Instant Hostess

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.