Aristotle claimed, “Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”

But I say, “Knowing yourself is learning to smile as you balance four sizzling plates on oven mitts up to your elbow while telling a 250-pound rugby player drinking from his boot that — yes — a three-hour wait applies to him, too.”

–

House of the sun

–

Working in the service industry should be mandatory for high school graduation. I earned my restaurant service stripes post graduation at Casa del Sol, in the mid-1990s under the tutelage of El Jefe, Harry Tucker.

When I interviewed, Harry was reading the Adirondack Daily Enterprise at the inside bar, wearing red glasses, a white mustache and a pink T-shirt claiming “If You’re Not Sweating, You’re Not Having Fun.”

I stood under the shadow of a large bull skull hanging on the wall.

“Hello, Mr. Tucker, I’m here about the bussing job.”

Harry gave me a glance. “Do you have experience?”

“No.” I said, trying to look hard-working and smart.

“Come Friday at 4, no shorts. Call me Harry.”

He turned back to the bar and, just like that, I was employed.

Friday at 4, I met the front of the house A team: servers Lisa Yanchitis, Elaine Knobles, Dave Germaine and Suzie Rushlaw; hostess Mary Jill Blossom McKenty; and bartender Tina Hammaker.

Suzie asked me, “Have you worked in a restaurant before?”

“Um … no,” I said.

Dave mumbled, “Summer help, some aren’t.”

This was what the full-time crew called seasonally-hired newbies.

The back of the house, aka the boys, were kitchen managers and head chefs Murphy Ryan and Freddie Nero; back line Dan Wilson; and bringing up the rear, Josh Dann scrubbing dishes.

My buddy Jay Fogarty, who got me the interview, gave me the lowdown my first night.

“First, never make an empty trip,” he said, grabbing a dirty plate, “scan and plan like a prey animal.”

“Got it,” I said. Actually, I didn’t.

“Don’t piss off the kitchen,” Jay said. “Don’t seat a big party at 9:55 or ever order huevos rancheros.”

“How do I avoid doing those things?”

“You can’t,” Jay said.

“Third,” he said, “don’t take anything personally.”

“Ok.” I said.

Unfortunately, I was already taking it personally that I shouldn’t take anything personally.

–

Aimless

–

The first week I nervously walked in circles. Harry, calling a spade a spade, or a clueless busser clueless, started calling me “Aimless.” It stuck.

Bussing at Casa del Sol was a messy, non-stop slog fest, but after a few weeks I did find the flow. Sorta.

One night Dave Germaine actually spoke to me. “Better,” he said, handing me my tips.

“Really?” I smiled.

“Can’t do worse if you don’t speak to anyone. Please and thank you helps, too,” Dave said.

Excellent point. I was pretty much the mute busser.

Reaching my peak level of bussing mediocrity, I was promoted to hostess.

Polka-Dot

My first month of hostessing was pandemonium. Casa del Sol in the 1990s had no reservations. Locals showed up expecting a two hour wait; and the social scene was hopping.

As a hostess, I was very good at making everyone simultaneously mad all at once: the customers, the kitchen, the servers — everyone.

Hostesses are unpopular mind readers with a psychic ability of 75%. How long will it take a stranger to eat a salad? How long will the small family with a toddler sit there?

I also couldn’t find people in the crowd which was deep, loud and intimidating, which meant the tables didn’t flip evenly. So, if I sat a bunch of tables all at once, it slammed the kitchen, the bartender, and the servers.

Jay saved me with two pieces of advice: “First, write what they look like. See this dude with the tie? He is Polka-Dot. Second, always tell them 20 minutes longer than you think.”

–

Corn chips are made of corn

–

My first night as a server came a year later. It was Rugby Weekend, with the Canadian team leading a deafening chorus of Ms. Mary Mack. My not taking things personally skills were, shall we say, developing.

“All set to order?” I asked a six top crammed into one table, as was the custom.

“So, what exactly is in the corn chips?” asked a tourist from New Jersey.

“Corn,” I said, scanning the room.

“And what about this beef taco? It says ground beef, but what kind is that?”

I sighed. Table two needed more salsa, table seven needed a margarita and a check, the blister on my ankle was bleeding into my sock, ding, ding, ding the kitchen was ringing me to pick up the chile relleno and chimichanga for table eight, a trickle of sweat was dripping down my pony tail into my collar.

“Excuse me, are you listening?” asked Ms. New Jersey.

“Sorry. The ground beef is beef that is ground up.” I turned to walk away, “I’ll give a few more minutes.”

“NO!” Ms. New Jersey said “Come BACK here!”

I turned around with my best poker face, which is the worst poker face you’ve ever seen.

Ding, ding, ding, Freddy was glaring at me through the kitchen window holding up eight fingers to mean, Get Your Butt in Here for Table 8.

Hold your horses Fred, I thought, the plates are literally sizzling, it can sit there a minute.

“We waited an HOUR. It’s a sweat box in here. Can you turn on the AC?” said Ms.New Jersey.

“We don’t have AC,” I said.

“That is ridiculous,” she said, “Where is the manager?”

I smiled, genuinely — for the first time all night.

“You see that tall guy with the red glasses?” I said.

–

Bienvenido a Mexico

–

A few minutes later Harry led the woman through the packed dining room, to the kitchen.

The kitchen was hotter than the devil’s armpit. Murph and Freddy stood in front of a steamer table and four, 600-degree ovens, redefining questionable working conditions.

Harry pointed a finger at Murph and Fred, and said to Ms. Jersey, “That’s what hot looks like, because …”

He paused and let the kitchen answer, “When you’re hot you’re hot, and when you’re not, you’re not.”

“I want to meet the owner,” Ms. Jersey said.

“You just did,” Harry said, adding, “Welcome to Mexico.”

Then he turned and walked back to the bar.