Three French Hens: I Had Too Much to Dream

Last night I went out to dinner with good friends for some sushi. My family arrived five minutes late, as we normally do, and when we sat at the table, a bottle of chilled unfiltered sake and a couple of mismatched shot glasses were there at the ready. After another pair of shot glasses came and the sake went, something else was ordered. I didn’t listen closely, but a couple of glass beer mugs arrived containing a clear liquid, with two lemons cut in half on a plate and a little porcelain juicer. The object was to juice the lemons freshly ourselves and add the juice to whatever the clear liquid was, resulting in a very strong unsweetened lemonade. After adding some stevia to the glass, the result was a pleasant lemonade that was too easy to drink.

We added way too much tempura and not enough sushi to the beverages, as well as korokke, Japan’s answer to a deep fried potato croquette, and my favorite thing, a giant hunk of deep fried eggplant coated in miso paste. To recap, that was a lot of sake, followed by table prepared mystery alcoholic lemonade, followed by a whole mess of fried things. Here is the dream I had last night:

It was my first night as a waitress in a small casual Greek restaurant, and I was one of two on the wait staff. I arrived and was handed an apron to wear but no other instructions. The layout of the restaurant made it look like it was counter service, but it was really all table service. The kitchen was in the back, with a window ledge for placing finished orders. In front of that was a glass case on which rested the cash register. To the right was the swinging door to the kitchen and to the right of that was an entire wall devoted to the many renditions of menus the restaurant had over the years. Instead of changing the menus and getting rid of the old ones, they all just accumulated on what looked like a library magazine rack.

All the tables were of the white plastic porch variety, with matching white  plastic chairs. My job was the regular job of a waitress, to give out menus, take orders, serve food…nothing out of the ordinary. Only I had no training, no pad on which to write down orders, and no idea what was on the menu. Also, the patrons seated themselves so there was no assigned section for me or the other waiter, who only spoke Greek.

Here’s where I don’t remember all the details of the dream, but more the general feeling of it. I don’t recall taking any orders yet, but I had to take food out to the one large party, one of which was a mom from my daughter’s dance class, who incidentally was wearing a giant fur hat the other day, and I mean giant, like a Russian czarina dead animal puff perched on top of her head. So there she was, in my dream, with her ginormous fur hat at a table full of ladies, waiting on their Greek sandwiches. It turned out that most of the food was some version of sliced leg of lamb, only with different sauces, all served on flat, unattractive white hamburger buns. When I lifted a bun, it had a slip of paper on top of each pile of meat and sauce, like a little sandwich label.

All of the food was served on plastic Solo dinner plates, the kind you get at the grocery store, in bright red or blue. My father in law buys them for my mother in law, who is in very poor health, eats all her meals in a reclining chair, and is no longer able to balance a regular dinner plate on her lap. To make her feel she has company with her medical condition, we all now eat our meals on Solo dinner plates at their house. I tried to balance the plates on my arms so I could carry four at a time to the table, since in addition to no order pads, this restaurant also did not have service trays. I held one plate on top of each forearm, one on each hand, with my fingers holding onto the waxy paper cups, bending the rims. I am pretty sure I had one finger in each cup, which is fine when it’s your home and your kids, but disgusting to think about in public.

The owner did not like the way the food all looked like it would slide of my arms and therefore I had to carry one plate at a time to the table. I served the first few sandwiches, and every time I walked out of the kitchen, another table would be full. By the time I served the second to last sandwich, I realized that a pair of ladies at the table had taken the wrong sandwich and began eating it, and that the other end of the table had never ordered. I went to get menus but had to first go back in the kitchen for the right sandwich, only to be sent to the store to get some ingredient the cook needed. I stopped at the new tables on my way to the door, assuring them I would bring them menus and take their orders shortly.

I returned and people were standing everywhere, waiting for tables. I could hear seated patrons complaining about not having ordered yet, and the other waiter was nowhere to be found, and I had no idea who was waiting on food and who was waiting on menus. And at every table, at least one member of the party was someone I knew casually, a school mom or a dance mom, or a man from guitar practice or someone from my temple. I went in the kitchen, and the cooks were all standing around, waiting for something to do. And then I woke up because I had to pee.

I have never been a waitress, unless you count in my own home. I don’t know the first thing about leg of lamb and have never seen nor ordered a leg of lamb sandwich. I don’t speak Greek, and I don’t like chaos. I also don’t know what was in that glass with the lemon juice. But I do know this: stick to sushi and a glass of sake. A little less fried and Kampai and a little more moderation and common sense. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going back to bed.