Chef said, "This ticket is confusing! Please tell the server I'd like a word!" which is a rough translation of, "What the F? This ticket is F'ed up! Get me the F'er who wrote it!"
I was running from the room service kitchen, which makes our breakfasts, and missing the restaurant's main kitchen, which is open to the dining room and not conducive to Chef vernacular.
The order in question was for "Egg Benedict SUB BACON FOR SAMOLN."
Our number two cook was working with one of the main kitchen's leads, who was on his first day, so even though he had the chops to burn through the line, he was fighting an unfamiliar menu and woefully underprepared mise en place. Patience was no longer a significant commodity.
"Easy, Chef," I said. "He's South African, and in their vernacular, the subject and object are switched. He means to say that bacon is substituted out, salmon is in. The verb is flipped relative to American English."
Blink, blink, blink. Shake. "GET ME THE FUCKING WAITER!"
Sometimes I miss being in a college town.
After ten days of operation, our serving capacity has increased 300%. Dinner has been a steady accumulation and margin-pushing venture. Lunch went from more staff than diners to 160 covers over the course of yesterday. Evidently, it was ugly, with three cooks and three servers. No mention of putting the top capacity staff on evening shifts and leaving for breakfast and lunch those who are perfectly content to stand around polishing silverware and chatting through a service.
I'd be embarrassed were I to wait on myself: I'd be bullshitting through a third of the core ingredients: what sort of flour is in the burger bun? In what wine are the shortribs braised? What's the difference between the braising fluid and demiglace? Where does the goat cheese come from? Would the herbal profile of that (the baby gem lettuce with roasted beets, goat cheese, and a winter citrus vinaigrette) better compliment the truffle-onion jus of the seabass or the escabeche on the rotisserie chicken? What's the house olive oil? From what dairy is the creme fraiche sourced?
Not that I really care, not that it would greatly alter y choice, but if I was trying to decide between, say, the burger with fries and house-pickled fixins and the French dip with onion rings and jus, here's what I would want to know:
What's the size (8 vs 6 oz)
What's the bun (Old World Mills sesame bun and molasses baguette)
Tell me about the fries vs onion rings (fries are house pressed russets, onions are [bsing] cippolini in a light breading and hot fry)
The toppings (applewood smoked bacon with gruyere and caramelized onion with gruyere)
The sources (beef comes from the Five Dot Ranch, which raises grass-fed and hormone-free beef outside of Susanville, and the veg, like the meats, come from the balance of highest quality and greatest locality, hence Maine diver scallops, salsify from Holland, and beef from just up the road, but there isn't as much draw for name-brand farms that grow arugula during the California winter).
In this case, the molasses baguette would sell me, but were it a sesame baguette I would go for the ingredients I'd like to support--if the russets come from twin falls and the caramelized onion comes from Walla Walla, it's the dip all the way.
And if I'm paying for a Ritz Carlton dining experience, I want that information.
Anyway, I like that I don't have to face myself on the floor, I like that I get to drop off food, point out the highlights, and bolt. I like that I don't have to talk myself out of the constant intimidation of not absolutely owning the menu.
And then I take a pizza to a table, "the pizza du jour with pancetta Americana, endive, basil, and five cheeses" (and I can list them), and the person looks sick.
"I ordered the pizza with mozzarella and cheddar."
"The mushroom soup with ruby port reduction and croquette."
"He told me I could have chicken noodle soup!"
"So?" is not an acceptable answer. Nor is, "Well, here's what we got."
And day after day, it happens with the same servers. Always the same. And as soon as one customer gets unhappy, the server melts down. Always the same. And then in steps a manager who excels at verbally creating a panicked "crisis" [clusterfuck] almost as adroitly as he creates stupidly confused "crises" through his actions--rather than just schmoozing, he gets proactive and mis-labels seats and tables.
Nothin like walking all over the floor wondering, "where to?" after a table says, "we didn't order that...."
I'm sure they're learning something, but sometimes I wonder what.
Whatever.
Evening service has direction and momentum and runs like a muscle car in need of a tune up.
Lunch and breakfast run like a muscle car that's been sitting in a field and has a rabbit nest in the hood.
