[ tip your server :: i've got your back ]

Part II of IV. All names have been changed for privacy.

No mayonnaise, but add bread and butter pickles. Substitute soup for fries with a BLT platter (no extra charge). Eggs poached medium with limp bacon (who knew?).

With breakfast served all day and two full menus to learn, it was time to buckle down, memorize every possible meal combination and practice inputing food tickets on our computer system. During those shifts, four hours seemed like ten, and this was still training.

Experienced servers and managers would look over my shoulder, wondering, perhaps, who this "Jessica" was, the college girl with the relentlessly crooked name tag, no embroidery on her uniform; the Jessica with brand-new, double-tied, grip-the-floor tennis shoes that still squeaked with their overpriced newness.

Search, enter, print. Search, enter print. Flipping through the training booklet, I looked ahead to count how many practice tickets I had left: four, to be exact. These last few seemed simple enough, though I couldn't imagine guests regularly ordering fried chicken livers with a double order of lima beans (today's choice vegetable, by the way). What kind of milkshake? Caramel, but make sure to touch "NO" and "WHIP," or whipped cream, as we're in the business of top-notch guest service, and of making the process as flawless as possible for our preparatory, or "prep" cooks. Makes enough sense.

Leah, a trainer herself, a seven-year employee of the company, was my saving grace: "Jessica," she'd say, "You come to me if you need help. I'll be patient."

At that time, it meant the world to me; after all, she wasn't my assigned trainer. Learning the 'ropes' of a restaurant can feel like a losing battle, so I needed those words.

She was patient with me, taking me in and pulling me aside often to tell me "she [had] my back." I liked that; it seemed like she was fighting for me: for the abilities she saw in me; for, maybe, who she thought I was behind the ironed oxford button-ups, Dockers and a constant bundle of nerves. Take a deep breath, I'd tell myself, especially as I saw Leah stride with confidence across the server station. She has six tables. You have only one.

I'm positive Leah is still working 4 to 10 p.m. after days with her young kids, who I only saw once or twice on Thursdays (schedule and check pick-up days). I'm sure that she is pushing to make more and more each night; Christmas is coming, and her son and daughter are treasures to her.

Leah is not alone in this. At our restaurant, server booklets were plastered with photos from birthday parties and once-a-year trips to Cedar Point.

The working middle class is to be revered for the pride they have in their work. For many of the women I worked with, this was life. Life to be lived, work to be done, and with class: Leah, with her whitened, toothy smile. Shelia, with her perfectly-applied cherry lipstick and hair clasps. Dawn, in her drive to please guests.

Embedded in the hearts, however, of these women was the idea that their serving ability, or inabilities, defined their character. "I can't go back on the floor," Dawn would say, torn apart by a 45-minute ticket she had forgotten to input into the computer system. "I'm too embarassed. Drop my ticket for me."

I grew in respect for Leah, for Shelia and for Dawn; for these dozens of women whose days were planned around this restaurant. This was community. This was a safe haven. This was an escape.

Leah "had my back," and I felt that. In the same way, I wanted to support these servers, fight for these women's hearts: fight for them in prayer and in the opportunities I had to honor them.

Good and whole and lasting things often come with struggling, and I thought I was prepared. Maybe I was prepared for those; those true and beautiful end-alls, but not for some of the situations and experiences I'd see and hear about.

The kitchen is much more than input, prep and service; repeat, repeat, repeat. It is life for those who see it through each day, who struggle on its behalf and rejoice in its wellbeing.