Career Decisions: Pig Farmer or Waiter at Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner Cafe

It is 4:30 A.M. and as I sit at the table, poisoning my system with vast amounts of caffeine and nicotine in preparation for the day at work, I often have the thought of changing careers and becoming a farmer. Not just any type of farmer, mind you, but a pig farmer. An honest to goodness pig farmer, slopping the hogs before the sun comes up, wading through the mire and muck, pail in hand, as the large snout swine raise their heads, oinking at me in applaud and appreciation for my endeavors. For now, I am a waiter.

At 5:45 I head for the door dressed in a black shirt, black trousers, black socks, and black shoes. My black tie and black bistro apron sit in the car. No wonder I am depressed. I feel as if I am mourning the loss of a dear friend or family member dressed in all this black. Oh, for a little color back in my life. Maybe just to have a life again?



I begin my 16 minute journey to the Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner Cafe located in the swank, ritzy -often snobbish- suburb of Cholestrofield where I will prepare BLDC for opening at 7:00 A.M. Mundane tasks that I could perform in my sleep, which has many times been the case. A tranquil serene setting at this time of the morning; the calm before the storm.



I unlock the doors precisely at 7:00 and my first guest, John, is walking across the parking lot, newspaper in hand. Before I can even wish him a good morning, he goes into a tirade about greasy eggs and cardboard like bacon, the terrible lukewarm coffee, and lousy service in general. Yet, John has returned each morning for the last three years. Yes, the coffee is tepid, but only because John pours three ounces of cream in the cup and takes the first sip 15 minutes after it hits the table. Nice way to start the day.



A married couple saunters through the doors. I welcome them with a smile and receive a "Hmph" for a reply. I take their drink order and return with a hot tea and coffee. The water, that I just brought to a boil, is not hot enough. "Microwave it," she demands. How I would like to explain to her that I really have no control over the laws of physics., that water at 212 degrees is impossible to heat further, unless, of course, you want a pot of steam. But I walk to the service station, pretend I am heating the water, return to the table, placing the placebo in front of her. "That's better," she smiles with an air of superiority.



They place their order. Bacon and eggs for her; ham and cheese omelet for him, but substitute bacon for the ham. We are on a roll now. I ask how she would like her eggs prepared and she looks at me bewildered and confused like a doe looking into the oncoming headlights of a fast approaching car. After a long silence, she remembers that her eggs have been scrambled for the last 47 years.



Two young moms with two five year olds in tow come in for a breakfast social. They order; they eat; they chat. Except now the children are restless and begin darting, zigging, zagging throughout the dining room at break neck speeds. I revert to my days on the football field sidestepping, spinning, even hurdling over the tots to avoid a collision. Then they crawled back into the booth, over the moms, who never once stopped chatting and obviously totally oblivious to the behavior, and began the game of throwing sugar packets at one another. They never hit each other with the tiny , non-lethal missiles, but sugar packets found their way to other tables, plates and even down the neck of one startled guest.



A three top of ladies came in. I served their coffee and waited until they were ready to order. Lady number one waived her hand that they were set to order. As I approached the table, pen and book in hand, lady number two whips a cell phone out of her purse and speed dials her good friend Gladys. A long winded conversation ensues as she describes in graphic detail Mabel's gallbladder operation. She drones on in a high pitched voice, easily distinguishable throughout the dining room, alternating her topics of juicy gossip between Rita's hysterectomy, Gloria's affair with a man half her age and good old Mabel. Not only am I finding it difficult to take the order of the other two ladies, but they don't want me to leave, assuring me that she will be finished and off the phone shortly.



A man with his cell phone glued to his ear walks past, toward another table, taps me on the shoulder, mutters "Coffee," without interrupting his conversation about fishing. A gentleman sat himself at table 13, engaged in a business call, I imagine, and every other word out of his mouth is an expletive. I sought a moment of refuge in the restroom to splash my face with cold water and what do I find? A man standing at the urinal talking on his phone. How I miss the Old Ma Bell.



Soon, the breakfast crowd meanders out the door making the tables accessible for the infamous and notorious lunch campers. Campers are just what the name implies. They set up a camp. Guests who occupy a table from the time that the lunch bell is rung, until their waiter or waitress is on the way home or seated at a nearby bar venting. A camper's vintage beverage is water. They look no further down the menu than soup and salad. They giggle when ordering low cal dressings - something about girlish figures-, but insist that you keep those bread baskets overflowing. Thank you for the 10% tip. It will surely place me in a higher tax bracket.



I'll rethink the pig farming option in the morning.