But how fascinating to be part of the team responsible for establishing the preliminary practices and procedures. How great to play a part in polishing the restaurant into a showpiece.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Ritz stories: waterfall
I arrived at 5:40 amid a flurry of brownshirts--security agents running all over. The main kitchen is closed down--nobody could make it in through the foot-plus of snow. But between my supervisor saying "86 buffet" and actually striking it, I checked in the dark kitchen, in the dark walk-in, and found the speed rack laden with organic berries, smoked salmon, shaved meats, house-blended fruit yogurts, and freshly baked pastries. (Talk about bliss: imagine staggering around at 6:00 AM, bleary and groggy, and somehow making it into a room where a team of professionals has been baking bagels, muffins, and croissants for hours. Oh, to wrap up in warmth with almond croissants, apple turnovers, banana-walnut-raisin-carrot muffins, chocolate croissants, and donuts.)
We have an all-hands rally call: the takeout area of the hotel flooded; we should expect double business.
While awaiting the throngs, I walked over: imagine walking up to an indoor waterfall while it's snowing outside. A water main blew.
Thrice, from three disparate individuals, I heard: "They said it will take two to three days. I walked over, and it'll take two to three weeks."
Amazing what you learn when the plaster is in place.
We have an all-hands rally call: the takeout area of the hotel flooded; we should expect double business.
While awaiting the throngs, I walked over: imagine walking up to an indoor waterfall while it's snowing outside. A water main blew.
Thrice, from three disparate individuals, I heard: "They said it will take two to three days. I walked over, and it'll take two to three weeks."
Amazing what you learn when the plaster is in place.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Ritz stories
1:
A trainer zooms in and stares at my chin.
"You didn't shave this morning, did you?"
I do not say that it's been a week or more.
"I can't let you on the floor like that. You have to be clean shaven. You'll have to housekeeping to get a razor."
Ten minutes later, I've found housekeeping, and they don't have either a razor or a manager.
"I know you think I'm being a dick," says the trainer, "but I can't let you on the floor until you're clean shaven."
Track down the head of housekeeping and receive an official nix: no razors. So I dig through my bag and find a pocket knife.
Picture: I have three score hairs on my face, a third of which are white (the fuzz just doesn't count). All the rest are dark. So I'm sitting in one of the stalls of the employee bathroom--we are only permitted to use one in the millions of square feet of hotel space--scraping at the hairs until the blade gives up and I use it as half of a set of tweezers.
As I'm doing touch up, my supervisor walks in.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Shaving." Don't talk to me.
"Why?"
"X."
"X? The trainer?"
Nod.
"Dude."
"Am I good?"
"Get the sideburns again."
So I scrape and grind, scrape and rip, and catch an open-mouthed, "DUDE!"
"No shaving cream?" asks the trainer.
"No." I'm not pursuing this.
"Looks like the razor was a little dull."
"No razors,"
I can't sidestep the questioning look.
"Pocketknife."
"Damn."
2. I'll just say that there was some excitement and a pinky toe now looks like blood sausage. Mom said, "yeah, looks like you might want to look up how to treat a broken toe. But I think all they do is tape it and give you ibuprofin."
We do sympathy and emotional blowups over physical injuries damn well in this family.
My following shift began with leaving just after 4 AM and working until almost 6. On my feet. Except for the half hour lunch.
My limping attempts to avoid placing weight on the toe hurt the muscles in the leg worse than the break.
"Boss, do you know where I can find any Advil?"
"No, why?"
"Nothing, really; broke a toe the day before yesterday and forgot drugs. It's okay, though."
"Really?"
"Yes."
Damn, said the eyes.
Funny that my supervisor still left early to go snowboarding.
3. We were released after 11:00, and I turned off the highway just after 1. Plows had not hit the backstreets, and I was quickly plowing through waist deep snow. WRX did nobly until the grade hit about 10% and the snow pile was up over the hood.
I parked and walked and called some friends who were kind enough to drive me in their higher-clearance, heavier weight vehicle. I called my supervisor (as is company policy) in a panic (not policy). It took eight or ten tries to get through. "I won't be able to get out until the plow comes through! What should I do?"
"Stop calling me. Call Loss Prevention like you're supposed to."
I made it in under two hours late, thanks to the phenomenal generosity of the friend who had given me a ride a few hours before.
ds"You should have know better. Never let this happen again."
A couple of days later, my boss burned out a pair of chains and tires trying to get out of the employee parking lot. My supervisor went to pick him up and slid off the road in the process.
"Sucks, don't it?" I said. Neither held eye contact.
