The Waiter

By Keld Torstensen

Maybe one day you will get a twenty pound tip, maybe some child will puke on the floor and you will have to clean it up, maybe a drunk will piss himself in your section, maybe a sexy lady will give you her number, I mean—anything could happen. That was the whole beauty of this job.
I’d come to work in the mood of a lovely and pleasant, not too harsh, hangover. As I was walking around in the restaurant, I could feel the sense of eternity. It seemed as if some things hadn’t changed and they wouldn’t. I could drink a lot and still enjoy it, never calling sick too. I was still here, still doing my bits. How long was it by now? Who knows, I couldn’t even remember what I was doing yesterday.
Meet Soren – a young and rebellious man from Sweden, who’s stepping into the world of hospitality industry in England. Working as a waiter in several restaurants, he’s revealing the secrets of the profession, as well as, trying to deal with his problems, addictions and misfortunes. Share Soren’s bitter view of life and his dark sense of humour. Will his life go anywhere?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728355887

Keld Torstensen

Keld Torstensen is a graduate of Journalism. After studies he has been working in the hospitality industry in England for 10 years. His professional and personal experiences become the inspiration for his novel ‘The Waiter’.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Sometimes you can perceive yourself as a person with a higher authority, someone special, someone who knows better than the others do. It’s nice to think about a simple job of a waiter as a noble and fine thing. Except it’s bullshit.

The truth is that you just stuck somewhere at one point in your life. Why? Because you couldn’t be bothered to finish some decent study or college and get a proper education? Perhaps you are simply a loser who doesn’t know what he is supposed to do with himself? Or maybe you’re ‘the righteous one’ and the surrounding world is bad and evil, has nothing for you to offer? The possibilities are countless. And it doesn’t matter which one you will choose for yourself as an excuse.

As for mine, I like to view myself as every foreigner who at one point came to the United Kingdom. When I was 22, I made the decision that I would travel to this land, as I was fed up with everything—living with my parents, journalism studies that weren’t going anywhere, and my stupid job in the call centre. I just came to this small city in the South West of England called Bath, wanting to get an adventure, learn the language, meet new people, start my life from scratch. My girlfriend, Ann, thought the same, and we both departed from Sweden. To get any job at the beginning was a huge success for me with my rather poor English. However this ‘any job’ stole so many years of my life.

Ah, my home country, my city, my parents, so misty now for me …

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Little Soren was sitting on the couch in his parents room. No one was there besides him. His mom was in the kitchen cooking something. She seemed to be always there, always doing something, if not for today, then for tomorrow; if not for tomorrow, then she said she forgot about something she should have done yesterday. Soren was all by himself, totally happy, though. Sometimes it could be so tight around the house. Soren, his two brothers, and his parents lived in a small two-bedroom place with a living room and kitchen. While Soren’s mom always seemed to be around the house, his father was working all day and probably part of the night as well, as he could sometimes hear him coming home very late when he was already tucked in in his bed.

Soren would hear his heavy steps in the hallway, his gasping breathing, and sometimes his mom’s raised voice. But tonight it was just him in front of a small TV. Soren’s older brothers were playing a Nintendo game together. He liked that too, but tonight he thought it was time for a Monday evening movie program. The public television was screening classics of Westerns—last week they’d shown High Noon, with Gary Cooper. Soren liked that, although he was never a big fan of this actor. But the idea of standing against three bad guys in order to defend his town and wife was appealing, and Soren admired it greatly. Tonight, though, he was waiting for something that he already knew would be a special one. It was Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, with Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas.

Burt Lancaster was a huge person, around 190 centimetres in height. Kirk was a bit shorter but very tough too. Soren wanted so much to be that tall and brave one day, exactly like his first heroes from the movie screen. Ideally, he wanted to be as tall as his biggest movie idol—Clint Eastwood with his impressive 193 centimetres! Soren was a bit shorter than others at school, and sometimes it was a reason for other children to be nasty to him, making jokes about his height. As he knew the body grew during the night, he promised himself always to be straight and upright like an arrow while sleeping. But now all those problems and worries weren’t important. Now it was just him and Burt Lancaster fighting arm to arm with Kirk Douglas against a whole bunch of outlaws. In a blessed oblivion, little Soren sunk down into the magic of cinema.

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By the time I stopped growing, around my eighteenth birthday, I was around 183 centimetres in height. It wasn’t as tall as Clint Eastwood or Burt Lancaster, but I think it was tall enough. I was more like Mickey Rourke, Ray Milland, or Richard Burton height-wise—still a good league. And actually even taller than other legends—Steve McQueen, Kirk Douglas, or Humphrey Bogart. The golden era Hollywood movies can teach you a lot. You can always achieve something—doesn’t matter who you are, where you from, or how tall. Anyway, I had my 183 centimetres and was ready to conquer the world, or maybe just England to start with.

