Early one morning I was weaving my way through the dining room toward the corner table, holding a white plate topped with burnt toast. It’s tricky to explain why I was serving burnt toast, or why the cook had prepared it that way; the regular customer who ordered it had a manner of describing his ideal toast that left me confused and anxious. The request would go like this:

“I want a cup of coffee now, and in a few minutes—not right away; let me enjoy the coffee first—I’d like an order of toast. Rye toast. Well done. Not too light, but not too dark either. Just toast. Like mother used to make.”

Almost always, the toast was too dark or too light. He often sent it back. I grew accustomed to standing tableside for the Tuesday morning toast judging.

But that particular morning, my feet propelled me forward despite the blackness of the bread. I don’t know why. Maybe I felt he had to have the final say. Maybe I no longer trusted my own perception. He began yelling when I was still a few paces away. Yelling at me because the toast was burnt. I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing on some primal level the meaning of that phrase, and stood clutching my burnt toast as a shield while he yelled. The restaurant hushed. I said nothing. Because what is there to say? When his venting ran its course, I turned and slunk back to the kitchen, flipping the toast into the garbage can.

Of course, waiting tables isn’t always like this. There’s the other end of the spectrum, as well. Like when that woman, whom I’d never seen before, told me to keep the change from her $100 bill—after her tab came to $14. Again leaving me faltering for something to say besides my feeble thank you.

But these are the exceptions. Normally I have plenty to say, such as, “How would you like your eggs cooked?”—119 times a day. People rotate through my section, maybe remarking about the weather, maybe complimenting my posture, maybe asking for directions to the airport. And I never know which it’ll be. Waiting tables is an exercise in surprise, like any form of live, in-person customer service. But come to find out, random comments aren’t exclusive to customers. Everyone seems to have something to say about the profession.

It started decades ago, when I was searching for an apartment in Washington, D.C. After a young professional showed me the place, I told him what I did for a living: waited tables. “Why?” he asked. His response did more than shut me up. It tore me open. There I was, assuming that everything was fine. I was glad for my role at the tavern, living my own version of the TV show Cheers. When this stranger sneered at my occupation, I felt like the emperor with no clothes. Stripped to naked, then told of my nakedness.

It happened off and on as I went through life as an off-and-on waitress. Countless times people questioned my choice of work. And I always felt defensive. I learned to say “I’m waiting tables UNTIL—” or “I wait tables BUT—” because that’s what they needed to hear. It justified me. It bolstered my case. It was OK if it was temporary.

When I abandoned all reality and began to write a book about my waiting days, I felt myself beginning to accept my job. It suited me. I got to run around. The hours were flexible. But I still carried the haunting feeling of shame, because I’d faced the scorn for years. And I internalized it. My perception was skewed, like my inability to detect if the toast was burnt. I had become my job, and I had failed.

But, story by story, my confidence grew: Maybe the problem came not from the external comments, but from how I presented it. Maybe if I embraced my job, owned it, respected it—the listener would be on my side. I began to trust myself, no longer depending on approval. Soon, each time I mentioned my book about waiting tables, it took me up a notch. I knew I held a viewpoint that others could never know. I experienced encounters that left me uttering not a word. And I evolved. I passed through to the other side. It took half a life to arrive there.

One day not long ago, I was interviewing a man for an article. In this situation, I am not a waitress but a “freelance writer” or a “journalism student” or a “reporter.” Usually that is enough. That label is all that’s needed for the conversation. I’m asking so many questions there isn’t time for curiosity about me. But on this occasion, as I was wrapping up the interview with this delightful, generous drag queen who also sells Tupperware, he asked if writing was my main gig. I replied no. And then I added, “I also wait tables.”

A smile lit his face aglow. “Good for you!” he said.

His response left me speechless.

————
Kathy Hrastar actually waits tables. She lives in Oakland and is currently revising her manuscript While I Was Waiting.