And I wonder why I always draw the early shift.
A trainer zooms in and stares at my chin.
"You didn't shave this morning, did you?"
I do not say that it's been a week or more.
"I can't let you on the floor like that. You have to be clean shaven. You'll have to housekeeping to get a razor."
Ten minutes later, I've found housekeeping, and they don't have either a razor or a manager.
"I know you think I'm being a dick," says the trainer, "but I can't let you on the floor until you're clean shaven."
Track down the head of housekeeping and receive an official nix: no razors. So I dig through my bag and find a pocket knife.
Picture: I have three score hairs on my face, a third of which are white (the fuzz just doesn't count). All the rest are dark. So I'm sitting in one of the stalls of the employee bathroom--we are only permitted to use one in the millions of square feet of hotel space--scraping at the hairs until the blade gives up and I use it as half of a set of tweezers.
As I'm doing touch up, my supervisor walks in.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Shaving." Don't talk to me.
"Why?"
"X."
"X? The trainer?"
Nod.
"Dude."
"Am I good?"
"Get the sideburns again."
So I scrape and grind, scrape and rip, and catch an open-mouthed, "DUDE!"
"No shaving cream?" asks the trainer.
"No." I'm not pursuing this.
"Looks like the razor was a little dull."
"No razors,"
I can't sidestep the questioning look.
"Pocketknife."
"Damn."
2. I'll just say that there was some excitement and a pinky toe now looks like blood sausage. Mom said, "yeah, looks like you might want to look up how to treat a broken toe. But I think all they do is tape it and give you ibuprofin."
We do sympathy and emotional blowups over physical injuries damn well in this family.
My following shift began with leaving just after 4 AM and working until almost 6. On my feet. Except for the half hour lunch.
My limping attempts to avoid placing weight on the toe hurt the muscles in the leg worse than the break.
"Boss, do you know where I can find any Advil?"
"No, why?"
"Nothing, really; broke a toe the day before yesterday and forgot drugs. It's okay, though."
"Really?"
"Yes."
Damn, said the eyes.
Funny that my supervisor still left early to go snowboarding.
3. We were released after 11:00, and I turned off the highway just after 1. Plows had not hit the backstreets, and I was quickly plowing through waist deep snow. WRX did nobly until the grade hit about 10% and the snow pile was up over the hood.
I parked and walked and called some friends who were kind enough to drive me in their higher-clearance, heavier weight vehicle. I called my supervisor (as is company policy) in a panic (not policy). It took eight or ten tries to get through. "I won't be able to get out until the plow comes through! What should I do?"
"Stop calling me. Call Loss Prevention like you're supposed to."
I made it in under two hours late, thanks to the phenomenal generosity of the friend who had given me a ride a few hours before.
ds"You should have know better. Never let this happen again."
A couple of days later, my boss burned out a pair of chains and tires trying to get out of the employee parking lot. My supervisor went to pick him up and slid off the road in the process.
"Sucks, don't it?" I said. Neither held eye contact.
And I wonder why I always draw the early shift.
Ritz Doctrine
For three days, we were subjected to Ritz Carlton Philosophy Training. We met in large parking lots, were bussed to the property, and stood outside in our respective areas--Housekeeping, Food and Beverage, Culinary and Stewarding, Culinary, Finance &c.--and cheered. Human Resources folks worked up waves. Chants of "RITZ" "CARLTON" back and forth, back and forth, listening to Culinary bang on pots and baking sheets, then parading up the sweeping staircase, along past the restaurant, and to the main banquet hall through a gauntlet the Ritz is proud to call the Wall of Applause.
For the opening, the Ritz flew in the biggest Ritz Carlton cheerleaders from around the world, an army of maybe a hundred and fifty that dominated the property with the critical weight of a maximum capacity crowd. And each and every one of them lined up from the entryway to the banquet hall to applaud the three hundred new hires entering their tutelage.
I'm a musician, remember, and accustomed to standing during applause for other people's work. At least then it's not a bunch of creepy people staring at me and lauding me for walking past en masse, it's a bunch of people who have listened to the symphonic productions to which I have contributed. But okay, the Ritz Carlton appreciates me. Cool.
Day One was a happy, feel-good time, centering on the Credo Card. Suffice to say, it's the company's form of eugenics; live the credo--the Motto, the Three Steps of Service, the twelve Service Values, the Employee Promise, all wrapped up in a business card sized accordion fold that encapsulates the Ritz Carlton's mission and execution.