PART 1

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CHAPTER 1

WITHDRAW

So it had happened; I couldn’t bear this job any longer—serving coffee and pastry in some stupid French cafe, being shouted at by some asshole manager and smiling to these old, fussy farts. Still, it was better than some lousy countryside pub that I was working in before. Every morning was a stream of the same challenges.

Why is there no pear pastry, Soren?

I’m afraid we sold all of them. (Can’t you take a fucking plum instead, you douchebag?)

I’d like to have another chair, Soren!

What can I do for you, sir? (And I’d like to have another job!)

Excuse me, my coffee is cold, Soren.

So sorry, madam. I’ll change it. (You crummy old bag!)

"I should call it ‘late coffee’ instead of latte. I was waiting for ten minutes, Soren!"

So sorry; we have a lot of orders at the same time. (Why don’t you make your own fucking coffee at home?)

Excuse me, but where is my coffee, Soren?

It’s coming, it’s coming! (Yeah, straight from Colombia, so take your time!)

‘Ms Wet Latte Bitch’ was one of those who seriously got on my nerves. She was an old, fussy English lady. She was arriving every morning ten minutes before we opened the cafe, sitting with her newspaper and looking at her watch exactly two minutes before we opened, which was a polite sign that you were supposed to be already taking her order. Serving her coffee was always a pain in the ass. She always requested her latte wet—that meant no froth whatsoever. If you served her a latte even with a half-finger level of froth, she would send you right back, and you would retreat full of anger, asking the barista for a new one. Glass had to be filled till the top, as the cheap bitch was counting every millilitre of her beverage so when you finally got a proper wet latte, it was almost impossible to carry the coffee without spilling it on the saucer, as it was very runny.

Once, after I replaced her coffee already, she pushed it away again without looking at me.

Not hot enough, Soren.

I took the coffee back to the bar for the second time. I warmed it up myself and spat inside afterwards. First time I was serving her beverage with a genuine smile on my face. It was a usual, stupid complaint of old people who were thinking that hot coffee equals good. That was one of those glorious moments where I was happy to see her smiley face while drinking her latte, with my personal ointment inside for a change.

Isn’t that the actual stereotype of a waiter who’s pissing into the chilli sauce, spitting into the drinks, or doing even more disgusting things for the ‘special’ customers? It is, but I have to tell you that after all those magnificent years in the hospitality service, not many people were actually doing this. I was one of them too, as long as you didn’t fucked around with me.

Even the customers you did like started to annoy you after a while. Besides the notorious ‘Ms Wet Latte Bitch’, we had a whole gang of old people coming to us almost every day for our morning coffee and pastry bargains. They waved at you, glaring and expecting some fascinating stories every day.

Ah, and how is Mr Soren having himself today?

Been busy today Soren?

Thank you, Soren, and how are you this fine day?

For fuck’s sake, throw me a fish, you old prick—get some stories out of yourself or turn on the news for a change. Don’t expect me to be your entertainer.

They do strive for that attention, and really there’s nothing wrong with that, either. As people grow old, they just have the courage to express themselves. English people can pass their feelings towards others in their own specific way. They may appear very closed and reserved. But they feel much more than they show on their cold as ice surfaces. Scandinavian people are a lot alike. In a way, don’t we all as people?

I started to notice these things as I grew up around all different people in the restaurant industry—or shall we say, ‘hospitality’, because that’s how we are supposed to define ourselves. My conclusions could be summarised as all the people in the world are insecure, awkward, looking for social acceptance, striving for recognition, wanting to feel special, and so on. When you are going out on the weekend, you have to describe it in every detail. Put some pictures on Facebook, connect to Instagram, or maybe even go live—that’s always something. Create memories on the surface of your screen and check the real value of it by the amount of likes. This is how it is these days. Or maybe I’m just getting too old already.

I never liked to go with the flow myself. I never wanted to be a conformist, to be accepted by majority. I was introduced to rejection quite early in my life. Rejection gets inside of you, is growing there—you can feel it—and suddenly, surprisingly, you are acquainted with it. It’s all right to be different or even rejected, my dear friends. Does everything have to be built on one foundation? That’s what Bob Marley used to sing. I used to believe in those words too. Long time ago.

After a certain time, you wish to be just a shadow, a ghost, anything but the person you are right now, not in that state of yourself, not today, not in that place, not surrounded by all those people. Having an average of fifty people around you—customers, front of the house team, kitchen team—you start to develop anxieties. You just want to be left alone for a change, just you and your thoughts, your problems. But you can’t be. Like a machine, you deliver all the waiter lines without even thinking. I’m sorry, my dear friends, but there isn’t personalized service at all. There is only a stream of meaningless dialogue between two unfamiliar faces.

Hello! Table for two?

Yes, please.

Hi, guys. Are you ready to order?

Can I have a lobster linguine please and for my wife …

Is everything all right?

