Hard Work - First Day

I arrived early but of course Miguel and the others were already working. No hellos or paperwork greeted me, just my first order of the day: break down boxes and put them in the back. Then, Miguel had me come into the trailer and strain some beans into a quarter pan. "My guy didn't do 'em right," he said, "They have too much liquid." He gave me a measuring cup and showed me where to find a quarter pan. "Get one of the deep ones." The beans were still hot, but I dipped the cup into the liquid anyway and scooped them out into the pan.

Once I did that he showed me where to put them and then said, "Get back there and clean up those dishes." He pointed to the back corner of the trailer, where a huge mound of dishes awaited. I dove in, turned on the water and got to work.  Almost immediately, Miguel yelled at me, "Hey, we don't have a lot of water! Somebody show him how to do it!" I turned off the water and realized that of course, since it's a trailer, it isn't hooked up to a water system--there's got to be a tank somewhere. After that, I used paper towels to scrape out what I could, then washed each dish in soapy water, 'clean' water and a sanitizer. The whole thing broke down pretty quickly, as the sludge in each of the basins got thinker and thinker.  Finally, I drained and refilled them to start over, and at that point someone showed me how we refill the tank. Miguel gave me a key and I walked over to the corner of the Brodie Mart, opened the padlocked gate and turned on the spigot. A hose runs all the way through the parking lot to the trailer. I waited to get a sign from the guys in the trailer that the tank was full, then shut it off, relocked the gate and headed back to the trailer.

When I got back, Miguel told me to make potato salad. He showed me the station with a bin of cooked potatoes and a pan with a few ingredients already in it. Someone, he said, had started but he wanted me to finish it. He handed me the recipe book, pointed to the ingredients and told me to get to work. It only took me about ten minutes to get that done, then I packed them all up in small plastic containers and put them in the line fridge.

After that, it was back to the dishes. I did that for about an hour and a half. At one point Miguel asked me if I ate everything, to which I said yes and in the next minute he handed me a breakfast taco. I devoured about half of it before I felt the need to get back to the dishes, and I never finished it. I soon learned that in addition to washing the dishes, that station required me to keep an eye on the tortillas on the griddle. My job (or part of it) was to reach over and flip the tortillas once or twice, then place them in the holder for the line guys to reach back and grab.

The process of making tortillas was non-stop throughout the day. They are all made fresh and practically to order. The dough has been pre-made and rolled into little balls, which are then placed in tupperware containers stacked above the dish station. There is a tortilla press at the front up by the door, and the person making the 'torts' as they are called takes a ball of dough, tosses it around in a little bowl of flour, then smacks it lightly to compress it a bit before dropping in one side of the press. The they press down on a big handle at the back of the machine, press for about five seconds and release it and out slides a fresh tortilla.  This then gets tossed over to the griddle, and the person standing on the other side does the flipping and pulling. They also have to hand the tortilla maker the tubs of dough balls, and take the empties and wash them.

The next thing I did was to shuck and de-cob a bushel of smoked corn. Some of the corn went into an iron kettle, along with some butter and spices and I put that out into the smoker out back.  Next up was pulling chicken. This reminded me of my first kitchen job at the Treehouse, where the chef caught me deboning chickens with a knife and taught me how to do it with my bare hands. This time, I needed no such instruction. I put on a pair of gloves, grabbed a half steam pan and got to work, tearing apart the smoked chicken and placing the torn pieces into the half pan. The thing was, those chickens were hot! Not enough to actually burn my hands, but enough to make it physically painful to do. And, I had at least eight birds to debone, fast. I decided that a good defense makes for some good offense, so I opened up the foil on the other seven chickens and tore them in half, letting out the steam and heat. I also stripped off the skin, since that is easier when it's hot.  Then it was just a matter of putting my head down and my hands into the heat. Eight birds in the pan. Pan in the hotbox. Next?

Back to the dishes. Miguel told me to watch the line and the tickets, and I stared at them but it was still too soon for me to absorb that kind of information. In fact, most of my effort, mentally, was directed at learning where things were in the trailer. There is so much and everything is moving so fast, it can be disorienting. One thing for sure, it is dehydrating. I completely forgot not only to bring water, but to drink any at all, until about one o'clock, my hands started to cramp. Now, since I am so thin, that's where it starts first, and I already know if that happens, I am in trouble. I tried to drink as much as I could as fast as could, downing a coke and two bottles of water in desperation. This staved off the cramping, but I learned that hydration is a key to staying alive and safe in the kitchen.

Besides having a feel for the pace of the kitchen, I also have learned about keeping my body motions to a minimum and making the most out of a tiny bit of space, and this helps when it comes to my single biggest concern in that space: safety.  I do not want to get burned or cut or hurt a shoulder because that's the end of the job. Keeping the job means not getting injured. Of course I don't want to get hurt, but more than that, I have a responsibility to the team to stay healthy. When someone goes down with an injury, someone else has to step up. In this business, there is no sick time. I had forgotten this basic rule when it came to hydration and it almost cost me the job on the first day.

I did get burned a couple of times on the grill, and cut the inside of my thumb slightly on the edge of a pan while washing dishes. I figure my fingertips will become desensitized in just a few weeks so I can flip tortillas and buns without wincing. The cut on my hand took twice as long to heal as a 'regular' cut--there's a lot in that dishwater. No germs per se, but plenty of food for the microbes already living in me. So, keeping clean is important, too. I have learned to wear gloves--something we never had in the 'old' days--and how to keep a clean grill towel in my pocket. That's actually very important, as we are forever cleaning things.

So around and around I went, washing dishes, pressing limes and lemons, making tortillas, sweeping and cleaning, emptying the trash, cleaning, cleaning cleaning. Oh, and making tortillas. Cleaning, tortillas, cleaning, tortillas...you get the idea.

At six o'clock it was quitting time and I was beat. I was also not sure if I had the job. After all, Miguel had really only offered me a test, and I had to ask him if I'd passed. He smiled for the first time and said yes. "So I can come back next week?"  "Yes." That's when I blurted out, "Oh and I can also work in the evenings, after 6:30, like Mondays or Tuesdays." Miguel looked at his brother Alfonso and said immediately, "OK then, we can use you both days." Of course, I was thinking either/or not both, and I couldn't back out now, so I said "Ok, I'll be here."

After that I walked home, feeling happy, tired and hopeful.

Hard Work - Facts of a Kitchen

I found this posted on the wall when I got to work yesterday.

THE FACTS OF A KITCHEN

Working here, or any kitchen is mentally and physically draining

- NO EXCUSES - Always stay focused and BE READY to perform!

- Over-communication is KEY! Answer with a clear Yes or No

- #1 complaint is not about the food but rather how long it takes!

- You will stand for 10 hours without a break

- Rarely is there time to chill - Always be doing something

- Urgency and Precision are Paramount

This is not an office or warehouse job so if something takes a minute too long, 50 other items stack up causing you to slip into oblivion!

LEAD, FOLLOW OR GET OUT OF THE WAY

Hard Work - The New Job

Author's Note: I know, dear readers, it's been a long time since I posted anything.  Both of you have been very patient, thanks, but it seems that I just haven't had anything to say for some time. Today, though, I want to write a bit about my new job and why I love it.  

Both of you already know that I just got a job in a BBQ trailer here in Austin, which, after twenty years of 'fine dining' in a very nice restaurant might seem like a bit of a step down for me.  After all, who would willing go from being a (well paid) 'wine guy' to a (low paid) prep cook in a trailer in South Austin?

Well the short answer is me. I love hard work. Now, working at my last job was often physically demanding--in a typical 6 hours shift I would almost never sit down, moving constantly through the restaurant in a circle.  I never actually counted my steps, but it's safe to say that I walked a lot.

I did a lot more than walk, though. I often cleared tables, carried trays, picked up trash and generally occupied myself with tiny but relentless tasks like folding napkins, polishing silverware and glasses and, of course, opening wine. After twenty years, though, the work had a certain routine--hard and fast at times, but often slow enough that staying focused could be a problem.

There is no such problem in this new job.  The work is hard, fast and hot. I love it. On my first day, I worked ten hours and I haven't been that tired since I tried working for a landscaper when I was in high school. I only lasted a few days on that job, but it wasn't because the work was too hard--it just wasn't a real challenge, mentally. Hard work isn't just about the amount of physical labor involved, it's also--perhaps even mostly--about the mental effort.

Of course, just learning a new job requires a great deal of mental effort, and some jobs require a higher level of sustained effort than others. I've come to realize that when a focused mental effort is combined with a demand for a strong physical performance, the result is just the sort of work that I crave.

What? Craving?

