CHAPTER ONE (2)

But wasn’t it always like that in every country? Carlos felt that he was an impediment, a rock thrown into a glass box, no, a glass orb. Yes, he moved to the United States. Yes, he felt the need to defy those Tchilenos. But the orb was continually cycling around him, and now the rock had turned into the hamster and was pushing the orb with its own useless energies. Wasted energies. This was his life – a futile hamster caught in the rolling orb known as Man and wo to the rock that tried to impede the cycle.

            Spoken like the words of his father.

            He figured he might do another line on the plexiglass covering of the Corporate Corrotto’s calendar on the desk. That’ll show ‘em; tell me to clean up dry storage… By four Carlos entered his tiny Mazda and drove home.

 

            “Ryan. Can you bring me the board?” Carlos called from the back of the house, he figured Ryan could do all the work today. Besides, coming down wasn’t the most fun last night.

            Ryan walked in with the plastic board deligating which server had which section of table on the floor that night. Ryan Shirley – “Squirley” they called him – was a pudgy black man – boy, really – who was recently diagnosed with adult onset diabetes. Squirley had a snaggletooth in the right side of his upper mandible, and was the source of his constant half-smile grin that didn’t exactly fit the Corrotto’s Experience. Recently, he had been excersizing for fear that the diabetes would take him , and he had become mad. So mad he become paranoid. Carlos repeatedly asked him for his bank number in order to directly deposit his paycheck in the name of efficiency. How noble Carlos was. But Ryan would make up some excuse or another of why he forgot his number:

            “I had it in my pocket, ya see, and, uh, it fell out while I was jogging. Hey Carlitos, you ever jog?”

            But Ryan did not have any bank code, nor any bank, because his philosophy simply was that banks stole your money. It wasn’t the fact that he dealt weed on the side, because the earnings from that wouldn’t nearly be enough to alert any big corporation that too much cash was flowing in and out. Frankly, he wasn’t a successful drug dealer. It was the fact that he had been burned badly by the bank (overdraft fees, nickel and diming him), done some research, and came out the other end with a low tolerance for paranoia and a strange felling that “the man” was constantly out to get him.

            “You see, the bank teller said that there was a mess up at the corporate center and their system was down.”

            “I’ll bring it tomorrow. I could swear I had that damn thing in my pocket.”

            “I will call you right away when I get off tonight. Promise.”

CHAPTER ONE (1)

And finally above the managers were the corporate managers. Every so often they would grace this particular Corrotto’s with a visit, in order to deal out their bi-yearly portion of vomit on the managers – which would later trickle down to other employees and then become nothing of the managers’ problem. Too many linens being used to fold the silverware in? Cut that. Servers’ ties a little too flashy? Go out and buy new ties. Food cost up six and a half percent? No more voids, you hear me? Ray and Carlos would drink in the unnecessary tid-bits like puppies waiting for a piece of bacon. The yes man attitude a farce. But hat corporation did not have its fair share of yes men? And it wasn’t their fault, for what could they do? – simply drink it in and pretend to enjoy it.

            These corrections would be made. And it was really the lower employees who had to deal with the corrections. Implementing them was a matter of “having one’s job or not.” To the managers, everyone was dispensible. In the back of their minds, creeping at them daily with blunt, powerful force, Carlos and Ray knew that they, too, were ultimately dispenisible. Hence the puppy love they gave to the ridiculousness of Corporate’s regulations. Hence the enforcement of black socks rule and so on. But the cycle continued because one merely had to eat. One merely had to eat.

            And the tin man and his noodle sat to observe all. Always observing.

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

            Carlos stared haneously into the screen. It had been a long day. No more guests thank god. The computer hummed listlessly and the intense smell of parmesean permeated the tiny office. It was 3 am.

            Fuck, I gotta get home. No, I can wait. I just gotta get my sales report done.

            When he had to close, Carlos Cuadros always wore pastels. It was his blend-in, “I’m your man” nuance. Stained. It had to be that fagioule. Damn that fagioul. It was on the khakis, too. He hated khakis, but he wore them anyways. They always went with the pastel cuffed shirt. But Dickies pants were beneath him.

            He thought of Natalia, the woman who managed the supermarket across the complex. Man, she had beautiful legs. Ray said, “If I wasn’t married, I’d be kissin’ that dame’s feet night and day.” Ray always spoke like he was from the forties. Probably some nostalgic attempt at getting back at the servers – they were young enough to be his grandchildren. Carlos suspected Ray was jealous. Fuck, the reports…

            After Carlos had come to the United States, he noticed these things. In 1971, before he left Chile, the old Chilenos would mock this language. “Tchilenos” they pronounced it. They were better than the working class, and the Tch sound was their rite. They were born with it apparently. But Carlos was too young, too stupid, really, to understand why they had to classify themselves and why they detested Ray’s speak.

           

 

I decided to post what I wrote today: i thought these sketches were entertaining:

So my grandmother used to roast whole cloves of garlic in her tiny GE oven – those ovens that came out right after the cold war, those ovens that were still in use when the Wall fell.

