A Bloody Waitress

I was 19 and my heart had shattered into teeny snippets of painful debris. I had been surprisingly (for me) dumped for a childhood friend of his with whom he had begun playing amateur tennis. After spending days in bed recalling too many gloomy visuals and decimating an entire jungle with my tissue use, I convinced myself the answer to heartache was to segue into a tennis champion. Not having access to a tennis court, tennis gear or the ability to retrieve back-court memories from years earlier, I decided the next best option was to become an enviable success. I needed to earn extra cash before University started anyways but reasoned supplemental riches might provide vague proof he was missing out. With stalker focus I asked his good friends if I could temporarily rent at theirs, and after receiving an awkward yes I moved in and started searching for that lust inducing job.

What I hadn’t factored in was my decidedly specific skill set as a shy farm girl. Although I was used to working long and hard, I was now in a big city where livestock talents weren’t exactly a coveted strength. My fantasy projections for big bucks needed lowering so I started walking my nearest high street in search of anything that involved paid work. It wasn’t the jealousy inducing revenge hoped for, but it was a start to get me out of my own head and back into some semblance of normal human interaction.

I trudged around local restaurants, pubs, and retail stores within walking distance of my new accommodations. With an already deflated self-image it was disheartening showing a resume whose primary highlights were Sports Captain, High School Diploma and Sheep Dipper. Yet, with perseverance I finally received interest from an Italian restaurant having approached them with anecdotes of a superb lobster mornay meal eaten there. I interviewed with the Mama who was loud, intimidating and seemingly unable to be charmed by my country girl politeness.

Despite her puzzling disapproval they called a week later saying they were short staffed and had a spare shift to which I could trial at. This involved memorising the menu and trying to learn the wine selection but having only just started my drinking career, with sickly sweet Midori and Lemonades, I had zero concept of sour grapes and accurate pairings. But I muddled through, smiled a lot, and constantly repeated to customers it was my first night. I like to think I impressed mama somewhat but it turns out they were constantly short staffed, had high turnover and needed anyone that could carry a plate affably. They also provided a caveated free meal during each 6-hour shift which ultimately provided me with surplus motivation. This meal could only encompass cheaper pasta items i.e., steak and lobster dishes were not available, but as my heart recovery included relentless comfort eating, carbohydrates were the optimal choice.

The Mama was quite hard on me and demanded various tasks that seemed to include an inordinate amount of unpaid trials. I refused to complain, mostly as I have a people pleasing issue, but I also thought I would eventually win her over to the light side and thus get longer shifts and thus better tips. Her unfriendliness did not waver over the next 8 shifts.

During my 9th shift, it was a particularly busy night and I was still learning and still very much paranoid about getting things wrong. I zipped to a table who were waving me over and asked what they would like to order. Unfortunately for me the gentleman ordering was a rampant mutterer. I strained to hear and after getting flustered and asking numerous times for him to repeat himself, I asked him to point at the menu. He indicated the Fillet Mignon which just happened to be my favourite cut of meat at the time, thus with my stomach triggered I was confident I now knew what he wanted. Relieved I trotted over to the kitchen, placed the order and continued to bustle about looking after other guests and tables. The kitchen bell rang, the fillet order was up, and I took the steaming medium rare steak to his table. The look on his face when I set down his meal filled me with horror. He hadn’t ordered Fillet Mignon but had apparently pointed to the Fillet of Monkfish which was written below. I knew at the very least I would get a powerful bolloxing, but with the aversion aimed at me from Mama it was more realistic to expect a conspicuous firing. I panicked. I took his Fillet over to a side table, quickly put the new order in and said to the chef as coolly as possible “he seems awfully hungry, he wants another Fillet, fish this time though”. The chef looked at me strangely and I smiled, which was more a grimace, then shrugged. I now had a medium rare Fillet Mignon to get rid of without anyone noticing.