I have thought a lot about this in the past few weeks, and the best answer I can think of is that for me, hard work is the equivalent of physical exercise. Other than walking, which I love, I do not like to exercise. I certainly don't like to exercise just for the sake of exercising. With apologies to those whom I love who love to work out, I find that sort of physical effort to be, well, a waste of time.

Well, a waste of my time that is. Obviously many people do not find exercising to be a waste of time, and they are right. They crave it. I actually understand just why so many people love to run and do yoga and work out in general. Why? It makes them feel good. And that in and of itself is a good thing. The way I see it, the more folks who feel good physically, the more folks will be in a good mood generally and the better off we'll all be. It's not utopian, but you know, that rising tide floats all boats. We all benefit from all feeling good.

So, yay to exercise, but just not for me.

Actually that's not true.  In fact it's the very point here.  For most of my life, I thought I did not like to exercise. Until this month though, I don't think I ever made the connection between my love of hard work and my need for exercise. Now, it certainly helps me mentally knowing that the activity is 'work', and not just a 'workout', but really, does getting a few dollars an hour for doing something really justify doing it? I mean, I could sell my time for a lot more--in fact, I have for decades.  Taking a pay cut to work harder just seems nuts, right?

Well, to me so does doing ten sets of thirty reps on eight different machines in a sweaty, stinky, noisy gym.

Give me the aroma of cooking food (yes, even grease) plus sweat any day. Actually, these days, it's the aroma of smoked meats and hot, fresh tortillas on the grill that fill my senses, and when I am on the line tonight, making sandwiches and tacos, I'll be loving every minute.

Even at .25 cents a minute.

My theme song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3buNBwjstPY

My Life at Work: First Jobs

I started working long before I knew what it meant to have a job.

I have the feeling that the desire to work is innate--something one is born with, to varying degrees.  I have this feeling because as I look back and think about my life at work, and try to decide what that means for me, I come to the conclusion that the desire to work did not come to me from external forces but from within.  Now this is not to say that I think that I am a particularly helpful individual nor that I have some sort of inbred superior work ethic.  But I cannot find an external source for my desire because the further I look back, the more it seems to me that I have wanted to work pretty much since I was born.

That is a supposition, of course, but my some of my earliest memories are about working.  For example, I can recall helping my parents at the bookstore.  During inventory, it was my job to crawl around on the floor and count the books on the bottom shelf.  I distinctly recall the dirty brown carpet and the dusty books that were hidden out of sight on the lowest level.  These were often big books--at least to me--and rarely were there more than ten.

Counting was, it seems, my special skill, since another job I recall at that early age was helping my father Bill count the change in the drawer every night after to store closed.  I remember how he used to cradle the coins in his hand, pushing them into a column and counting them off into the drawer, one by one, or two by two.  We would count out loud and make a mark on a piece of paper by the register.  Bill would put the same number of coins and bills in each slot and reserve the rest for the bank deposit.  That went in the bag, which went on top of the drawer, which in turn went on the top shelf of the downstairs hall closet.  This, by the way, is how I knew where (and when) to embezzle funds for my soda/candy binges at the Abilene Drug Store, but that is another story.

Another job I had was to help carry the books out to the Used Book table we used to set up in the front yard.  I can recall helping my Dad and even my brother Stephen carry out the books--stacked inside the bookstore--out to the table in the morning and back inside at night.  When I asked for payment for this particular service (and I have no idea why it occurred to me to even ask) Bill told me that I could get a percentage of each book sold if I were to stay out there and 'man' the Used Book table.  I did this for a while, but my lack of success and the Texas heat often induced me to go off and spend my time playing in the back yard instead.

We didn't have assigned chores in our household.  I mean I can remember taking out the trash, and even doing some sweeping, dusting and helping with the dishes.  But for many years, Lynda made our beds every day when we were at school.  She also shopped, cooked and cleaned.  She did the laundry in the sink or at a laundromat, and I often helped with that.  One of my very earliest memories is of Lynda hanging out diapers on the clothesline in the back yard, mumbling and cursing under her breath as she yanked out each diaper and pinned it to the wiggling strand of wire above my head.  I think this is where I first heard the word 'shit' and it is certainly a time I recall because I felt Lynda's anger and began the long process of trying to understand her passive-aggressive personality.  But that too is another story.  This does, however, date to a time when my brother David would have been just a year old or so, so I could have been as young as five in this memory.

My parents owned the Abilene Bookstore from 1957 to about 1963 or 1964.  They bought the bookstore from a man named A.C. Greene, Jr., who went to to some fame as a Texas writer and a scholar.  In hindsight, it would seem that Greene sold the bookstore because he felt trapped in Abilene, since that is exactly what happened to Bill and Lynda, and of course, by extension to Stephen and Anne.  I'd include myself and my brother David in that category, but we were too young to understand the frustrations that other felt in living in that place.  Ours was a life of almost mythical childhood.  I walked to and from school almost every day.  We had dinner at the table as a family almost every night and we often had guests from the local colleges over.  I can recall sitting in 'Uncle' Clarence's lap on such occasions, but that too is another story.

As I got older, I started thinking more and more about going to work.  I suppose part of it had to do with a desire to make money.  Another early memory associated with work was my desire to get a little red wagon, which is another story, but one I have already told this time.  I certainly recall looking for 'jobs' that would 'pay' me a few cents to put in that piggy bank, and part of the aching desire I felt for the little red wagon was at least as much a desire for the financial independence I could see was absent in my life.  I mean that in a kind way--it's not as if we were so poor that I felt like I had to work to support my family.  In this sense, my desire to work may be seen as a luxury, since I really didn't have to work.

But I wanted to work, as much for the money as for the feeling it gave me to be at work, in charge of something.  But being in charge of dusting isn't so glamorous, nor does it pay well.  Mowing the lawn payed considerably better, and once I mastered the terrible beast in our drought-beaten sticker-filled dry brown yard, I moved on with a youthful entrepreneurial spirit, to the neighbor's yards.  I wish I could say that I turned this into a source of income, but the truth is our neighbors didn't really have lawns, and didn't need them mowed if they did.  Our next-door-neighbor was actually an apartment/rooming house with no yard at all, and the neighbors across the street cultivated cacti in their yard.  They were an old German couple, with a very dark and old-smelling house with bowls of candy and sweets everywhere.  If I could stand the smell, it was worth a visit, but honestly my tongue's desire for sweets was tempered by my nose.  I think this is where my desire to get to know and work with old people had it's origins, but that is something I will explore in another story.

After (not) mowing lawns, I started to think about making money from door-to-door sales.  At the time, I was a rather voracious reader of comic books.  Not that I could afford them, but I did spend many days reading them down at the Abilene Drugstore while spending my ill-gotten gains on candy and soda.  Twenty pieces of candy for a dime and as many comic books as I could read until the counter lady told me to leave.

In the back of all these comic books were ads.  There were ads for toy soldiers--whole regiments of WWII and even Civil War figures--and of course the classic X-Ray specs, Atlas Body Building kits ads for Grit.  Grit was a 'newspaper' that claimed to be "America's Family Newspaper" and they encouraged young boys to start selling it in their neighborhoods.  The only trouble was, it required an investment.  You had to 'buy' your first round of papers.  Of course I didn't have any funds, and this prospect was soundly rejected by my parents, on both financial and ideological grounds.  I had no idea that the content of the 'newspaper' made any difference, but my parents said that it was not a 'real' newspaper and it carried 'stories' about Jews that were untrue.  This may have been one of the first times that I came into conflict with religion, since it didn't seem relevant to me what the content of the paper was, just that I could make some money selling it.  But it certainly did to Lynda and Bill, so I didn't start my Grit franchise.

I did, however, see another ad, for TV Guide.  Now, at the time, I was about eight--this would have been 1964--and I don't think we even had a TV set.  I don't recall when exactly we got our first set, but it had to be before 1966, because that's when Star Trek began, and I know I saw the first episode.  Even my brother David recalls at least one of those early episodes because the main villain was a 'Salt Monster' who sucked the salt out of people with devastating results--my imitation of the monster was sufficient to frighten him for many years.  So, maybe we had a TV, maybe not.  In any case, even when we had a TV we couldn't afford the luxury of TV Guide.  My parsimonious parents reasoned that we didn't need to know what was coming up because we could get the information for free in the daily newspaper and besides we aren't going to watch the television during prime-time anyway.  Off to bed!

Somehow, some way, I managed to convince my parents that I could and would sell TV Guide door-to-door.  Like Grit, it required an investment, but, my parents reasoned that the product was at least a legitimate one and they figured I might even get some sales.  I know they were expecting me to fail, not in a negative way, but because they doubted my ability to follow through with the grueling task of trekking around door-to-door week after week. At the very least, they knew, I was in for a lot of rejection.