I think these prawns are off!

Have you finished?

Yes, thank you.

And when you think about your customers, it’s only how much money they will leave you as a tip and how many more times you will have to crawl for them.

Those sad thoughts and so on were gathering around me more and more often. I spent a long time in that small French cafe. Probably too long. And you know that you will go crazy if you don’t change things. But the changes aren’t always better.

I couldn’t bear my stupid girlfriend either. We had decided to move together to Bath, unfortunately. As nice as it was to be with her from time to time, mostly just for sex, living witth her was a different pair of shoes. Ann was a stunning Scandinavian blonde with the nice curves in all the right places. She had taken a job as a server too. We didn’t have enough subjects to talk about, and when we talked, she usually displayed a naive and simple nature. She was just plain stupid. I realized I wanted something more from a girl than just quite good sexual intercourse.

I started to avoid her whenever I could. She usually worked morning shifts, so I took evening ones. When I came back home, she was about to go to sleep or already in bed. I’d have a bottle of wine with me that I bought from an off-licence shop behind the corner, and I usually polished off the majority of it on my own. I needed an escape from our monotony. It happened that my new schedule with lonely drinking was much more satisfying than spending time with Ann. She didn’t like that habit of mine, and I had to hide the half-empty bottle somewhere in our flat, usually under the sofa. Afterwards I had to transfer the very same bottle to my bag with my work clothes, hide it in the bushes near our flat, and then pick it up again on my way back home. It became a hopeless ritual. At the end, even she realized that things between us weren’t so good, and after a few months, I decided to move out.

As I unwrapped all my belongings on the floor of my new, tiny room, I couldn’t move around much. I was too tired and mentally drained to do the all unpacking. I mean, I could have done it that night if I really wanted to. But what does a man do when he’s upset so much? Same old story: drinking on his own again. Don’t need to hide the bottle tonight, I thought cheerfully. I visited the new off-licence shop around the corner and I bought a new local special—a 2.25-litre of Merlot wine in a cardboard package. It would do for a few nights. Definitely for tonight, as I could freely exceed my usual dose of a half bottle. Now I had an equivalent of three bottles there, in this magic cardboard. I sat on my bed, put the wine on the night table, and reached for a cheap cup. The lovely mess of my belongings on the floor was so distant for me now. I felt so relaxed all of a sudden.

I opened the window and took a massive hit of a weed from my small glass pipe. Smoke filled the room. I poured a full cup of Merlot and took a big sip. The new season of my favourite Canadian movie series—Trailer Park Boys—had come out exactly that day, just when I really needed it. I started to watch it. I was so grateful for my surrounding reality, for the blessed simplicity of life. I hadn’t loved her after all. I just had to get used to the new way of living, to be on my own in a completely new environment of a foreign city. Wine and weed were flowing whenever I wanted. It was a memorable time. Although I was drinking and smoking during most of my evenings, I still remember that exact night with my fictional television friends, just when I really needed them.

CHAPTER 2

ITALIAN JOB

I transferred myself to the Italian restaurant. Place was located inside of the shopping mall in the centre of Bath. It was a proper waiter game there—run the busy section, get your ass busted every day, and count all the juicy tips at the end of the shift. Fair deal.

I quickly established myself in the new restaurant as a reliable person who could hold himself while working in busy sections, under the pressure. These are the real qualifications, by the way. Doesn’t matter where you’re from, doesn’t matter what your experience is; as long as you run as quickly as possible, you’re the man for this job. Soon I’d become the senior member of staff, as the place was very fast-paced, and if you weren’t good enough, you were out before your probation period. As I survived those first three months, surprisingly I achieved something that many people couldn’t.

Jenny, the general manager from Portugal, could see some potential in me. She was always straight to the point, without any unnecessary bullshit, the most direct person I’d ever met. If she wasn’t talking to you at all, it meant she liked you. If she needed to take an effort to speak to you often, that meant she was annoyed. But she was a great manager; I realized it after I worked with many others later on. She was a sharp one but always fair. I just never really knew what she thought of me.

She didn’t know anything about the wine. When occasionally we had some tasting, she pretended to stir the wine in the glass like a professional sommelier, and sipping it slowly, she always passed the same judgements.

Pineapple, she’d conduct on tasting notes when trying white, oaky, she’d say about red, melon, she’d say about rosé.

Maybe all Italian wines are the same after all, I thought. Later on, someone told me that she was a proper alcoholic. So I guessed it was all the same for her, as long as it was in the right amounts and alcohol percentage.

One day she asked me a question I’d never anticipated.

Do you want to be a trainer for the new people, Soren? she spoke quickly, without any intonation.

Um … yeah, sure. If you think I’m good for that.

OK. She walked away chewing loudly her nicotine gum.

I did become the new trainer then—quite glamorous, I thought. But soon I was fed up