WHEN I WAS 16, MY FRIEND MEGUMI ASKED IF I wanted to be a server at her parents’ restaurant, Kikuya. My first thought: I can eat sushi for free? So I took the job and started hauling my ass three to four times a week from Lincolnwood to Hyde Park. I didn’t need to work (my parents had plenty saved for my college), but I loved making my own money. I remember bringing home $54 one night and feeling rich.
Twenty-some years later, I’m in danger of becoming what we in the industry call a “lifer” — or, as my mother puts it, a “food prostitute.” As a server, you constantly ask yourself a question only sex workers and athletes ponder as much: Am I too old for this?