The way it worked, you had to 'buy' a minimum number of copies, but if you didn't sell them you could return them for a partial refund. The task of selling all those copies, as my parents correctly understood, was more daunting than I realized.  I suppose I lasted no more than a few weeks, though it felt like it was months.  During this time, I did have the experience of seeing into others homes and smelling their cooking.  Neither of these were pleasant experiences.  I can recall many dirty and smelly homes in which the television set was the only bright spot in what must have been very poor lives.  I saw my first color TV in one of these homes--my only other recollection of that house resembles something you would see on a television show about hoarding today--piles of refuse and filthy walls were illuminated by the bright colors and gleaming cabinet.  They bought a TV Guide, as I recall.

Sales were not as great as I expected, not least because we lived in a very poor neighborhood with what marketers today would call 'limited market saturation'--in other words, very few TVs.  And once I sold to those who did have a set and were likely to buy, that was it.  The market--if you can call it that--simply dried up. No amount of door-to-door sales was likely to increase the yield, so eventually came the day when I could not sell a single issue of TV Guide and we had to eat the investment and send them all back.  It was a tough lesson, not made any easier by Lynda's 'I told you so' attitude nor by Bill's assertion that I hadn't really tried all that hard.

The irony of this would not occur to me for many years, but at the time, it seemed reasonable, actually.  I mean I tried hard at first, but when the task became overwhelming, I was honestly happy to be rid of it. The pain to reward ratio was simply too high. This set up an internal conflict however.  I knew that I still wanted to work, but I had to find a 'real' job.  Sales, it seemed, was not my strength.  But, I reasoned, if I could just find a paying job, I wouldn't have to worry about making sales.  I could just work and get paid.

Next: Job Hunting

Why I am Saturday night

A friend recently asked me just why I post "is Saturday night!" as my Facebook status on, well, Saturdays.The simple answer is that since I work in a restaurant, Saturday night is a big night.  As you may know, I love my job, so this is the best day of my week.

But there's more to it than that.  Here's an interesting fact about being in the restaurant 'biz':  Once you are committed to it, your Saturday nights are not like most folks' any more. Your friends will call you up and say, 'hey I am having a party on Saturday', and you'll say, 'oh that's too bad, because I work on Saturdays'.  This isn't actually a bad thing, as far as I am concerned, even though it is a workday.  If you love the business like I do, Saturday night is a party night, but not for going out.  We hold the party and people come to us.

There's also a back story here.  When I first got the job at Hudson's (now 17 years ago), even though I'd been 'hired' in October, technically, I was 'on call' so I called in every Saturday night for months, only to be told, no sorry not this week.  I didn't give up, though.  It was actually April before I got to work my first shift, and it was a Saturday night.  I wanted to make a good impression with the kitchen, so taking a cue from a old movie called The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, I brought along a twelve-pack of beer for the kitchen.  In the movie, it's a bottle of whiskey, I think, and it's for the chef, but here I tried to hit the lowest common denominator, thinking that if the kitchen didn't hate me, I'd be off to a good start.

It worked.  Well, I really don't think it was the beer that did it, but whatever the reason, I got to work more and more Saturdays.  And each time I came to work, I was so excited and happy to be there, that when I would arrive, I would kick open the back door to the kitchen and holler as I came in with my 12-pack: "It's Saturday Night!"  This would be met by a chorus of whoops and and occasional 'Sabado gigangte'.  This is a ritual I still do today, although I often no longer arrive in the afternoon when everyone is in the kitchen.  Now I even call it out to an empty kitchen when I arrive at noon, but it's still a symbolic moment for me--the moment when I am where I really want to be, in the restaurant.

So, when Facebook came along, I started posting my excitement as a status.  Back in the day, FB would put up your name and the word "is" next to the status box, so when you posted, you could just say, "at a party" and it would come out as "Phillip is at a party".  Eventually, FB changed, but I didn't, and the result is sort of zen-like statement about me and my week.

I am Saturday night!

12 Things You Maybe Didn't Know About Restaurants

This post comes in response to a recent article I read about Things You Have to Explain to People Who Have Never Worked in Kitchens.  This is a good article and mostly true, but it leaves out the side of the restaurant that most people think they are familiar with, but are, in fact, not aware of at all.  Here are a dozen of my favorites, in no particular order.

1. Everybody does everything but we have different jobs for a reason.

In a busy restaurant, you'll often see the manager out on the floor, clearing and re-setting tables. Busboys may be called on to carry trays of food, and often waiters will clear the plates and refill the water glasses.  So, while it may look like you can order food from the busboy, wave down the waiter to clear your plate, or get a drink from a passing manager, it actually makes sense to ask the waiter for another glass of wine, and to allow the busboy to clear your plate when you are finished.

The manager can get you anything, of course, but keep in mind that they have waiters and busboys there for a reason--they do the work while the manager fills in the gaps and takes up the slack for the people taking care of you.  If you ask the wrong person to do something for you, not only will it take longer, but it might not even come out right.  The waiter knows the menu and keeps their finger on the pulse of the kitchen to your benefit in a way that busboys and managers do not.

2. The busboy cannot take a food order.

So, even though you'll see us all doing a lot of things, there are some things we don't do.  The busboy really can't take your food order.  Now, while he can take your steak back to the kitchen for a re-cook, it makes more sense to ask the waiter to do this, because the busboy can't actually talk to the chefs. That may seem surprising, but it makes sense in a crowded and busy kitchen.

It's not like the busboys are forbidden to speak to the chefs, but in the kitchen talking is limited and the waiters are constantly calling out tables and responding to their names when food is up in the window, so by custom, we don't let the busboys talk to the line.  Instead, the waiters are in the middle, talking to the line and the busboys, calling for food, coffee, and giving special instructions for tables that need something like butter or bread or need to be cleared asap.

3. Watching people eating is like being a voyeur, and can often be as disgusting.

A lot of people do not realize just how intimate and disgusting the act of eating can be.  That's because we don't observe ourselves doing it, and we politely ignore the more iffy moments that our fellow diners often subject us to, like chewing/talking with an open mouth or spilling food on the table.  We see you shoving huge hunks of buttered bread into your mouth and notice when you reach back in there and pick something out of your molars.  We see you blow your nose in the napkin then wipe your mouth with it.  We see you spit out food and we know when you are drunk.

As waiters, we see it all--that's our job--and we don't say a word.  We certainly don't pull you up the way your parents would have if they'd seen you do that. We clean up your mess and wait until you finish the mouthful you were working on so you can tell us you want another glass of wine.

4. Regulars get better service.

This may seem obvious or not, depending on the type of diner you are.  Many people do not frequent one restaurant often enough to be recognized by the staff as 'regulars'.  This doesn't mean that we don't remember you, but there is a big difference between the person who comes in once a week or every two weeks, the person who comes in once a month and the person who comes in once a year.

You might think it's about the money, that we prefer regulars because they tip us more, but that's not the case at all.  We like the regulars because they come back.  It's really that simple.  We get to know you, where you like to sit, what you like to drink.  This is what we do best, taking care of people.  But if it's your first time in the restaurant, we don't know any of that, so we can't give you the kind of personalized service that we do for the regulars.

5. Special orders are a pain.

This not because we are too lazy to do it, but has a lot to do with the relationship between the waitstaff and the kitchen.  In some cases, a special order is not so difficult, but for the most part, these kinds of requests cause the kitchen to pause their routine and a) listen to the special request and b) take care of it. This causes friction between the waiters and the chefs, and the waiters are reluctant to engage in a long conversation with a hot and possibly annoyed chef just to get you a piece of broiled fish.  And if you are asking for 'this sauce' on that 'item', you might think you are being clever or inventive, but in fact you are insulting the chef, who took a lot of time and care to make and pair the sauce with the item. Forcing the waiter to go do this bidding just makes them and the chef annoyed and the result, no matter what you think, just won't be as good.

In fact, we have a menu for a reason--this is what we make and what we do best.  Seriously, when someone has an allergy, we can deal with that.  Shellfish, nuts and some kinds of fruit can cause serious problems.  Lately we are even accommodating the gluten-free folks. No problem.  But if you just don't feel like our style of food that evening, what are you doing in our restaurant? If you ask for a 'plain steak' or 'fries' or a 'nice piece of broiled fish', you should have eaten at home.

