When a friend posted on Facebook that his restaurant desperately needed a server and he had been given permission to hire a friend, I jumped on the opportunity. Now, I should clarify that I am using the word “restaurant” very loosely. The best description I can give for the place I worked is that we served Indian fast food. A chef in another city would make giant batches of basic Indian dishes, freeze them into small and large portion containers and we would store them in a big freezer in the basement. We would bring up a few of each at a time, allow them to defrost in the fridge and then microwave them as they were ordered, adding the appropriate vegetables and spice powder as requested by our customers. Our “kitchen” consisted of six microwaves, a grill for the “naan” (another loose term; think flat, wide hot dog buns), a rice cooker and a deep fryer for samosas and onion bhaji (the only thing we made ourselves). As you can imagine, we had very few repeat customers, except for the potheads who lived behind the restaurant and would wander in at closing and order “whatever that smell is, and five of them!”

Meanwhile, our dining room was decorated nicely, but lit like a McDonald’s, and the manager would often quietly play rap over the sound system. On top of all this, the owner, “D”, set prices that were nearly as high as the authentic, delicious, properly decorated and sufficiently staffed Indian restaurants in the area, and all of these things put together made for a restaurant that was almost always empty. Because of the low customer numbers, a number of things happened at the restaurant that made working there very difficult. For one thing, I worked almost every single shift alone. I would serve tables, “cook” the food, clean the kitchen and dining room and prepare delivery and takeout orders. Every so often, this would mean absolute, hair-tearing chaos for me, when all of a sudden there would be three tables seated, another customer wanting takeout and a delivery man coming in 10 minutes.

However, there were also many times when I would have nothing to do. As I was in university, I was okay with this – I would sit behind the till and do course readings. I always made sure that the book was hidden from sight, so that passersby wouldn’t know that’s what I was doing, but after a few shifts of doing this, I discovered that D would have his friends walk by the restaurant at random and report back to him what we were doing. He made a new rule that we were not allowed to read during our shifts and should be constantly finding work to do. When I showed him that there was actually nothing to do, that every aspect of the restaurant was spotless, he told me to clean things over and over so that I was always working, because he was not paying me to read.

All of this, so far, I could live with. He’s the owner and he was worried about money and the job was usually not that hard, so I was okay. Then, within the space of a few weeks, it became unbearable. First, a new manager was hired. He called a staff meeting and told us that since we worked by ourselves and couldn’t take breaks, we should be allowed to make food for ourselves for free. Within a week, D had threatened to put in security cameras and accused us all of stealing and when we confronted the manager, he said that he didn’t say we should tell the owner about our “free” (stolen) food! Next, I got a call from a girl who had ordered delivery and had found a cooked bee in her curry. I got in trouble for telling her to come in to the store and get a refund. Third (remember how the food was kept in a freezer in the basement?), I forgot to mention that to get to the basement, you had to exit the back of the restaurant, go down a flight of unlit, broken concrete stairs and go into a back room of someone’s apartment to get to that freezer. As the weather turned, the stairs became treacherous, and despite numerous requests for the stairs to be repaired or at least salted, nothing was ever done. Finally, and this was absolutely the last straw, two of my co-workers’ paycheques bounced.

I still remember the letter I wrote to D when I quit. “Due to a combination of incompetent management, safety concerns, unfair employee treatment and pay discrepancies, I will no longer be able to continue working in this establishment. Thank you for the opportunity.” The restaurant went out of business two months later.

When I got a job at a swanky fine dining restaurant as a waitress, I was thrilled. Though I only had experience serving at diners and nightclubs and knew nothing about fine dining, I figured they would teach me. During the interview, the manager only asked if I had restaurant experience then hired me. In no way did I indicate that I had fine dining experience. On my first day, there was a meeting before the first shift started to try some of the foods. I had to memorize everything I tried on the spot and what it tasted like. This was exotic food that I had never had before. Then we had to detail the tables, setting out the forks, knives, plates, etc. We had to make sure all 30 tables in the dining room and all of the utensils, plates and glasses were perfectly aligned on the tables. Then came the serving. I witnessed the waiter giving detailed descriptions of all of the exotic foods that he brought out. I was nervous, but figured I would receive adequate training and time to memorize everything.

They also had an extensive wine list, but I had no wine knowledge at all and did not know how to properly serve a bottle of wine. I trained for three days and stressfully memorized as many menu items as I could, at home and at work. During those three days I ended up working a lot taking orders, refilling water, clearing plates and running drinks. Then I found out I would need to take a test on the food before I could officially work there. I started studying my butt off and preparing. On the fourth day of work I showed up and started detailing the tables. The manager, who made me extremely nervous because of his constant testing (he would say, “Quick, tell me that table number and position” and if I answered wrong would shake his head or yell at me) started asking me where I had worked before. I told him a diner and a nightclub and he finally realized I had no fine dining experience. When I finished detailing the tables, he asked me to serve wine to another waitress (who was pretty snobby) as practice. I tried, but was fumbling and struggling with opening the bottle. I had no idea how to read the wine and year off of the bottle (they had never showed me), but did my best.

