I have always admired waiters and waitresses who can listen to several orders, with all of their individual variations, and remember them without writing anything down. My memory is not that good, so I devised codes: the table (or trough) number; M,W or C for man, woman, or child; the number of the item on the menu; r,m, or wd for rare, medium, or well done; f,m,or b for fries, mashed, or baked potato etc. My system worked well, except that at the conclusion of the meal, each bill looked like a scrabble board at the end of a game.
Business was brisk and left me little time for watching my fellow-servers for evidence of pilfering; otherwise, my debut as a waiter did well. I did not spill any food or break any plates, I received five dollars and twenty cents in tips, and only three people complained to the manager about me. I failed, however, to discover anything about the disappearing food, so Pierre and I decided that the next night I would work in the kitchen, unpacking food, handling the dirty and clean dishes, and generally trying to make myself useful. Besides, the stealing was more likely occurring there rather than in the Sty. I tried not to decide if this move represented a promotion or demotion.
The kitchen was hot and steamy and noisy with the clatter of dishes, the spattering of cooking food, the calls of the waitresses ordering food, and the muted swearing of the cooks. Emily and Madeline were always busy and Lucy was perpetual motion on two legs, but she still found time to put uneaten food into the garbage bags and carry them to the dumpster in the alley behind the restaurant. Once, I thought I saw her take out an unopened package of rolls, another time some unpeeled and unsliced potatoes, and once some uncooked meat, but in the chaos of the kitchen, I couldn’t be sure.
I tried to be helpful, but I spent most of my time trying to keep out of everyone’s way. Even so, I bumped into more people than an NHL defenceman in an overtime game.
When the restaurant had closed and the staff had gone, I mentioned my suspicions to Pierre.
“She’s been here three months and she’s a model employee.”
“When did food begin disappearing?”
“About two months ago.”
“Long enough to establish her worth as a waitress before beginning to pilfer. But Why? I’ll watch her carefully tomorrow night.”
But that was difficult because it was Saturday and Cochon Heureax was very busy. The cooks each took only one brief smoke break in the alley and they left empty-handed.
I was holding bags of apples and bananas which Lucy seized: “I’ll take care of these.”
“No, I can do it,” although I had no idea of what to do with them. For a moment, we engaged in an undignified tug-of-war, then I relinquished my grasp. She circled a table, then slipped out the back door. She returned in a minute, without the bags.