It's worth mentioning here that the common stereotype (Ramsay comes to mind) of the angry chef who despises the waitstaff and treats them like stupid children is just that, a stereotype and therefore nothing like the real world.  In fact, we couldn't tolerate a chef like that in the small quarters that we dance in, so even though tempers are sometimes tested, and there are sharp words spoke, there is no cursing or yelling and we often actually chat with the chefs as we garnish the plates and load trays at the window. Now when you have to stop the process and talk seriously to the chef, the dynamic changes, and it slows down everything down the line.  That's the pain part.

6. You can send the wine back if you just don't like it.

Speaking of pain, for many (especially young) diners, there can be no more awkward or painful situation in a restaurant than ordering a bottle of wine that they just don't like.  A lot of people think that if you order a bottle of wine that you don't particularly like, you are stuck with it.  Now, setting aside the issue of whether or not some wines on the list are 'bad' (they are not) this causes many people to go into a sort of paralysis when ordering wine.  If they are uncertain about their choice, they will freeze up and go with the 'known' and stay away from those 'unknowns'.  This in turn leads to the choice of the wrong wine. Far too many people pick a familiar California cabernet instead of trying an old world wine because they are afraid the French or Spanish wine will be 'bad' and they'll be 'stuck' drinking it.

In fact, all the wines on the list are good for what they are (style, region, price) but if you simply happen to choose a wine that you don't like, then you can return it (before you drink it, of course)--that sounds obvious but I've had folks try and return a bottle after they've had half of it already. We'll even do that, but not necessarily happily.

If, however, you order a wine, taste it and decide it's not what you want, you may return it, really!  Of course, if you decide that you really want something else, though, it's time to trust the waiter or wine steward's suggestions.  Then, if you return a second bottle you will not be required to pay for it either. You'll have more trouble retiring the third bottle, but of course, you may do that too.  By the way, don't expect more than three times at bat, however.

7. Don't ask 'what's good tonight?'

This kind of question is very awkward for the waiter.  Asking for their favorites is a much better approach because answering the first question carries with it the implication that not everything is good tonight.  We operate on the basic principle that everything is good, every night.  We might have preferences, and it's fair to ask about these.

You can ask the waiter what they would have tonight, and they'll likely tell you that tonight, they feel like having fish or steak.  So, it's same as you, they have preferences and they actually change from night to night.  But it's all good.

8. Other people are celebrating their ______ too.

This may come as a shock to most people, but when you are in a restaurant, there's a very high likelihood that other diners will also be celebrating their birthday/anniversary.  I know, your birthday and anniversary are unique--to you, but not to us.

We see dozens of special occasions every night, and while we try to make you feel special about it, the fact is, that we can only do so much.  We are not capable of 'making' your birthday special--that's the job of whomever is taking you to dinner.  We can make a fuss over you, if that's what you want, but don't expect us to sing to you.  Or join in when the family sings, please, no.

And, while it seems logical that you should get a free dessert because it's your birthday, if we did that, we'd give away more desserts that we would sell.  Recall that we are in the business of making and selling food, and that includes your piece of cheesecake even when it has a candle in it.

9. Don't ask for the 'best table in the house'.

You would be amazed how often we get this request, on the phone and at the door.  And, while the old saying that you can't get what you don't ask for is certainly true, it's also a fact that unless you are a regular and/or very nice about it, we have no reason to give you 'the best table'.  An aside here--just like 'what's good tonight?' this request implies that there are good and bad tables in the restaurant.

So, while no one will deny that some tables are more prominent and perhaps have a better view of the restaurant and are therefore 'better' we really don't have any 'bad' tables.  In our restaurant, for example, there are two tables that are in the proximity of the restrooms, and one that is close to the kitchen door, but in truth, when the restaurant is busy and full, it's a table and you will get fed if you sit there.  You may indeed ask for a 'better' table, but all you are going to get is a different table, and it may take a while to get it.

10. We value nice people more than we value big tips.

Most people think that giving a big tip will get you good service, especially next time.  Well, this is true only to a limited extent.  For one thing, unless you give us an unbelievable tip (like 100%) we will be grateful, to be sure, but we will not necessarily remember you just because you gave us 23% or $20 on an $80 tab. The fact is, we often get some good tips.  While this thrills us (really, you have no idea how nice it is to open the book and see an appropriate tip in there) we aren't going to remember you fondly just for that.

Now if you are also nice, you smile and listen to the waiter, are patient with him as he manages the other people at the other tables in his section and thank him for taking care of you, we will rememeber you if you come back in a reasonable amount of time.  In fact, you can actually leave a less-than-average tip and we will remember you for being nice.  The next time you come in, we'll think, 'oh they are nice' and not even recall whether or not the tip was 20%. See #4.

11. Punishing the waiter for a problem with the food is bad form.

Of course the flip side to this is the $0 tip, or the stiff.  It is almost never appropriate to stiff a waiter. Even if they have been rude, you have to give them something.  It's certainly appropriate to tell them why you are unhappy, and even to complain to the manager when you feel you've been given less-than-average service, but it's not cool to say, 'well, you made a mistake so I am just not going to pay you'.

If, when treated poorly at the doctor's office, would you be permitted to say, 'that was painful.  I'm not paying for that.'?  And I do believe I've gotten worse treatment at the hands of doctors than I've ever gotten from a waiter.  This isn't to say that you cannot give a waiter a low tip if they've been unresponsive or rude in some way, but you can't just stiff them altogether.  It is also a good idea to tell the waiter that you were unhappy with them and that they need to improve. While that may not be welcomed, it is more useful than simply leaving a low tip with no explanation.  And it's always good to provide feedback, since they can't be expected to improve without it.

A waiter won't always get it right, but for the most part they are trying to do the right thing.  Give them credit for that, and tell them when they aren't doing it right.  We expect that. The thing is, we remember folks who are stiffers.  Those folks are unlikely to ever escape their reputation, even though we continue to accept their patronage.

12. We remember when you treat us (and your guests) badly.

This might seem obvious, but you'd be amazed how often people come back to the restaurant completely oblivious to the fact that they were raving a-holes the last time they came in.  This is not the same as a bad tipper (though stiffing comes in here) because it isn't the money that we remember, it's how you behaved.  Insulting or cursing the waiter, demanding things from the busboys that they can't do, sending back food repeatedly, these are all things that we find to be troubling, if not downright out of line.

But it isn't just how you treat us, either.  We see how you treat those with you at the table.  And again, you would be amazed at how many people are rude or insulting to their companions.  This isn't just awkward for the waiter, it becomes a form of abuse, and no one is better of for it.  Of course we can't keep you from making your girlfriend cry or your dad turn red from apoplexy, but we certainly feel it and remember it.  Do you really want us to say 'Oh here comes that a-hole?' as you come to the door? What kind of service do you think you'll get?  See #10.

Secrets of The Wine Guy

I have what many people consider to be a dream job.

I am a wine steward at a small high-end restaurant.  By small, I mean that the restaurant has about 150 seats.  It's not a tiny place, but then, it's only big enough to be divided into eight sections, not counting the bar or the seating in the garden.

By high-end, I mean that it's a nice restaurant--what one might call a 'white tablecloth' or 'fine dining' establishment.  What that really means is that it's expensive.  Definitions of the term 'expensive' will vary by consumer and city, of course, but the average ticket price--not including tax or gratuity--is about $75.  That's not too shabby, even in a large metropolitan area, and in our city, that makes it one of the most expensive places in town.

I should add that the restaurant is pretty well known--if not actually 'famous'.  That's not just in our city, but across the state, the U.S. and even, to some extent, abroad.  It's been around for over thirty years, which makes it almost an institution anywhere, but especially in our country.  The key reason for this is the fact that owner/chef is something of a celebrity.  Slowly and with a great deal of personal attention to detail, he has built it into the icon it is today.

This makes it one of the top 'destination' restaurants in the city and perhaps even in the state.  Many loyal customers come in once a month or so, and many have been coming for decades.  We've seen generations of diners from the same family.  We've seen plenty of proposals, marriages, graduations, anniversaries, and yes, birthdays--too many to count.

All those people have been coming back--joined by many new ones every day--for one primary reason: the food.

The chefs create and serve some wonderfully delicious food every night.  We say that we are a wild game restaurant, but in truth, the game is not wild (farm raised, thank you USDA) and the menu consists of a lot of things, including beef and seafood.  We don't serve chicken, hamburgers or fries--even to the kids--but we do have vegetarian and gluten-free options alongside the elk, pheasant and rattlesnake.

Yes, rattlesnake.  It's on the menu, and very flavorful--it doesn't taste like chicken--because it's mixed with seasoned breadcrumbs, cheese and spices and served with a mango relish.  Honestly, it's more of a novelty dish.  For something really flavorful and interesting, you should try the elk backstrap (tenderloin) with a chocolate-chili-espresso rub, lightly smoked and brought up to temperature on the pecan wood grill, sliced thin and laid out on the plate with a creamy beurre blanc and crab meat garnish.  It's not your ordinary beef steak, but it is very good.