I used to work at the Jewish Community Center and one day they put me in the infant room. I normally dealt with the four and five year olds – the ones that were about to enter kindergarten and could at least form coherent sentences. But not that day. Instead, my boss thought that she would try my hand at the infant room. It smelled of Clorox and wet wipes.

My German grandmother has this tiny bathroom that she never uses. It is located inside of her room, the master bedroom, while my grandfather sleeps in the tinier bedroom. Older people seem to do that these days: they never sleep in the same bed. But my grandparents don’t even sleep in the same room.

I used to work in this store that sold work on consignments for artists. There were odd little things in the store, all made by hand from local artists in the Tucson area: mainly southwestern. Anyways, the only thing that was sold there from a corporation was Burt’s Bee lip balm, in a variety of smells and flavors. I wanted the original so badly, for some reason.

My mother and I, when I was a child, would always go to bed together. She had a king size bed, which, at the time, I thought was more than fit for a king. My dad would be fast asleep on the other side, waaaaay over on the other side. We would always eat an orange, and I can remember her peeling the orange and the smell would stick to our hands. I could never sleep and my mother would tell me to think about all of the energy flowing out of my chest and into my arms and legs. And then the energy would migrate to my hands and my feet, and eventually all the energy left would coagulate in my fingertips and toes and I swear I can still feel that energy there from time to time. And if I could hold out long enough, I would be able to hear her say to me, “…and now all of that energy is seeping out. From every nail bed, from every pore, from every hair follicle…” I never made it past that point.

In Chile, they have the most wonderful wine. It is best enjoyed straight from the tap. I have learned through my less than sommelie days that wine isn’t necessarily better the older it is. Especially white wines, which is what was featured that cloudy morning just south of Santiago. In the Casa Blanco vinyards, there is the most lovely scene: the rolling hills, that picturesque row by row by row of sauvignon blanc, the settling clouds on those same rolling hills, the smell of manure. That is what chile is to me. 

But of course none of the Rittos would think about this. Both worlds were too aught up in their jobs to be bothered by mere tile. And neither were the managers concerned – as long as both worlds continued the process.

            The managers were a different breed entirely. There were two: Carlos and Ray. Carlos obviously had more power, for he was the proprietor – he owned the building. However, Ray Urban had more influence. It was these two men who ran the entire process; the whole show; the big enchilada. “Jefe,” as he was known to the Mexicans, “Carlitos,” as he was known affectionately to the front of the house staff, Carlos Cuadros dealt with all of the “big” problems. He would deal with agitated customers, and so , as one can imagine, he was not apt to hear the words, “Carlos, can you go talk to table 24? Their chicken parm came out late, and I think you should go deal with it.” He was always dealing with it. It could be cold soup, late ticket times, the smell in the restaurant is unappetizing, the problem is with the server, the drink is too strong, this drink is too weak, Can you take this off my ticket?, this fork is dirty, this table is off balance…

            And Carlos dealt with it. And Ray did, too. And that was their job. They would both mediate between servers and other servers, servers and Mexicans, servers and busers, servers and guests, servers and…

-i have decided to forget the chapters at this point in my story, for i believe that these representations and images would go better as an introduction. as you have noticed by now, there is no plot, and it is all quite informative. continue...

It is widely unknown how the back of the house Ritto came to America. There were rumors that many of them crossed the border by foot, but that was only a rumor. The prep cooks did not talk about it except within themselves, and it was extremely hard to delve into their former lives as Mexicans. Many of them had changed their first names in order to feign their identity – others just their last names. Others were bold enough to change neither name. The fact was that they were not citizens, and the fact was that this was common practice in the restaurant world. And so the back of the house was comprised of mainly, but not limited to, Rittos that knew very little of their counterparts’ world in the front of the house.

            The language barrier was often time comical. A few of the Mexicans would try to speak English, but of course they were so completely surrounded by their own “kind”, that it simply wasn’t necessary. A few would take up the mannerisms of Americans, but, again, it was unnecessary. The two worlds (the back of the house and the front of the house) thus were separated by both language and custom, and both were content within their little realms. And what divided them? Tile. The tile of the front of the house seemed better; it was fake marble and quite expensive – it was water-resiistant, it was cleaned with utmost care, it was the front of the house. The back of the house tile was for utility only, it was worse; it would suck up water leaking from the garbage cans and soda machine through dark grout, and then once squeegeed, would be spit back out for a Mexican to slip on. It wreaked. When washed, it was only splattered with water.

            However, quite a phenomenon occurred. For it was within the middle where both worlds met in order to keep the machine moving that was the restaurant: each world converged at the center into a grey middle world; a world in which both came to together to at the dish pit. Servers would bring the used plates in and deposit them in what is known as the “dish pit” and a BOH Ritto would deposit it then into quite a machine. The stainless steel beast would rinse with extremely heated water, then sanitize, the repeat, and the used dishes would exit out of the other side and suddenly there were clean plates. And most restaurants would use this mechanism. And most restaurants would use Mexicans. And most Mexicans dealt with this process in the same way:

            “Gracias.”

