salary always comes in with less than five dollars in change. He tries so hard to schmooze with her and the tip jar remains empty.
Sal Mustaschio is not a bad person by any means. He’s just a very bitter man. I think it eats him that despite working at the shop for twenty years he will never be on the level with the owners of the store, and for reasons I was never privy to Sal is on the outs with one of the two lesbians who run the joint. I believe it was partly because Sal believes himself to be the only money-maker for the company and he didn’t see any reward or recognition for his service, nor any way to save enough money to finally quit (which is what he really wants to do) and go on a permanent vacation with his boyfriend, who recently suffered from a heart attack.
Sal made all the staff try out a for-home-use blood pressure monitor, which hadn’t been working and I was hesitant to use since Sal is not a doctor. He also muttered derogatory comments under his breath at all the gay clients in the store, and one of the workers. I have no idea what this is all about. Perhaps it was all a little sarcastic and I just never picked that up. Is he a self-hating gay? He’s of that generation. Maybe he doesn’t like flamboyance? He wasn’t effete, but for his constant whining and fussiness. Then again, that’s me in a nutshell.
TO BE CONTINUED
Culture Time 