We also have a good wine list, with over 120 wines.  Although I inherited the basic list, by and large the list we have today is my creation over the past seven years.  I've had some help, of course, from friends, sales reps and, of course, customers.  It's a broad list, and fairly eclectic, including both big names and even some famous wines alongside many smaller, lesser-known labels.  I try to have something for everyone, and something for every taste.

Someone asked me recently how I manage to pair wines with exotic food, like rattlesnake and elk.  The truth is, I don't play the food-wine pairing game.

I know, this is betrayal of my profession.  What I am admitting to here is indeed heresy, but this confession may be just the beginning of my admission of apostasy.  Many people think that being a wine steward--or as most people try to say, 'sommelier'--is more than just a profession.  It's a passion, right?  Not necessarily.

Most people think that the guy who brings them their wine--especially if he's a bit older, like me--is a sommelier.  They think he's not only knowledgeable about wine in general, but they expect that it's a burning passion that has brought him to their table, eager to talk about all things wine.  Wine is supposed to be something that we wine guys live and breathe and just love talking about.

In my case, this is not the case, at all.

Say what?  No knowledge?  No passion?  True that.  Here's the deal:  I know a fair bit about wine, but I am not an expert, by any means.  I like wine, and have a good palette, but I do not drink wine every day.  In fact--and this is the dirty secret that most people will not realize, nor understand, I am sure--I don't actually drink wine.

Is that fair?  Is that even possible? A sommelier that doesn't drink wine?

Well, the truth is even uglier.  I am not even a sommelier.  I call myself a wine guy, or if pressed for a title, I say I am a steward.  "Sommelier is a title that I haven't earned," I tell folks.

So what is a sommelier?  How is that different than a wine steward?  And how many restaurants these days even have a wine steward, let alone a certified sommelier?  Does it matter? Let's look at some facts to put what I do in some context.

Restaurants

How many restaurants are there in the US?

According to the US census, there were 566,020 food service and drinking places in 2007.  Of that total, 424,101 are specifically classified as a restaurant.  The total sales from those classified in the food service and drinking places category was $433.4 billion.

How many restaurants are ‘fine dining’ establishments?

Also according to the 2007 Census, roughly half, or 217,282 of those restaurants were considered to be "Full-service restaurants".

Wine Lists

How many restaurants have wine lists?

According to Wine Spectator Magazine/Website, their annual Restaurant Wine List Awards recognize 2,841 wine lists that offer at least 100 "well-chosen selections" as well as "a thematic match to the menu in both price and style."

Another 876 lists typically offer 400 or more selections, along with "superior presentation, and display either vintage depth, with several vertical offerings of top wines, or excellent breadth across several wine regions."

And finally, another 74 lists offer 1,500 selections or more, with a "serious breadth of top producers, outstanding depth in mature vintages, a selection of large-format bottles, excellent harmony with the menu and superior organization, presentation and wine service."

That's a total of just under 3,800 restaurants with wine lists of 100 selections or more.

Sommeliers

How many certified sommeliers are there in the US? 

According to "The Court of Master Sommeliers" website,

"Achieving the distinction of Master Sommelier takes years of preparation and an unwavering commitment.  The Court’s intensive educational program guides aspiring Masters through four increasingly rigorous levels of coursework and examination, culminating in the Master Sommelier Diploma Examination, which only 197 individuals worldwide have completed successfully."

Who grants certification?

The Court of Master Sommeliers (CMS) was established in 1969 to "encourage improved standards of beverage knowledge and service in hotels and restaurants."

According to the CMS website, the "first successful Master Sommelier examination was held in the United Kingdom in 1969."  By 1977, the Court of Master Sommeliers claimed to be "established as the premier international examining body."  Just how this was determined is not made clear.

Again, according to the CMS web, "[In 2012] There are now 129 professionals who have earned the title Master Sommelier in North America.  Of those, 111 are men and 18 are women.  There are 197 professionals worldwide who have received the title of Master Sommelier since the first Master Sommelier Diploma Exam."

What others do

I think it should be obvious from the above statistics that there are very few restaurants that even have a wine list, let alone employing a certified sommelier to build theirs lists and serve the wine.  Less than 2% of supposed 'fine dining' restaurants (217K) even have lists of 100 or more wines (3.8K), and of those, only 5% have an officially licensed sommelier.  By the way, that's less than one-thousandth of 1% (.0009) of all fine dining restaurants that actually have a sommelier.

That means there is a whole of of pretense going on.  Wine stewards are clearly posing as sommeliers, or worse, waiters who get a bit of training and read Wine Spectator are allowed introduce themselves as the "som".  But pretense is the name of the game when it comes to wine.

More than golf or polo even, wine geekery is almost the exclusive domain of rich white guys.  In a word, snobs. People who think that there is some sort of objective standard to tasting wine and food and that certain wines pair well with certain flavors--or worse, the converse, that there are some wines that will never go with some flavors--are just plain snobs.

There are a lot of snobs in the world--food, fashion and sports all come to mind immediately--but in my mind, the wine snobs are the worst.  I don't want to start a whole riff on how ridiculous these guys sound when they swirl around glass after glass, claiming to taste any and everything--leather, lace, lead, tobacco, rotting leaves--with their supposedly sophisticated palettes.  This is too easy, and it has been done to death anyway.

All this has gotten me to thinking about what it is that I actually do and don't do when it comes to the practical, day-in-day-out business of selling and serving wine in a restaurant.

What I don't do

• Say that I'm a 'som'.
• Pair wine and food.
• Read about wine.
• Go to wine tastings, trade dinners or on wine trips.
• Belong to a tasting group.

What I do

When I approach a table to talk with someone about a wine selection on a busy Saturday night, I really don't have time to talk about wine very much.  Patrons may want to talk about the history of wine, or tell me about their last trip to Napa, but the truth is, I am not there to share their passion for the grape.  I'm on a mission.  When I am at a table, I have a clear objective and a very narrow time frame to achieve it in.

My objective is to help a patron select a wine that they feel comfortable purchasing.  There are two main elements to determine in order to achieve this objective: Style and Price.  It's my goal, therefore, in this talk with the customer to settle on a wine that meets both criteria.

I have such a narrow time frame--after they are seated but before the food is ordered--because the patrons really don't want to talk with me, or at least they shouldn't.  They are there with friends or family, and they should go back to that as quickly as possible.  The talk, therefore, must achieve the objective in as short a period of time as I can manage.  If I spend two minutes helping them make a decision, I've stayed way too long.

It's not because there are other tables vying for my attention--though there frequently are--but because two minutes--120 seconds--is a very long time to be talking about wine.  At the very least, it's a long time to spend trying to decide the answers to the basic questions of style and price.  Usually, I can close the deal in under a minute--often no more than thirty seconds if the patron simply takes my first recommendation.

Without being immodest, I can say that I am very good at this.  I rarely have a wine sent back, and I've never had a seriously dissatisfied customer.  I may not have exactly what they wanted, but we always find something they will like.  This is because my job is to pair wine with people.

Wine pairing - People not Food

That is, people will often tell me what their menu choices are--often the whole table will join in--with the expectation that I have just the perfect wine to go with those combinations of flavors.  But the fact of the matter is, if it's not a style of wine that people like to begin with, there is little chance that they'll like it just because I said it would go well with their menu choices.

In fact, all of the 120 plus wines on our wine menu all go well with our food, and I tell every table that.  Sometimes people will pick up on that and ask if I say that about every wine, and then I am very honest and I say yes indeed, but that's because we don't have any bad wines on the list.

It's all a matter of preference, I tell them.  And it is.

So, after all that, if you are still looking for the secrets of the wine guy, here they are:

Secrets of the Wine Guy

• I know nothing about wine.  Really.
• I have not tasted most wines.
• I haven't tasted many wines.
• I have not tasted all the wines on my list.
• I drink beer.

What I think

• More expensive wine is better--generally speaking
• Famous wine is almost always overpriced
• Even expensive wines are incredibly cheap for what they are and how hard they are to make well.
• Wine always goes with food.  Expect champagne, which goes well with everything and nothing at all.
• French wine is the best.
• Most people over-think and over-talk wine.
• Most people are intimidated by wine buying.
• Wine ratings--especially point systems--are useless.
• Wine magazines are just glossy advertisements.
• Wine experts are just shills for the industry.
• Winemakers--except the celebrities--are underpaid.
• There is too much wine being made today.