Day One was, "Welcome to the Ritz Carlton. You are joining the top one percent of hospitality providers in the world. You are ladies and gentlemen, unanimously and without question, and you are serving ladies and gentlemen. You are not servants; at the Ritz Carlton, you are ladies and gentlemen above all else. You are internal guests. You are empowered. We will give you up to two thousand dollars to create lasting emotional experiences, memories, and Ritz Carlton customers for life. Get to know your customers, and surprise them with thoughtfulness--go buy a teddy bear for a kid who lost one, replace a cracked window in a monthly customer's car, bring a fresh box of Kleenex to someone with a fistful of tissues, bring roses to a couple who announces an anniversary. Write everything down so we can remember for next time. Write down birthdays and anniversaries, food and drink allergies and preferences, stock the fridge with the case of Diet Coke the person brought last time, remember that they are ladies and gentlemen, just like you, and they want to be treated well, just like you. So welcome to the Ritz Carlton family! Go team!"
"RITZ!"
"CARLTON!"
"RITZ"
"CARLTON!"
Until the exiting ovation seems an honor, not a superfluous cordiality.
Day Two brought what I will call demerits, or the "or else" clauses of employment: "Okay, you know what we're about, but really, you have to keep our clients in mind: Francis Ford Coppola, Michael J Fox, Britney; they have expectations, and you'd better accommodate. So, no smoking, no drinking, no eating, no cell phones, no congenial gestures, no love pats, no slang, no familiarity in public unless it's with a guest's kid. No scraggly hair, no ponytailed gentlemen, no spike-haired women, no dyed hair, no extreme makeup, no extreme jewelry, no wild socks, no untucked shirts, no baggy eyes, no caffeine jitters. You are ladies and gentlemen and will act it, because if you remember Service Value #10, you are proud of your professional appearance, language, and behavior.
"If you are out of line, you will receive demerits on a subjective basis. Miss a shift, show up late, out of uniform, mentally disengaged, physically compromised, and you might just tip the scales to canned.
"You will swipe at Loss Prevention [security] the moment you step on premises. You will swipe in for your shift. You will swipe out for lunch, which must come before the fifth hour of your shift or you will receive demerits. You will swipe back in after exactly thirty minutes--any more or less and you will receive demerits. You will swipe out before the eighth hour of your shift or you will receive demerits. Here, sign this form to waive the right to a lunch before the sixth hour of your shift. While you're at it, sign this form to waive treatment from a non Ritz doctor.
"Had enough? Okay, go get lunch."
"Welcome back. Remember: you cannot be on the premises outside of your shift unless you have prior approval. You cannot clock in before your half hour lunch is up. You cannot clock in for less than four hours. If you are on premises, you have to clock in, so you have to be here for reason enough to justify four hours of pay, okay?
"When you leave, either your shift or the premises, you must clock out. When you arrive, you must clock in. Failure to do so will result in demerits.
"When you leave, you will return your uniform. Loss, damage, or alteration will be grounds for discharge. As you exit, your bags will be subject to search."
"Every morning, you will have a lineup, during which your manager will read the Commitment to quality, which is a story about 'the genuine care and comfort of our guests' or 'the finest personal service and facilities' which ensured that 'the Ritz Carlton experience enlivens the senses, instills well0being, and fulfills even the unexpressed wishes and needs of our guests.' [really] You will be inspected for conformity and uniformity and any transgressions will be noted. Each day, we will highlight one of the Service Values. You will be expected to know them."
All of it interspersed with anecdotes and rambling designed to make it sound fun and happy.
And the Wall of Applause.
Day Three: I was ready to scream. Don't ask me to delve in. It was another intense session of go team, sandwiched between the Wall of Applause. The only thing I can say is that it was somewhat relieving to hear that most of the speakers--many of whom were way high up in the company--started work as part time servers or banquet attendants.
Day Four-Seven: trial runs. Serving the trainers, with more trainers hovering around, and everyone offering contradictory assurances about the proper conduct of the restaurant. Day Eight-Twelve: working the early bird shift. Every day.
Twelve days straight.
What was that about overtime?
About getting in trouble for working too much?
