The Cost of Perfection

I was in bed watching bad TV with a plate of white anchovies and Doritos when my broker called to tell me his brilliant plan. It was now almost March, I was hopelessly locked in an escrow I couldn't get out of, about to be homeless, jobless, and single yet again. Once more I'd have to live out of a storage unit and sleep in a crappy room at the Travelodge. Not even the sight of the new Prada sequined camouflage formal slippers could shake me out of my ennui. I should have been able to enjoy this time off work like a vacation but I just couldn't.

"Paul, I can't talk right now, I'm devastated--" I shoved some chips in my mouth and continued, mouth full, "I'm mourning the loss of that incredible condo."

"Are you eating dinner?" he asked. I looked down at the plate of anchovy filets and soggy chips,

"Yes I am," I replied and shoved another handful in my mouth. "I made it myself."

"Well I have good news!"

"Andy Cohen's casting a gay reality show in Chicago?"

"I found a way for you to get your condo."

"Oh, that's good too!" Gucci sidled up to me and started purring. I set the plate down in my lap and rubbed his ears. Ever the opportunist, and seeing the anchovy unguarded he grabbed it and flew across the room. "Paul, I gotta go, I have to go sell my cat to a Vietnamese restaurant."

"Don't you want to know how you can get the condo?"

"You found me a wealthy older hedge fund manager that wants to get married in the next two weeks?"

"No, it's much easier than that. You just have to call your mothe--" I hung up the phone before he could finish the sentence. I knew it would come to this.

My broker's plan was to have my mother finance the condo for me but knowing my mother there was no way she'd go for it. Formerly the Czar of Husbandry and the Chai Czar now my mother would insist on claimimg the ultimate title when it comes to her oversight of my life, the Land Czar, alternately known as landlord. At so it would seem, I moved 800 miles away only to move back into my mother's home. There was just no way to escape her. She was, of course, thrilled at the opportunity.

"And when your credit is better I can sell this unit back to you, turn around and buy another one in the building."

"For what?" I asked.

"Income property, and I can have you manage the tenants. Or we can flip it and buy another one."

I informed my broker that he had created a monster.

With my new mortgage and new furniture bills it was time to find a new job to match. I was invited to stage at a high end bar as a mixologist. I've dabbled in cocktail creation and thought it might be an interesting switch in career. To "stage" (stah-j) in a restaurant is basically to work for free for a shift so that the restaurant can simultaneously haze you and test out your temperament. I was feeling pretty good about this. I read up on cocktails and spirits, researched the bar and chef and took the green line to restaurant row.

I was so confident, I had a mocha, I had a cute little vest, and I had my swagger. I walked up to the front door and it was locked. I peered through the window, it was a long blank hallway. I walked around the perimeter of the mostly unmarked speakeasy-esque bar. I couldn't see a single way in. My watch said I still had a few minutes before I would be officially not early. After circling the block twice I finally gave up and lit a cigarette in the alley. I saw a bunch of guys with tattoos wearing all black walk into an unmarked side door in the alley. I figured they were either going to some underground fight club or they worked at the bar. I finished my cigarette and followed them in.

If you've never worked in a restaurant or hotel, the back of the house can sometimes be a jarring experience. By now I was used to the crusty walls, creaky staircases, endless twists and turns and corridors, dim lighting, people running back and forth with oranges, chickens or bottles of pink cleaner. I strolled around the ground floor of the bustling restaurant, not even sure if I was in the right place. Mostly people ignored me. A few gave me a quick look but then went back to what they were doing. Everyone seemed very busy, which was already a big shift from the restaurant I was at where everyone just seemed very bored.

Finally, I wandered by the prep kitchen and a woman appeared behind me--

"Are you here to stage?"

"Yes!" I jumped a little.

"Take this." She heaved a crate of funky looking oranges on me and walked away. I stood in the hallway unsure of exactly what she wanted me to do with these large wrinkly oranges. Almost to the stairs she turned around, "Are you coming?" I ran after her and up the stairs into the bar. It was then that I realized I may have been in over my head. The bar was less of a bar and more of a kitchen line where the bartenders had no interaction with the guests except for the brief moments when you'd look up and out through the cage into the crowd of people outside. The entrance of the bar led guests past the cage so that they could peer into the mysterious voodoo that happened to their cocktails. It was almost nonsensical to the outside eye, like ordering a coffee drink from Intelligentsia that takes twenty steps to make. There were no wood counters and garnish boxes, no bar stools, no how are you. The bartenders worked like line cooks in a sleek stainless steel room where they were caged in, presumably to keep them from escaping mid-shift.

