“My friends call me Jez, but YOU can call me Sir Dishbitch…” (Jeremy)

I think Dad summed it up best. I’d come home rather bedraggled from a fun day’s work, slaving behind a dishwasher for a sum of money so small even the ABC would knock it back, and I launched into an enormous tirade about the boss. I try not to speak ill of my previous managers and I generally try not to lower myself for the sakes of that egocentric f***wit, but obviously that day had been one of his bad-mood days. (If life was a toilet roll, that man would be sandpaper). Dad summed it up very succintly; “If he wasn’t such an a***hole, son, he wouldn’t be your boss.” Welcome, everyone, to the world of hospitality, and, in particular, the world of the dishpick.

The thing that defines dishbitching is that you are at the very, very bottom end of the food chain. The cockroaches wipe their boots on your rather-wet apron. Being a kitchenhand means one thing in particular; that you are the perfect target for pent-up middle management frustration of people who are simply upset that the world hasn’t recognised their unlimited and untapped wealth of talent yet. (Presumably they were looking in the wrong orifice). These are career-hungry people, the limits to which they will go to please their boss are only defined by legality and possibly the reaction of said boss’s spouse and children. So, when it comes to the time to vent out their frustrations upon the world, their appalling sex life (though I never asked), the fact that they were never asked to be first-year bloggers, and, most of all, the fact that they’re not working in Grossi Fiorentino yet, there is one target who cops it all from a bad manager.

El Dishpick.

“What is THIS?” says Bad Manager, pointing to a tiny, miniscule stain in a coffee cup. I think, sir, that you were making coffee, and the steam melted your brain and it leaked out your nose. “Sorry about that”, I reply. “I pay you to wash dishes and do food prep, for Godssakes, it’s not rocket science!” Neither is being nice, actually. Excuse me, sir, but, pay peanuts, get…

I know I’m making the job sound horrible, and, in all truth, it probably is, but sometimes it can be fantastic, too, with the right set of people (and what a caveat that can prove to be). There is often good along with the bad, it just takes a little bit of searching, that’s all. The best manager that I ever had is somebody who I still occasionally catch up with today; someone who was generous not only with his possessions (“Here, have a muffin! Let’s face it, I only pay you $13 an hour. Grab a pannini too. Do you even know how cheap those things are to make?”), but also emotionally generous too, in that he was always willing to listen to his staff, consider their opinions and always took a genuine interest in their wellbeing – which is more than what I could say for some other managers that I’ve had along the way. I think the thing that most defined him as a good manager was that he tried to make as little discrimination between boss, to manager, to barista to dishpick and whilst the work could be busy people never complained about him. I can highly recommend the muffins, too; Cafe No.5, Central Place. Tell ’em I sent you!

Oh well – I’m off for an interview now. Floor position; waiting, not dishbitch, and probably all the better off for it. Sometimes, when I’ve dealt with my umpteenth degrading and pretentious customer, I might find it a bit much and wish I was out back again, singing the filthsome lyrics to “Sir Psycho Sexy” with one of my favourite assistant managers. But really, I’ve done my time amongst the soap suds and I need to get back out on floor again. Still, doing a crappy, monotonous job, sometimes for a crappy boss, and always for a crappy wage, can teach you something about life. It certainly teaches you something about the infrequency of golden opportunity and the luck that brings a chance to go to University, at any rate.

Best of exam luck (I’m studying, hence the low posting frequency);

Jez.