For the opening, the Ritz flew in the biggest Ritz Carlton cheerleaders from around the world, an army of maybe a hundred and fifty that dominated the property with the critical weight of a maximum capacity crowd. And each and every one of them lined up from the entryway to the banquet hall to applaud the three hundred new hires entering their tutelage.
I'm a musician, remember, and accustomed to standing during applause for other people's work. At least then it's not a bunch of creepy people staring at me and lauding me for walking past en masse, it's a bunch of people who have listened to the symphonic productions to which I have contributed. But okay, the Ritz Carlton appreciates me. Cool.
Day One was a happy, feel-good time, centering on the Credo Card. Suffice to say, it's the company's form of eugenics; live the credo--the Motto, the Three Steps of Service, the twelve Service Values, the Employee Promise, all wrapped up in a business card sized accordion fold that encapsulates the Ritz Carlton's mission and execution.
Day One was, "Welcome to the Ritz Carlton. You are joining the top one percent of hospitality providers in the world. You are ladies and gentlemen, unanimously and without question, and you are serving ladies and gentlemen. You are not servants; at the Ritz Carlton, you are ladies and gentlemen above all else. You are internal guests. You are empowered. We will give you up to two thousand dollars to create lasting emotional experiences, memories, and Ritz Carlton customers for life. Get to know your customers, and surprise them with thoughtfulness--go buy a teddy bear for a kid who lost one, replace a cracked window in a monthly customer's car, bring a fresh box of Kleenex to someone with a fistful of tissues, bring roses to a couple who announces an anniversary. Write everything down so we can remember for next time. Write down birthdays and anniversaries, food and drink allergies and preferences, stock the fridge with the case of Diet Coke the person brought last time, remember that they are ladies and gentlemen, just like you, and they want to be treated well, just like you. So welcome to the Ritz Carlton family! Go team!"
"RITZ!"
"CARLTON!"
"RITZ"
"CARLTON!"
Until the exiting ovation seems an honor, not a superfluous cordiality.
Day Two brought what I will call demerits, or the "or else" clauses of employment: "Okay, you know what we're about, but really, you have to keep our clients in mind: Francis Ford Coppola, Michael J Fox, Britney; they have expectations, and you'd better accommodate. So, no smoking, no drinking, no eating, no cell phones, no congenial gestures, no love pats, no slang, no familiarity in public unless it's with a guest's kid. No scraggly hair, no ponytailed gentlemen, no spike-haired women, no dyed hair, no extreme makeup, no extreme jewelry, no wild socks, no untucked shirts, no baggy eyes, no caffeine jitters. You are ladies and gentlemen and will act it, because if you remember Service Value #10, you are proud of your professional appearance, language, and behavior.
"If you are out of line, you will receive demerits on a subjective basis. Miss a shift, show up late, out of uniform, mentally disengaged, physically compromised, and you might just tip the scales to canned.
"You will swipe at Loss Prevention [security] the moment you step on premises. You will swipe in for your shift. You will swipe out for lunch, which must come before the fifth hour of your shift or you will receive demerits. You will swipe back in after exactly thirty minutes--any more or less and you will receive demerits. You will swipe out before the eighth hour of your shift or you will receive demerits. Here, sign this form to waive the right to a lunch before the sixth hour of your shift. While you're at it, sign this form to waive treatment from a non Ritz doctor.
"Had enough? Okay, go get lunch."
"Welcome back. Remember: you cannot be on the premises outside of your shift unless you have prior approval. You cannot clock in before your half hour lunch is up. You cannot clock in for less than four hours. If you are on premises, you have to clock in, so you have to be here for reason enough to justify four hours of pay, okay?
"When you leave, either your shift or the premises, you must clock out. When you arrive, you must clock in. Failure to do so will result in demerits.
"When you leave, you will return your uniform. Loss, damage, or alteration will be grounds for discharge. As you exit, your bags will be subject to search."
"Every morning, you will have a lineup, during which your manager will read the Commitment to quality, which is a story about 'the genuine care and comfort of our guests' or 'the finest personal service and facilities' which ensured that 'the Ritz Carlton experience enlivens the senses, instills well0being, and fulfills even the unexpressed wishes and needs of our guests.' [really] You will be inspected for conformity and uniformity and any transgressions will be noted. Each day, we will highlight one of the Service Values. You will be expected to know them."
All of it interspersed with anecdotes and rambling designed to make it sound fun and happy.
And the Wall of Applause.