Postscript: How I serve a bottle of wine

--Announce myself at the table, interrupting if necessary.
   "Hello.  I'm here with a bottle of wine."
--Make eye contact.
   "I have a bottle of _____"
--Find the person who ordered the wine.
--Show them the label.
   "Is that correct?"
--Wait for acknowledgment.
   "Thank you."
--Make eye contact.
   "This is a very nice wine."
--Cut the foil off the top.
   "I like it a lot."
--Remove the cork.
   "I think it goes very well with our food."
--Pour a splash into the taster's glass.
--If there are just two diners, pour a splash for the other person.
   "Tell me what you think."
--Remove the cork from the screw while they taste.
--Make eye contact.
--Place the cork on the table near the taster.
--Smile when the taster assents.
   "Isn't that nice?"
--Make eye contact.
--Nod with assent.
--Pour wine in guests glasses.
   "And that's just opened, too."
--Return to the taster and fill their glass.
   "That will get better as you swirl it around a bit in these big glasses."
--Make eye contact.
--Set the bottle down.
   "And I know it will go well with your meal."
--Make eye contact.
--Smile and nod with assent.
   "So I hope you enjoy that--and the rest of your meal!"
--Make eye contact.
   "You're welcome"
--Step away, slowly.

Ditch Digger

When I was little, a common refrain from my mother was that if I didn't "get a good education"--in other words, "do well in school"--I would "end up being a ditch digger". There was no lower form of employment in Lynda's opinion.  

And, though it wasn't one of my proudest moments, I did, in fact end up digging ditches.

Well, 'end up' is really not accurate, because I only did it the one time, right out of high school.  I don't dig ditches any more.  To this current state of employment, more than anything, I attribute my education and by extension to Lynda and Bill.

But the more central point is that Lynda was right.  After I got out of High School, I could have gone right into UT with a scholarship, but I elected not to, choosing instead to buy a van and travel around the country with a friend.  The van we bought consumed my savings and died on the street shortly after purchase.  The friendship faded from view not long after that.

My parents and younger brother had moved to England during the summer after I graduated, so when the van trip fell through, I was stuck.  I had no place to stay and no place to work.  I was staying with a friend, looking for a place to live and a job.  I also had no skills to speak of.  Though I had worked as a busboy at The Barn, I had no experience as a waiter and found it was very hard to get hired at a 'real' restaurant.  I resolved not to work in a fast food place unless it was the last possible choice, so this meant actually eliminating the other choices, like ditch digging.

To be fair, I didn't set out to dig ditches.  I set out to get a job.  I had heard from a friend that it was possible to get work in construction that paid pretty well.  All you had to do was go down to the local laborers union, get a union card by paying your first month's dues (like $20) and show up at the hall early in the morning when the construction contractors came in looking for day laborers to take to their various job sites.

So that's what I did.  I got my union card and went to the hall down on South Lamar.  At first, I didn't get any work, because I didn't show up early enough and wasn't agressive enough about getting up to the front when the contractors came by.  For a few days, I sat in the hall and played dominoes with the old guys until the mid morning, when it was apparent that I wasn't going to work that day.  

Eventually I got up early enough and was pushy enough to get hired.  I jumped into a truck with about half a dozen other guys and we headed into town.  I was the only white guy on the truck, and when we got to the site I was most certainly in the minority.  I was definitely the only white guy among the day laborers, who were mostly black.  The welders and carpenters tended to be white, while the painters and the concrete guys were mostly hispanic.

We were dropped off at the corner of Sixth and Congress, where the new American Bank Tower was going up.  In stark contrast to the shiny gold 'saltine box' look of the newest bank building over on 6th and Colorado, which was emulating the high Dallas fashion of the time, the American Bank building was solid and black, a fine representation of the conservative spirit of its Chairman at the time, former Texas Governor Alan Shivers.  Of course, when I arrived, it was neither solid nor black.  It was just a hulk of concrete, rising out of the dust for nearly a square city block.

Our first assignment as a team was to dig a ditch.  We were given tools.  Some of us got shovels and others got pickaxes.  I got a pickaxe that weighed almost as much as me.

Now, wiry is a good physical description for me back then--thin but stronger than I looked--but I knew just holding the thing that it was going to be tough.  To be sure, I'd seen a pickaxe before and perhaps had even tried to hack at the earth with one at some point, but to be honest, this was the first time I'd ever even thought about how to use this tool properly.

The ditch to be dug was in a patch of caleche fill dirt that had been filled into a pit previously dug out with a backhoe.  Now, though, it had to be dug out by hand because there were some rebars, pipes and wire conduits in the space under the dirt that had to be avoided.  The crew, perhaps six of us, gathered around the space.  Those with shovels proceeded to lean on them in a classic fashion, while those of us with pickaxes reluctantly started in on the caleche.

I went first.  I stood over the dirt, raised my pickaxe over my head and chopped down with my full force, only to have the tool slam into the ground, shudder though my body and yield no effect other than to elicit howls of derisive laughter from my colleagues.  The black guys thought it was especially funny, seeing a skinny white kid with no clue as to how to hold or wield a pickaxe, and they told me so.

Red with embarrassment and filled with that determination I get whenever someone tells me I 'can't do' something, I struggled on.  Even as I felt the heat of the moment burning me up, I fought to keep the tears down and my courage solid.

After a few minutes, I looked up to see how I'd done.  The little scratch I'd made in the ground was indeed pathetic, and the guys were not shy about telling me so.  Some of them started to tell me I should just go home ('lil cracker, what you think you doing here?') but one guy, big and built in the most opposite human physique from me finally stepped up.  He took the pickaxe from my hand and said, "Here boy, lemme show you how to do it."

And he did.  He showed me how to hold the axe, how to raise it above my head while sliding one hand along the handle, then how to let it fall, guiding it with the hand but not forcing it into the ground.  In a few rapid strokes, he dug a deep hole, excavating the space with an efficiency I didn't know possible.  It certainly wasn't possible for me, at first, but it was easier, once I tried the technique he taught me.

And, once I started to make progress, the others guys started working too.  Other guys with pickaxes attacked the patch of dirt, and the guys with shovels actually used them to clear out the space.  In a few minutes, we had exposed the tangle of conduits and rebar hidden by the caleche and we were all standing around the hole, leaning on our tools, waiting for our next assignment.

I never had to dig another ditch, fortunately, even though I worked on that site for a few months.  After a couple of days with the first crew, I hooked up with a sweeping crew in the interior, then I was given the assignment to clean painted numbers off of columns in the parking garage.  This solitary job was all I did until I quit to go to work in the torque convertor rebuilding shop on Maufrais Lane.

Of course, what I learned from this experience was two-fold.  First of all, Lynda was right.  I realized that I would need that college degree if I wanted to avoid doing this sort of labor for my entire life.  But I also came to realize that even something as simple as digging a ditch has to be done right or not at all.  

There is something be be learned even in the lowest of tasks, and the dignity I was shown by that unknown teacher is a lesson I carried with me for the rest of my life.

Why I Work

Why do I work?

For that little red Radio Flyer wagon, the one with the polished wooden rails and shiny black handle.

It was sitting on a shelf above and behind the soda fountain in the Abilene Drug Store in Abilene, Texas.  The year was 1961.  I was five years old and was being treated to a Coke float by my Dad, Bill.

This was a rare treat.  Although mindful of the special treatment I was receiving, as I slurped my drink and used that long spoon to artfully gouge the bobbing blob of ice cream in a glass taller than my head, I kept my eyes glued to that wagon.  At some point, with the verve that is typical of many precocious children (specifically a trait of mine) I decided to test my special status and asked Bill if he would buy it for me.

He was gentle about telling me no.  He explained that the wagon cost money.  In answer to my bold-yet-innocent query, 'So what?' he told me that we--the family--could not afford to buy me--the individual--that wagon.  We didn't have the money.

Now, this may not have been my first explanation of money, but it was the one that has stuck with me ever since.  This first denial of a thing due to lack of money imprinted upon me forever a very important understanding about life.  I realized that having something I really wanted required money. Immediately after this revelation, I was struck with another, even more basic understanding, one that has arguably affected me more deeply and for longer than any other impulse that I can recall (other than sex, but that's another story).

I realized that money came from work.

Now, I am sure that by this time in my life, I'd been told about work.  But the thing is, neither of my parents had a regular job in that respect.  From my earliest memory, they had 'worked' at their own business: the Abilene Bookstore.  The bookstore was actually connected to (and in many ways, a part of) our home, so when Bill and Lynda went to work, it simply meant opening the door to the bookstore, turning on the lights and unlocking the front door.

Thus, my earliest model for work was seeing my parents do the various chores around the store: stocking shelves, organizing books, placing orders and doing a lot of sweeping and dusting.  It never occurred to me that they were doing jobs, or that their activity was in any way related to money.