I dashed to the scraps bucket but thought ‘nope’ she’s like a bloodhound so I can’t put the steak in the garbage as she will sniff it out and I will be fired. I went into the female toilets thinking I could conceal it and come back later for a final disposal but being an independent trattoria hiding options were minimal. Ugh I will be fired. For a brief second, I thought I might be able to flush it down the toilet but I spooked myself about clogging the system, flooding the restaurant and then still getting fired. Yes, I was young and oh yes I was stupid, but I was also terrified of conflict, public humiliation and tongue lashings. The sensible and ethical thing to do would have been to confess all, apologise profusely and offer to pay for the meal myself. But I did not do this, instead I shoved the Mignon down into my knickers!!? With my uniform consisting of black tights, a black skirt, and a white long-sleeved shirt I had madly concluded blood would be difficult to see in the lower section. In this lightening moment I manoeuvred the meat to sit halfway into my underpants with the tights keeping the upper half of the steak snug against my belly, basically, the ill-conceived concept was to provide a double barrier. I strode around quickly to check for leakage, jumping up and down several times and bending over vigorously. Phew I thought, the steak will hold.

I next dashed out to the scraps bucket with the rest of the plate and put the final items into the bin, putting the now empty plate back onto the dirty dishes pile. I continued to serve for another hour or so all the time praying a piece of steak would not fall from my under carriage. Towards the end of my shift, although I had been rabidly avoiding her Mama finally cornered me. She was unsurprisingly angry, knowing a Fillet meal had gone missing, “I’ve searched the entire restaurant and can’t find it, I even went into the toilet, what the hell have you done with it”. Squirming uncomfortably, although allowing myself a moment of triumph for not using the toilet, I looked at her with horror and fibbed “what are you talking about”? Obviously now as a grown up I am still non-plussed on how I thought I would get away with it – or even more pertinent - why I didn’t own up in the first place. But in this shameful moment, blubbering to my boss and knowing there was beef stuck in my lingerie I was genuinely petrified of the well-deserved contempt and bolloxing I should receive.

As she couldn’t find the offending steak and I was in deep denial of any involvement she finally let me end the shift and head home. Of course, it was the night that my ex showed up at his friend’s place and during that moment of an unexpected meeting I had completely forgotten about the steak. I had untucked my shirt with a significant sigh and dramatic gesture to demonstrate to my small audience the stress of a corporate women. But now my shirt was hanging loosely, the whiteness deftly showing off the hefty chunks of bright red blood and sinew. I was as surprised as they when they exclaimed in horror re why I had so much blood on my shirt. What the hell happened to your stomach? Are you on a bad period? Have you cut yourself etc etc. I felt the mortification physically rise upwards in a painfully slow journey around my face and mumbled something foolish about the chef dropping a burger. The scepticism was excruciating. Embarrassed and still confused at my own behaviour I scuttled to my room and dug around my tights. The destroyed piece of meat was retrieved and changing clothes I sheepishly walked out to where my ex and his friends were muttering something about heading outside for some fresh air after a long shift.

I ran to the nearest bin and looked furtively around. In the back of my head, I was thinking Mama might have followed me home and I was under further surveillance. Although, as I was under a lamp the only things I could actually see were my own shadow, the bin, and a darkened street so into the garbage the mangled meat went. With Fillet Mignon being one of my favourite cuts, the final farewell bought on a slight tinge of paunch sadness. Thankfully when I got home the ex and his friends had gone out and I was able to nurse my total humiliation in dejected loneliness.

The next morning, I had a message on my phone saying they no longer required my waitressing skills. The feeling was unequivocally mutual as there was zero chance of me holding my head high in a restaurant where I was known as a food filcher. To this day I still cannot explain what I was thinking re hiding a meal down my unmentionables. I would never dream of doing the same thing nowadays and assume my new order of events would include a confession, an offer to pay, and an entreaty to the chef to keep the meal aside for jolly guzzling afterwards. The lesson learned is fess up when something has gone wrong, particularly if it involves food service, a high-end menu item and a chronic grunter. Although I believe the result would have been the same i.e., an extensive and public Mama scolding with a sensational firing. I left the house a week later and went back to the farm. Dipping sheep was far easier than serving sheep and the outdoors allowed me to plot my next envy inducing plan that might compel an ex into realising tennis players can also be meatheads.