Day Three: I was ready to scream. Don't ask me to delve in. It was another intense session of go team, sandwiched between the Wall of Applause. The only thing I can say is that it was somewhat relieving to hear that most of the speakers--many of whom were way high up in the company--started work as part time servers or banquet attendants.
Day Four-Seven: trial runs. Serving the trainers, with more trainers hovering around, and everyone offering contradictory assurances about the proper conduct of the restaurant. Day Eight-Twelve: working the early bird shift. Every day.
Twelve days straight.
What was that about overtime?
About getting in trouble for working too much?
To the Ritz
Saying, "I work at the Ritz Carlton" is like saying, "I"m from California." Everyone knows something about it and is happy to pigeonhole you, especially if it means you're one of them.
An Italian conversation:
"Where are you from?"
"Idaho."
"No, no. Where you come from?"
"Idaho."
"Where are you from?"
"Idaho."
"No, no, I no say right. I am Italian. You are?"
"American."
"But where?"
"Idaho."
Exasperated sigh.
"I'm from a small place near Venice. You?"
I debated saying, "the state of Idaho," but sighed into a meek, "California."
"CALIFORNIA? Hollywood!"
Well, no.
Same thing.
"I work at the Ritz."
Response A comes in a whisper: "OHHHHhhhh, the RITZ!"
Response B replaces "I" with "you;" "awe" with "awe, I just stepped in THAT?"
Here's what recent experience and reflection on long experience has unearthed: the egotism of the underdog.
If I say that I burn up all my energy at an independent bookstore in the morning, a Chinese restaurant in the afternoon, and a fine dining restaurant in the evening, people have a universal 'whoa' factor.
If I burn up equal amounts of energy in a 9, as opposed to 13, hour shift at the Ritz, it is assumed that I am a pampered and privileged individual who lives in sheer physical luxury.
Reality: in my position at the Ritz, I am always on point. I am always visible and accountable. I do not have a back counter around which I slouch and vent and commiserate. I do not have heart of house sanctuary. I live in the front, always under scrutiny, always running.
And I love it.
But saying "I work at the Ritz" is like saying, "My zip code is 90210," and it is automatically assumed that I am incapable of sustaining myself.
I find the same bias in myself: a bank exec complains about a rough day of work, a loan shark, any other sort of paperwork-based job, and I think, "yeah, so? I spent the day running--physically running--around a mouse cage, pandering to the whims of the uber wealthy." No matter that my mouse cage is physically beautiful, and I love each twist and turn, it's a mouse cage. I'm running. And my running is at the whims of the uppermost class. Therefore I am superior to someone who wracks his/her brain for the best option for someone who has based his/her future on the decision.
And yes, in this case, I am reading myself into the equation. Nevermind that 100% of the calls I've heard from bankers have been about how easy it was to fleece a customer who fit the description of "another [demographic]."
Here's the weird thing: working full time at the Ritz is harder than working full-and-a-half time in independent businesses. I've been through manual labor, and it is exponentially easier than the scrutiny surrounding half the time in the Ritz. But a lumberjack, a member of the great American demographic that keeps diners thriving at the expense of salaries, would look down on such a scornfully luxurious employer, and that demographic would bring a good portion of the American public.
What matters is that the Ritz and its customers constitute a soft demographic unaccustomed to nobility past the accident of birth.
Yet here I am, the guy who went to the college with the best loan package, the guy who's always held an entry-level job, the guy without half the security of a cattle ranch, and I am scorned for I've figured out how to work my mind more than my body, to think through a ballet of unchoreographed moves, and I am soft because I gyrate at the whims of those wealthy enough to have the privilege of tipping those of us who have ground our teeth down enough to earn entry into a livable situation.
I'm still disquieted by the hypocrisy. I look down at people whose living depends on others investing, or maybe entrusting, blindly. A lawyer is one thing--a matter of individual inclination. But someone on Wall Street or a bank office seems much more morally ambiguous; an individual has no control over the use (or misuse) of funds, and there is a darn good chance that no matter what happens to the investor's money, the manager will make some serious money. At least you can fire a lawyer.
And here I am, making my living on the expected gratuity of people who have little choice or say in falling into my section of the restaurant.
For the same reasons I resent big profits made by people wrangling electronic messages pertaining to unwitting investors' money and livelihoods, a farmer resents me for doing nothing but run a plate from the cook to the table.