The manager just shook his head. “That was atrocious,” he said in front of the other waitress. He continued to belittle me in front of the other waitress, including telling me how I held the wine was even wrong. I started crying and ran to the bathroom to get myself together, then came back out. “So what do you want me to do? The customers here expect the wine to be served correctly. You do not know how to do that,” he said. I finally couldn’t take anymore and told him I would leave. I got my things and ran out of there. The best part? I didn’t get paid a penny for those three days of hard work and humiliation.

I just quit MVWJ today. After a long job search in this crappy economy, I took a job at a really cool-looking little restaurant that sold comfort food. The staff all seemed really nice, but a lot of the customers were a different story. Since it was a cheap place it attracted cheap people, and despite providing great service I would usually get crappy tips (or, on five occasions in one month, no tip at all). Also, I noticed that the manager, a fat bearded hipster type who thought he was ultra cool, would nit pick every little thing I did. He expected me to pick up the food the very second it came out and would scream for me to get the food, even if I was taking a table’s order.

One of the owners was even worse, criticizing everything I did even though I worked very hard, always cleaning tables, picking up dirty napkins as customers ate, etc. One night, many people were ordering beer and of course I ID’d people who looked to be on the young side. A couple who looked to be in their mid twenties came in and ordered beer. I didn’t ID them, and the owner was there. He asked if I ID’d them specifically and I told him I did not, so he ordered me to ID them after giving me a lengthy lecture, even though I had been ID’ing all night. Turns out they were both 25.

Another time, the owner held a meeting that I had to go to on my day off (unpaid, of course). One of the issues he addressed was that he wanted every server working at least four days a week. When I told him I could only work three because I had to look for a second job to supplement the measly money I made, he replied, “Then go because we don’t want people just passing though.” Meanwhile, the manager who did scheduling (and always seemed nice) kind of hushed him and continued to give me three days a week.

The last straw was when the manager gave me a shift working until three in the morning, then a morning shift the very next day. I sent her a very nice, polite email telling her that I was sorry for the little notice but that I would not be working there anymore. I thanked her for giving me the job. When I got a reply back, I expected it to be a nice email. Instead, she wrote, “Thanks for the notice. I do hope you’re more professional at your next job.” To which I responded, “I am as professional as I am treated.” Way to be appreciated for busting my behind for so little money.

I was unemployed and about to start a job search when a broke my foot. The cast came off after 10 weeks, I then spent another week relearning to walk. By this point I was destitute and had to find a job pronto. I answered an ad for a restaurant hostess, though I had no previous experience. I limped to the restaurant at 4:00pm, as instructed. The bartender instructed me to fill out an application; I was told to wait until the manager had a chance to meet me. I had lots of time to take in the surroundings—an ostentatiously-fancy joint named after the European chef (whose name I had no idea how to pronounce), an ornate display case near the door hawking signed copies of the chef’s autobiography. The manager finally breezed into the bar after 45 minutes. He looked at me and my application, said little, then darted away. I stood near the entry waiting for him to reappear, wondering if I’d been excused. The phone at the hostess station began to ring, by the forth ring the manager abruptly stuck his head through a doorway and gestured toward the phone, implying I should answer it. Then he disappeared.

I did my best, under the circumstances— I accepted a reservation for the following evening, writing the name in the reservation book, though I’d no idea if there’d actually be a table available or any idea how one determined this. The phone continued to ring, I continued to answer, mispronouncing the restaurant’s name with a different variant each time. More reservations, idle queries about a menu I knew nothing about, requests to speak to numerous people who presumably worked there. I was able to figure out how to put calls on hold, but was lost when determining how to transfer calls or to where they should be transferred. I accidentally disconnected the manager’s South American girlfriend twice within 10 minutes—when I asked “who may I say is calling?” the third time, she unleashed her fury in an ear-piercing Brazilian accent. I kept expecting somebody to relieve me of the constantly ringing phone. What sort of established three-star New York restaurant gives an untrained 24 year old stranger total dominion over their reservation book and incoming calls? Maybe I’d been hired, but nobody remembered to tell me?

The manager was no where to be found, and everyone else was too busy to assist me, rolling their eyes or glaring whenever I asked a question. Before I knew it, several hours had passed. Finally, around 10:00pm, the manager reappeared and told me I could leave. I was exhausted, unsteady on my barely-healed foot and frazzled after several hours of unprepared hostessing. I bolted without confirming that I’d been hired—freedom! No more ringing phone, no more screeching Brazilian battle-ax, no more standing, no more nauseating post-modern decor. I limped home exhausted but happy that I’d at least found a job. Apparently. The next day I phoned to see when they wanted me to come back. The short answer was “never.” Outraged that I’d answered their phone for five hours as some sort of unspecified audition, I limped back the next day and demanded payment for my time. The disdainful manager at first tried to give me the brush-off, but finally gave me a few twenties to get rid of me. I spent the $60 on a comfortable pair of cheap shoes, and continued my job search.