            And that was all.

Chapter three, continued...

Of course, there was always – in a rare while – the black couple hat came in a defied all imbedded notions of the “black tip”. The Mexicans, prevalent in the area, and almost always kind, defied this unwritten rule even less often. Matt said one day, summarizing the racism perfectly at Corrotto’s: “You can take the tip out of the Mexican, but you can’t take the Mexican out of the tip.” But he was not considered a bigot. He was not considered a racist. In fact, it was an agreed upon fact by all of the servers and even hostesses that Mexicans simply did not have the resources nor the values to tip well. Oh, they might leave a tip, but never over 10%. But again, none could take the Mexican out of the tip. Even Ernesto, a native of Hermosillo would agree.

            “I am ashamed.” Ernesto would say frequently and hang his head low.

            “You should be.” Matt would say.

            Of course this was all play. The norms inside the building in the neat little shopping center changed dramatically once one stepped passed the mahogany doors. It was a different world, a paradigm filled with racism and sex and fattening food, the smell of expired parmesean and the exchange of money. And the servers would tease and taunt one another, “Oh Viki, you’re such a Jew. God knows we don’t want your Jewish blood anyways, the price of pork might go up”, or, “I’m from New Jersey, of course we are loud,” or even worse, “Ry – Ry, if you want me to run your food again, make sure you put the damned ticket in the right fucking order. There’s a nice tree outside ready for the hangin’.” And Ry-Ry (Ryan) would laugh it off and say, “shut up, you kike.” And this is how the servers would communicate. Then they would go back to their computers and type the next order in to clog the arteries of the next cheap black family.

            But the servers’ job remained in the front of the house for only about 25% of the time – the rest was spent in what is referred to as the BOH (aka the back of the house). And if it wasn’t bad enough that the Ritto dared to utter these bigoted words in the front of the house, when no customer was chiming in, then there was no doubt that he would make them even more bigoted in the back of the house. Customer’s ears could not reach that far. Bt a strange phenomenon occurred in the back of the house, for this is where the servers met their back of the house counter-parts: the prep cooks.

Chapter Three: The Servers

 

In this tiny society, as in most societies, there crept certain factors that differentiated each individual. For the Rittos, each individual served his purpose in the way of this society, each in part brought aspects to the restaurant in what experienced people in the food industry call the “front of the house”.

            In the front of the house, sometimes dubbed FOH, there worked the servers, the bussers, the hostesses, the bartenders, as well at the floor manager. And yet to be one of these peculiar people, any one of them, there was always an extroverted talent that each must possess: anyone who worked in the front of the house must be gregarious. Fraternization created the character of each of these employees, for working with people was the basis of their duties. Inevitably, this created conflict within the members of the front of the house culture, for if all obtained this inherently out-going feature, then it can be assumed that all obtained a certain elevated level of outspoken and straightforwardness. This was the case at Corrotto’s.

            Beginning with the first person the guest in point may see, would be the hostess. She is a sly creature, beautiful and tiny but with a nymph-like deceptiveness. Her nails are manicured, her hair pouffed or fromped to perfection, masking her inner illusory character. They all were the same, they all were the same. It was up to the server to manipulate over time the actions that the hostess would no doubt resolve to do; the server could tip her out, the server could befriend her, or the server could do none of these things and make little money. It was in this way that Corrotto’s fell into the line of machinery. For it was a machine, and the hostess-server relationship exemplified this.

            It was common to find a female server mosey over to the hostess stand and converse with the hostess: for she deligated which guest or party of guests would be sat at which table (of course, which table belonged to which server). So it was only part of the job of the server to befriend the hostess in order to make a little more money. Each server had his own set of rules in which the hostess must known when being sat. For instance, Matt C. would not allow any white trash, children under the age of 21, black people or Mexicans to be sat in his section. Sarah refused Mexicans at all cost. Vanessa really didn’t care, but god have mercy on the poor new hostess that sat her foreigners (especially foreigners from Europe). It was the unwritten job in the Real employee Handbook that had virtually no merit with corporate Corroto’s that the hostess must follow in order to secure her place.

            But why the racism? It was a fact, beyond all doubt, that those mentioned and their groups did NOT tip well. Can you blame the server? Could you blame the hostess? Not at all. It was an unwritten rule: the non-white groups went mainly to the newest and ignorant Ritto server. Management had no worries about this dirty procedure. And could you blame management? No. The dynamics went like this: Those falling within the non-white or white trash categories simply did not have the funds available to be dining at a “fine establishment” such as Corrotto’s. This is why servers did not appreciate their business. But since these categories did not have the coveted and almighty dollar, management refused (subtly, of course – no one wants a law suit) to follow their motto of “everything goes” particularly with these groups. It is a sad fact, yes, but this is just the beginning of the Corrotto’s way of life.