But here's the thing: my job is to make sure people have a good time, and the only times they don't almost invariably have to do with their own reluctance to enjoy a given experience. The Ritz Carlton has a history, reputation, and following that draws a demographic willing to pay for a certain level of service. So when I associate with that demographic, it is assumed that I am one of them, and that assumption pigeonholes me in a disparate identity, and it completely overlooks my opinions of the overarching process.
An Italian conversation:
"Where are you from?"
"Idaho."
"No, no. Where you come from?"
"Idaho."
"Where are you from?"
"Idaho."
"No, no, I no say right. I am Italian. You are?"
"American."
"But where?"
"Idaho."
Exasperated sigh.
"I'm from a small place near Venice. You?"
I debated saying, "the state of Idaho," but sighed into a meek, "California."
"CALIFORNIA? Hollywood!"
Well, no.
Same thing.
"I work at the Ritz."
Response A comes in a whisper: "OHHHHhhhh, the RITZ!"
Response B replaces "I" with "you;" "awe" with "awe, I just stepped in THAT?"
Here's what recent experience and reflection on long experience has unearthed: the egotism of the underdog.
If I say that I burn up all my energy at an independent bookstore in the morning, a Chinese restaurant in the afternoon, and a fine dining restaurant in the evening, people have a universal 'whoa' factor.
If I burn up equal amounts of energy in a 9, as opposed to 13, hour shift at the Ritz, it is assumed that I am a pampered and privileged individual who lives in sheer physical luxury.
Reality: in my position at the Ritz, I am always on point. I am always visible and accountable. I do not have a back counter around which I slouch and vent and commiserate. I do not have heart of house sanctuary. I live in the front, always under scrutiny, always running.
And I love it.
But saying "I work at the Ritz" is like saying, "My zip code is 90210," and it is automatically assumed that I am incapable of sustaining myself.
I find the same bias in myself: a bank exec complains about a rough day of work, a loan shark, any other sort of paperwork-based job, and I think, "yeah, so? I spent the day running--physically running--around a mouse cage, pandering to the whims of the uber wealthy." No matter that my mouse cage is physically beautiful, and I love each twist and turn, it's a mouse cage. I'm running. And my running is at the whims of the uppermost class. Therefore I am superior to someone who wracks his/her brain for the best option for someone who has based his/her future on the decision.
And yes, in this case, I am reading myself into the equation. Nevermind that 100% of the calls I've heard from bankers have been about how easy it was to fleece a customer who fit the description of "another [demographic]."
Here's the weird thing: working full time at the Ritz is harder than working full-and-a-half time in independent businesses. I've been through manual labor, and it is exponentially easier than the scrutiny surrounding half the time in the Ritz. But a lumberjack, a member of the great American demographic that keeps diners thriving at the expense of salaries, would look down on such a scornfully luxurious employer, and that demographic would bring a good portion of the American public.
What matters is that the Ritz and its customers constitute a soft demographic unaccustomed to nobility past the accident of birth.
Yet here I am, the guy who went to the college with the best loan package, the guy who's always held an entry-level job, the guy without half the security of a cattle ranch, and I am scorned for I've figured out how to work my mind more than my body, to think through a ballet of unchoreographed moves, and I am soft because I gyrate at the whims of those wealthy enough to have the privilege of tipping those of us who have ground our teeth down enough to earn entry into a livable situation.
I'm still disquieted by the hypocrisy. I look down at people whose living depends on others investing, or maybe entrusting, blindly. A lawyer is one thing--a matter of individual inclination. But someone on Wall Street or a bank office seems much more morally ambiguous; an individual has no control over the use (or misuse) of funds, and there is a darn good chance that no matter what happens to the investor's money, the manager will make some serious money. At least you can fire a lawyer.
And here I am, making my living on the expected gratuity of people who have little choice or say in falling into my section of the restaurant.
For the same reasons I resent big profits made by people wrangling electronic messages pertaining to unwitting investors' money and livelihoods, a farmer resents me for doing nothing but run a plate from the cook to the table.
But here's the thing: my job is to make sure people have a good time, and the only times they don't almost invariably have to do with their own reluctance to enjoy a given experience. The Ritz Carlton has a history, reputation, and following that draws a demographic willing to pay for a certain level of service. So when I associate with that demographic, it is assumed that I am one of them, and that assumption pigeonholes me in a disparate identity, and it completely overlooks my opinions of the overarching process.
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