In fact, I had no practically no inkling that money was related to our lives at all.  To be sure, I knew that money was necessary to get things at the grocery store, thanks to an incident that happened when I was about four:  I took a pack of gum from a shelf in the grocery store without telling anyone.  When it was discovered that I was chewing gum in the backseat of the car, I  was busted.  I had to admit to my crime, return to the store with my mother, pay for the gum and apologize for taking it.  After that searingly embarrassing moment, I knew that money was necessary to get things from a store.

So, although I knew what it was like to want something, it wasn't until I saw that little red wagon that I knew what the lust for money was like.  Seeing that wagon that day--so tantalizingly out of reach (in more ways than one)--ignited a fire in my brain.  I was insistent that I wanted it.  Bill was equally insistent that we simply could not afford to buy it.

He did, however, tell me about a way that I could get that wagon: I could save for it.

Bill explained that by accumulating a little bit of money--like pennies, nickels and dimes--every day, over time, it would add up.  And, if I saved long enough, I would eventually have the money I needed to buy the thing I wanted.

He told me that he would buy me a piggy bank.  He even offered to jump-start my project by donating a roll of pennies to put in the new bank.

We finished our sodas and I reluctantly tore my gaze from the wagon.  We headed over to another part of the store to buy a piggy bank.  The one we settled on was iconic.  It was a hollow amber glass pig with a slot for putting money in and no place for taking the money out.  This meant that once the money was in the bank, I would have to break the pig in order to get the money out.  Bill said that this would help me save, since I wouldn't be tempted to take the money out until the bank was full.

He was right. Although I did manage to extract a few coins from time to time by shaking the bank upside down, the inefficiency of this method of bank-robbing--in addition to the fact that I really wanted that wagon--meant that over time I actually managed to put in more coins in the bank than I took out.

Most of the coins in that glass pig were actually contributed by Bill.  Sometimes he would give me a few pennies from his desktop change dish.  Rarely, he gave me a nickel or a dime.  And, on those super-rare occasions, he would give me a whole quarter.  Being a bright and ambitious kid, I realized, of course, that this was a game, and a potentially easy one at that.  The more coins I could gather in the shortest amount of time, the sooner I'd get my prize.

Seeing how quickly the bank began to fill when that entire roll of pennies was introduced to it in the beginning of the enterprise emboldened me to ask my Dad from time to time for another roll.  At first this request was semi-successful.  Then it it no longer worked.  My shameless begging was treated with a smile and a promise of 'perhaps'.  Soon it grew into an annoyance.  He told me that I couldn't expect him to just give me money.

My parents told me that if I wanted money, I would have make it.  That is, to do something in exchange for it.  I would have to earn it.  To this concept, I was immediately and enthusiastically agreeable.  Why not?  To an ambitious lad like me, the possibilities seemed unlimited.  I immediately offered to do all the things I was already required to do--like making my bed, organizing my laundry, brushing my teeth--in exchange for the new object of my desire: money.

Bill and Lynda quickly put that critical misunderstanding to rest.   Those things, they said (no doubt with a wry smile and a small bit of admiration for my ambition) were off the negotiating table, so to speak.  After all, those chores were my responsibility to the family.  As such those tasks could not be sold for profit.

Undiscouraged, however, I resolved to find other things to do--tasks not already in my contract, so to speak--that were also apparently helpful around the house.  I came up with chores like sweeping the kitchen, helping dust books in the bookstore.  I even helped my parents take inventory in the bookstore every month because I could climb around and count the books on the bottom shelves.

Eventually, I took charge of mowing the lawn (a task I really hated because the mower was so loud and difficult to maneuver) and helping with the annual raking of the Pecan leaves that flooded our backyard every winter (a task I loved because it meant many 'pecan feasts' with my brother on the stone barbeque grill that dominated our backyard).

I helped Lynda hang out the laundry and scrub out the bathtub.  I helped Bill count the money in the cash register change drawer and bring in the books from the second-hand book table that sat in the front yard of the house/bookstore.  For every 'job' I received a few coins.  I promptly put them all in that amber glass piggy bank.

Soon the bank began to fill up.  I reveled in each clink, thinking about the wonderful day when I would finally get my wagon.

Eventually, the bank was jammed with coins.  I had packed in the last possible piece of copper and took it down to Bill to show him that it was time.  He went to the garage and got a hammer.  We took the laden glass bank out to the driveway and placed it on top of an upturned garbage can lid where I smashed it.

It was a glorious feeling, liberating all that money toward the object of my desire.  I wanted to scoop it all up and carry it down the street to the drugstore and get my wagon right there and then.  Bill somehow held me back, and we carefully extracted the coins from the glass without severing an artery.

We took the money inside to the kitchen table, where the coins were sorted, stacked and tallied.  Months of saving were finally measured.  The result was devastating.

Not only was there not enough money in the bank to buy the wagon, but it wasn't even close.  I turned to Bill, who had assured me that this plan would work.  He had even told me--in my many moments of high anxiety about the seemingly small sum of these savings--that when the time came, even if it were not enough, he would help me make up the difference.

Well, when the time came, I learned an important--if difficult--lesson.  It was a double blow, a little about Life and a little about Bill.  He was not able to make good on his promise.   This was in part because the amount in my little glass bank (being made up mostly of pennies and nickels) was so small, but it was also because, despite his good intentions, my father simply didn't have the money to give.

This was a tough lesson to take.  It certainly felt like a betrayal to me, and though I am not proud of my reaction, I know that I internalized it as such.  I don't want to overstate the effect however.  It's not like I never forgave him, but I learned from this experience that promises--even from loving and well meaning people--aren't always kept, often for very good and logical reasons.

The net effect of this lesson was actually positive.  Although my faith in him had been shaken, I continued to worship my Dad and followed him around closely for many years. This dual feeling of love and mistrust that I had for Bill would have a long run, and this incident was an important early indicator of that how our complicated relationship was going to develop.  While had most of our differences when I was at my most difficult--my teens and early twenties--these were mostly resolved by the time of his death in 1981.

Needless to say, I did not get the wagon.  I processed this event mentally and emotionally as a disappointment and an opportunity lost.  Although I may have repressed much of the memory, this event was crucial in ways that are not as obvious as it might seem.  Ultimately, this moment raised in my consciousness an important revelation.  I resolved that I did not have to accept future such losses.  I realized that I could--had to, really--control my own monetary destiny.

Now, with that realization pressing me forward, I came to the next logical step. I needed a regular source of income.  This too seemed almost trivially easy to my six-year old brain.  I simply resolved to be responsible for getting money on my own.  I realized that I didn't need to beg my parents for money, or badger them into inventing jobs for me to do.  I realized that I all I had to do was just go get a job.  Then I could make all the money that I needed for all the things that I wanted.

I'd love to claim that this thunderbolt of a realization occurred on the very day and at the very moment when that little broken amber glass bank failed to fulfill my dreams, but it just ain't so.  This powerful understanding about my character did not come to me anywhere near the disappointing experience with the wagon.  It was actually a couple of years later--when I was eight--that I finally decided to take matters in to my own hands.

I decided to look for work.

Abilene had, at the time, a road not too far from our house that was lined--on both sides--with small businesses: cleaners, used car dealers, pet shops, barber shops and dress stores.  I set out early in the morning and arrived on this street as the shop owners were opening up their stores and getting organized for the day.

The scenario was always the same.  I walked in and introduced myself.  As the adults' eyes and smiles grew ever wider, I explained that I was looking for work.  I told them that I was prepared to do whatever I had to to make some money.

Place after place, time after time, I was presented with gentle smiles, pats on the head and back, and even some genuine encouragement.  But no jobs.  I somehow set my disappointment aside with each rejection and remained undeterred.  I decided that it was just a matter of asking enough people, a matter of making all the rounds.

So I did.  From early morning until late evening that day, I walked up and down the entire length of the strip, going into every single business to ask for a job.  Eventually, I ran out of places to visit and light to see by.  It was getting dark by the time I headed home.

In those days, we children were sent out to play in early morning and were really not expected back home until dusk.  As crazy as that sounds to today's generation of new parents, this is just how it was.  As kids, we really did not suffer from an absence of moment-by-moment attention, nor were we placed in any sort of exceptional risk.  I like to think that had someone tried to kidnap me, they would have found me to be so difficult to handle that they would returned me promptly, as in that O'Henry tale about the Ransom of Red Chief.  My difficult nature aside, kidnapping just wasn't a valid concern for me or my parents.

But coming home after dark certainly was.