Peel these and keep the peels, you're going to use them later. Juice the king oranges and strain them into bottles, then wash the juicer; take everything apart and was each piece by hand, then I need you to mix three times the weight of sugar with the peels and muddle them until the sugar turns orange, then put the mix into bags, vacuum seal them and store them in the bar cooler.

"I have a question."

"What?"

"What bar is this?" After ascertaining that I was, actually, in the right place I was utterly lost and confused, "Just one more question, where do you--"

"No time, just figure it out," and she skittered away. I started absentmindedly peeling oranges and looking around. I started to recognize, vaguely, what some of the drinks were. I could see what looked like a giant tub of Rob Roy, and another that was negroni being made. Though I could recognize certain ingredients I had no understanding of the process they were going through. The negroni was transferred into glass bottles and carbonated. A mixture of pisco and some other clear liquid was sealed into little clear pouches and heated to near boiling. Apples were peeled and stuffed, little cups of tea were individually measured out, liquid nitrogen was poured over something, tiny slices of ginger were placed on another thing with tweezers.

I had never seen a place like this before in my life. People weren't joking or talking about what they did  last night or talking at all. Nobody looked up from the work they were doing. It was perfectly silent. There was a soft close policy, meaning if you shut a door too hard or made any noise closing a drawer or even set down a glass to hard someone would rush over to you and tell you to be quiet, or stop making so much noise. Everything was calm and orderly and quiet and perfectly measured. If you poured something you poured it in the very center of the glass. If you did even the slightest thing off you poured the drink back and made it again. The Rob Roys I watched being made earlier were then taken out of a cooler and sealed into a bag. The tiniest corner was snipped off and a tube was inserted that pumped lavender scented air into the bag and resealed once it was inflated.

It dawned on me something about the workers here. Where the hotel hired people who were gregarious, warm, extroverted and friendly, this bar was staffed by people that were like the bar itself: cold, introverted, inscrutable, complex. There was an iciness to the staff that I wasn't used to and I could tell it wasn't just toward me. This was a place that drew perfectionists from all over the city to practice obsessive compulsive cocktails together. It was the exact opposite of where I had been working. I realized the world outside our little hotel restaurant wasn't what I thought it would be. It was scary and confusing and I was no longer good or even adequate at my job and I was miles away from perfect.

After the shift, which went from 2pm to 3am I sat down with the manager to talk about the position and, I suppose, interview. Toward the end of the interview I had to ask what, exactly, these bartenders make.

"Thirty thousand is their salary."

"For...A Year?"

"Yes."

"They work five days a week, thirteen hours a day, for thirty thousand a year and no tips?"

"Yes."

I could not have gotten out of there sooner. Yes, in food and beverage we did unnatural horrible things to our body. We stood for entire days in shoes with no arch support, we skipped meals, we woke up at four in the morning or we went to bed at four in the morning, we ignored urges to go the the restroom because we were in the weeds, we burned our hands on hot plates, we took abuse from customers, managers, and anyone else that would abuse us, we worked the crap shifts, and the killer shifts, we ate the embarrassingly bad unhealthy food in the employee dining room, we dehydrated ourselves, we stood in 90 degree heat wearing all black serving food on the patio and we did all of these things smiling and ready to for more.

But we did it for a hell of a lot more than thirty thousand a year.

I got to the green line station only to find that it stopped running at 2am. These people take cabs! Cabs home, every night! For thirty! Maybe the restaurant I was at wasn't all that bad. It suddenly made our inadequacies seem more charming and endearing. Maybe I would have to resign myself to working summer on the patios and getting laid off every winter during the slow months. I would have to accept the fact the we would never be perfect like them, and if we were we'd resent it. We wouldn't be ourselves. We wouldn't do silly stupid things, we wouldn't stand at the hostess stand talking about balls, we wouldn't actually enjoy going to work. And that was worth not being perfect for.