Grace Ruto

RUNNER UP

Dinner service

Fuck me, I overdid it. I remember about a total of 15 minutes from last night: a combination of a row with a group of incels outside a Simmons and flirting with several members of a hen-do. Dinner service begins in 30 minutes, so there is no time to wash the smell of tequila off me. I told myself to cope, followed by a string of self-hating sentences, and made it out the door. My runway to the restaurant floor was broken up with cheek-kisses, little squeezes, and desperate bids to have a bite of whatever was in their pot. I put on my bow tie and apron, jiggled my limbs, and jumped in place to remind myself I was real — the show was about to begin. The corner of the restaurant that was deemed “mine” filled up with hungry, thirsty, mischievous-looking guests: a very ugly and senile aristocrat, a manic-looking pop singer, and a tween drinking lemonade out of a wine glass. Bonkers.

I never understood why people acted the way they did in restaurants, and why they seemed so desperate. It could definitely be our fault; we indulge them in this ridiculous charade, making them hungrier and thirstier for special treatment. However, I see the humanity in their nonsense. I don’t think people actually want a rented servant — I think they just want someone who seems like they really care.

I started with the aristocrat. I found my sweetest voice and glided down the spectrum away from Cheryl Cole and towards someone more like Mary Berry. I brought him his orange juice before he asked, and then I asked him about his grandchildren, whom I’ve never met, but I know intimately from photos and stories, and I tell him how lucky he is to have such an adorable little army of toddlers. I don’t know why I flatter someone who’s so nostalgic for the Empire, but I find small rebellion in correcting his colonial terms. However, I try to remember I’m not here to change his mind, but to bring him his liver the way he likes it. Whatever I represent or remind him of doesn’t matter to me, but at least I know if I follow suit I can give what he calls my “pocket money” to the homeless people near the station.

Next, the coked-up star. It seemed like we were in the same boat, seeing as her orange sunglasses were still on and she kept fiddling with her bread. Despite the details of her divorce being incredibly public in the tabloids, the maître d’ decided to put her centre stage, where everyone could see her. “Is that not a bit mean?” I asked her as she moved things about on her iPad — you would think she was orchestrating a deployment. “Darling, I needed to sex up the room.” She was my favourite to eavesdrop on: completely mental, like watching an episode of Absolutely Fabulous. I think I see through her a little, and through her veneer of “chicness”. Awkwardly smiling, I offered to take her order — a salad, from which she asked to remove the bacon, dressing, eggs, everything of substance. Following my script, as I can’t trust myself to freestyle in this condition, I offered her fries, to which she literally went pale. I scurried away like an idiot rat and hit my head against the kitchen wall. The chef called her a bitch for such an order, but I didn’t think to explain that many women never really recover adolescence. Maybe they want to be so small they disappear entirely.

Then, the child. There is actually much to learn from 12-year-olds, especially how adults use this as a teaching moment — not just for manners, but for how to treat those in uniform, and how this space becomes a simulation for how much they can get away with being arrogant and stupid (and they say money can’t buy everything). They cutely asked what all the cutlery was for, and listened to their dad’s waffle about the wine list, and I saw in real time them absorbing this memory into their consciousness. I wanted to scream. Serving children is freakishly candid because they’re obviously fickle, but because you’re face-to-face with someone who is actively deciding who they’ll become based on every which way they’re encouraged by this charade.I wished I could intervene and tell them to take the exit and not end up a replica of their snob parents. Soon, the mains came, and even though I thought I was managing my scatterbrain quite well, it turned out I had brought his mum fish and chips rather than a fishcake. Shit. Before the parents had the chance to throw their first stone, the child intervened. “It doesn’t matter, plus you like fish and chips anyway.” My little saviour smiled at me and asked for ketchup, giving me the solace of escaping back to the kitchen. They are going to turn out just fine.

Back home, smoking by my bedroom window, I recounted the day and thought about all the people I met in the theatre of dinner service. An eclectic and transparent cast, preforming why people come to restaurants, narrated by the their same hungover waitress.