Dusk is not dark.  That sounds obvious, but to a mother--even one as tough as Lynda--used to seeing her boy come bounding in starving and bouncing around the kitchen before dinner, dark that evening became a very serious moment.  Lynda experienced what every parent dreads: that moment of panic when your child is missing.

She was standing on the porch as I walked up.  Absent, however, was the pride I expected her to bestow upon me when I told her I'd been out looking for a job.  Instead, I got a serious scolding and was sent to bed without dinner.

Later that evening, I finally saw a glimpse of the pride I'd hoped to see in Lynda's face when she brought me some dinner in my room.  She had calmed down and explained how frightened she'd been.  of course, she made me promise not to go off and do it again.

She needn't have worried.  I got all the realization about the futility of that exercise that I needed from the shopkeepers that day.  I knew that getting a job was not going to be as easy as I once thought; perhaps not even easy at all.  I could tell that it was going to take time, and that making money would take some persistence.

Child labor laws being what they were then, this is when I started selling things door-to-door.

The first thing I sold was TV Guide.  On the back of comic books in my day, there were ads for TV Guide salespeople.  It was something kids could do for money.  They way it worked: they sent me about a dozen Guides, and it was up to me to go door-to-door to sell them.  For each one I sold, I got to keep a few cents.  The ones I didn't sell I could return, but if I didn't sell at least a dozen, they would not keep sending me the product.  For several weeks, I managed to sell my twelve copies and in some weeks I did even better.

Selling door-to-door was very hard work, not just because it meant a lot of walking, but also because it meant taking a lot of abuse from folks who quite frankly had no desire to be solicited, even by an ambitious eight-year-old child.  In six months or so, I saw a lot of strange people and some very strange (and messy) houses, but I never made enough money to make it worth the abuse.

I didn't give up my dream of making my own money, however.  During the years that I was legally still too young to work, I also tried selling Grit (a kids newspaper), Fuller Brush, Amway and even Time Magazine subscriptions.  When we moved to Austin in 1968, I immediately got a paper route, delivering about 50 Austin-Americans on my bike every afternoon after school and with Bill in the car on the early weekend mornings.

Sadly--or perhaps to my eventual benefit--none of these ventures ever actually panned out.  It wasn't until I was semi-legally old enough to work (15) that I got my first paying job, as a typist for a patent attorney with an office on Congress Avenue.  By the time I got that job, it was already part of a long personal history, part of a deep desire to work.

And to think, it all started with that little red wagon.

The Work

Yesterday, as I was outside working on my car, a young woman came up to me in the driveway.  She held up a clipboard as she approached, but I began the encounter by shaking my head even before I could hear what she was saying.

She was in her early to mid-teens, I guessed.  Right away, I assumed she was selling magazines, or had a similar sort of scam going, so I was not inclined to even hear her out.  She was undeterred by my negative body language and attitude and kept approaching.  Soon she was close enough and was clear enough in her voice and demeanor to cause me to relent and listen to what she was saying.

She was, in fact, proposing to paint our house number on the curb by the mailbox.  Now, it happens that we have no number there, and it wasn't more than a day ago that I took note of that while getting the mail, thinking to myself that I ought to do that...someday.  This is what I love most about synchronicity, the way that two seeming random incidents are clearly connected.  There's no science here, just feeling, and it's a damn good one.  Click.  Connection made.

I felt the spark, yet still, I was reluctant to go with the flow.  Even as I heard her offer for the first time, I was still in a negative posture and inclination, but in spite of these feelings, I was also somehow opened to her offer.  Sensing this, she persisted and had me look at the images on her clipboard, telling me as she did that her rate was $15 for just the number or $20 with one of the images.

Her images included the Texas flag and a Longhorn, which was my choice.  I offered $15 for the number/image package, and though a bit surprised, she took the counter-offer, saying "Ok, I need the work."

She didn't say 'money'.  She said 'work', like she was proud of the distinction.  She obviously flet that there was difference between what she was doing and merely hustling for money.  As a long-time entrepreneur and worker myself, I really appreciated that attitude.  I said, "Ok, you do your thing and I'll go get the money."

I went inside to get the cash as she set to work, opening her backpack to take out her paints as she knelt at the curb.  She did a great job, painting a black background first, then the white numbers entirely by hand with a little orange Longhorn to the side.  As she worked, I struggled to keep Loki out of her way, and even got her a soda when I saw how hot and thirsty she looked.

It took her all of twenty minutes to finish.  She mopped her brow with the back of her hand as I handed her $20 with a little speech about how she reminded me of myself, trying to sell TV Guide and Fuller Brush door-to-door when I was in my early teens.  She took the cash and listened patiently to the story with a wry smile.  I asked if she'd gotten much work in the neighborhood and she said this was her third job on this street.

As she walked off, I marveled at her courage, strength and attitude toward life.  I believe--and this from my own experience and heart of hearts--that it really is possible to make your way in this world if you are willing to do whatever work it is that it takes to get there.  This young woman has every bit of that.

Getting Dirty Daily

If I suggested that either of my readers hazard a guess at my most frequent thought, one of you might be forgiven for blushing, but in truth, you would have overreached in your assumptions about my nature.  Only just, however.  That thought is there, and it is frequent to be sure, so despair not in your conclusions.  Just re-order them.

My most frequent thought would have to be about metal.

This is not news to either Reader, nor would it be surprising even if you had just begun reading this journal. References to my Green Ghia project are beginning to figure as prominently here as references to Lynda, Pierre and Death--respectively the impetus, the catalyst and the ongoing inquiry that have driven my writing for almost four frantic years.  A reader recently commented that I write with a sense of urgency, and this is true.  I often feel that my last word will be my last, and that spurs me to write more, and faster.  Time is not waiting for me to get ready to write, though that's all I feel I've ever really done.

But I am not writing about writing today.  I am writing about metal.

I see now that one of the most delicious and satisfying aspects of working on my car is the variety of metal that I encounter.  Metal of different sizes and shapes, to be sure, but also different weights and gauges, textures and surfaces.  Metal is a delight to touch, to hold, to manipulate, to own, and I relish moment with each piece.  Now I am engaged in the particularly satisfying process of cleaning, buffing, painting and priming all the dirty, bent, rusty and ragged pieces that I've been pulling off the car for the past eight months.  This is where the reverie lives.

As I touch each piece, withdrawing it from it's labeled baggie to examine, clean and paint it, I am drawn into an unconscious state of ecstasy.  I am momentarily detached from the ordinary flow of life.  It's as if I've paddled off into an eddy at the river's bank, able to watch it flow by but also able to rest and contemplate the water itself.

With the steel in my hand, head bent to the task, I feel lost in the warmth of the fire that made the metal; I revel in the resistance that it offers to my malicious efforts--scraping, buffing, grinding, sanding; and I take deep satisfaction from rendering it clean, polished and fresh for use.

Use has a lot to do with my motivation and the pleasure I here describe.  I am not a sculptor.  I am not assembling from the raw materials a new creation, but rather I am like a modeler, putting together what is essentially a big kit.  That the kit has a function however, is a fact that really does drive my intentions.  Or is that, my intentions to drive?

My goal with the Ghia is to rebuild it, to bring it back to life and drive it.  My intent is not to restore it to a new-like condition, or to create a show car of any kind.  What I want is a car that I can drive.  This is a particular make and model of a car that I have intensely desired since I was in my early teens, so the goal is to finally have that car I have wanted all these years.

I could, of course, go out and simply buy a fully restored car.  This might even be cheaper than what I am doing, since I could probably get a really good, drivable vehicle for less than say, $7500 (though $10-12K would bring home a real sweet drive) but then I wouldn't get the satisfaction of playing with all that metal.  And, sure, I could have purchased a car with a little less rust, one a little less to do in terms of re-assembly, but the reasons are the same and, quite frankly, the rust and grime just adds to the fun.

Fun?  Is that what it's about?  Perhaps.  I heard Tom Hanks say recently that if he could have another career, it would be as a tour guide at famous historical monument (he didn't say which one).  He meant that he really enjoyed talking to people and helping them.  In one of my jobs, that's pretty much what I get to do, and I love that.

But, when you get right down to it, if I could have had another career, it might have been as a VW mechanic, busting my knuckles and getting dirty on a daily basis with all that metal.  Would that have been fun?  I don't think so.  I have no illusions about the income and/or lifestyle of the typical mechanic, and I would not have been satisfied with that.  Part of what makes it fun (as being a tour guide might be to the wealthy and famous Mr. Hanks) is the fact that it's not what we really do for a living.  I hesitate to call it a hobby, since I just can't lump what I do of the evenings in with the guy who's building birdhouses down the street, but I guess that's what others see it as.

I think of it as a passion, and the metal is calling to me even now.