Nothing special.

I run everywhere. I constantly stare at tables, wear flabby shirts, talk to myself, and I now answer to Augustin. I am a waiter.

My kitchen days are over, meaning no more free food, big knives, or magnanimous hacking at shellfish. I’ve forever hung up my food-splattered kitchen uniform, and I’ve been given the waiter’s Hawaiian shirt. Except its XXL. I’m sure it was used as a sail for some galleon before being handed over to me. But whatever, It’ll stop being funny in a few months. I hope. I’ve also got the ‘Augustin’ nametag, cuz they don’t got no Alex’s. At first I just ignored people when they called for me, but now I’m starting to get the hang of it.

It’s a lot more hoity toity than kitchen work, which I don’t like. You gotta know everything about wine, be all formal with ‘desirez-vous’ this and that. Everyone’s a lot more uptight about everything too. “The knife placement is all wrong, it goes a millimeter to the left” “You use the Bordeaux glasses for the Chablis grand cru 1978’s second harvest” and “Alex! Take that corkscrew out of your nose!”.

But it is also a lot more fun. You get to talk to the guests. You make friends with them, and I’ve gotta say, the Italians are the best. They’re always the friendliest, nicest, and most curious. But man, its hard to remember whose who. So you make up names for them, or remember their weird traits- like the Russian mafia guy, billboard forehead, Italian hippie, Jacob’s creek. It always starts out the same, why do you speak fluent Italian/English? then: what brings you to bora? And inevitably they either know someone or know someone that knows someone that’s done hotel school blady bla.