When I first met my hubby, Joey, I worked at a pizzeria in Apopka, Florida. My boss, Tony, was a Jersey boy from right around my hometown area. When I applied, I had no idea it was his sister-in-law that interviewed and hired me. I thought Tony was just the pizzaman. Luckily, he liked me – like the little sista he never had. For some reason, though, he couldn’t get past the fact that I did not have a proper suitor. He thought a “nice Jersey girl” like myself should have a boyfriend. So he made it his mission to be my “matchmaker.”
Happily married for over 15-years to his lovely Jersey girl, I guess he just wanted me to find that “special someone” too. Too bad at the time, I had just graduated from the University of Central Florida, and I wasn’t even considering dating, more or less looking for a husband! Yet Tony pledged that he would be the man that found me my “Prince Charming!”
When Joey first came in for an interview, I was told you could see the light bulb in Tony’s head turn on as he watched him walk across the parking lot through the restaurant windows. You could tell right away that Joey is Italian. Tony was also pleased that he was originally from the Pittsburgh area. Plus, according to all my female day shift coworkers, Joey looked just like the usual Guido-type guy I generally find attractive. According to Tony, he couldn’t help but hire him for my sake.
Not only did Tony hire him on the spot, but he also insisted that I show him the ropes. Even though his sister-in-law always trained new employees. After that, my boss seemed to strut around the restaurant – like a peacock in full plumage for a couple of weeks, bragging to everyone about how he hooked up the happy couple.
Oddly, after a few months, when Joey and I did start to get serious and use words like “love” and “rings,” suddenly Tony found him unqualified as marital material. He thought we were moving way too fast.
Too bad my Dad loved him, and he was overly thrilled when Joey popped the question. My father blissfully gave his blessing before questioning Joey if he had any brothers or friends that might be interested in my two older sisters? A joke my Dad made which Joey had no idea the seriousness behind the statement.
Unfortunately, things changed when Tony realized his vote did not count, and we were actually engaged. Joey and I decided we would finish up as planned. But, instead of coming back to work after our two-week honeymoon, we would call it quits just before we flew home to Jersey for the wedding. An event my father had been waiting to host for decades, considering I am his youngest daughter and I was the first to wed at 26-years old. It doesn’t say much for my older (I wish) step-sistas, “Druscilla and Anastasia.” Yet, just like in the tale of “Cinderella,” I did, through it all, manage to find my prince!
On returning as Mr. and Mrs. DeMarco, my bartender husband retired his short-lived server title. He went back to mixing cocktails at another Italian restaurant with a full bar. Unlike the pizzeria where Joey signed on to serve beer and wine while slinging slices, just long enough to meet me. Kismet!
On the other hand, I decided to try fine dining. I thought that having my own “Italian Stallion” at home now, I could give up working at a Mom & Pop pizzeria for a change. A popular upscale bistro nearby was hiring. The type of restaurant that is all about presentation! Servers were required to memorize all 300 bottles of wine offered by the glass, what they tasted like, and what they paired best with on the menu. We also had to learn how to properly mix and serve tableside Caesar salads and toss pasta dishes to order.
In addition, we had to be dressed in a precise uniform. A uniform that ended up costing me well over a hundred dollars before I could even start my first training shift. A mandatory outfit I had to purchase included: Duck Head khaki pants, a light pink or pale blue tuxedo shirt, brown Docksiders boat shoes, a black leather belt with a gold buckle, and the tie they supplied – when and if a manager approved the rest of your attire. It was ridiculous how much emphasis this company put on their staff’s appearance. I couldn’t help but feel like a robotic mannequin when I worked there for the short time I lasted.
We each literally received a daily printed speech of the lunch and dinner specials. All servers were expected to memorize and repeat this to every customer who sat in our station. I had to say, “Hello. My name is Lisa, and I am here to serve you today.”
Followed by the daily dialogue that management prearranged for us all to recite verbatim within the mandatory two minutes we were given to greet patrons once they were seated. Or else!
“Or else” was a term used way too often that basically meant you would lose a shift next week over it. Sure, I understand we were serving the highest tier on the food chain, according to corporate. But believe it or not, these guests were no less messy or needy than the average Joe. Still, management only cared about image. “Image Is Everything” was their staff team’s slogan, and we were reminded of it at the beginning and end of every shift. Sadly, it took precedence over professional service, quality food, and a healthy work environment.
That is why I did not stay employed there for more than a minute. Next, I turned in all my formalities. I started working at a no rules, let’s make a mess, and getting drunk kind of Mexican Cantina, located barely 500-yards down the road. “The Taco Palace” was known for its guests and employees to partake in tequila shots regularly.
It was also mandatory that the dining room floor was supposed to be messy until after the closing bell rang. Everyone was encouraged to drop tortilla chips and stomp them into the unfinished concrete floor. Bringing in random artwork was also welcome and would get you a free margarita for contributing to the decor!
Talk about taking me out of my comfort zone. Not that I appreciated my managers at the booshie bistro following me around, making sure I did exactly what they programmed me to do. Yet, walking over crumbled food during my entire shift seriously triggered my OCD. I was already labeled the first “newbie” in the history of the establishment NOT to drink tequila. I tried to keep it a secret for as long as I could by drinking shots of apple juice, but word got out. So, I definitely didn’t need all my new party animal coworkers to now label me a “Debbie Downer” because I’m an alcohol-free, neat freak!
Despite all my insecurities, I adjusted and stayed employed there for several years. Many customers and coworkers joke about my older daughter, Amanda Jeane, being cooked on Mexican food. While I was pregnant, I craved spicy food, and my cooks took care of me and my ever-growing belly during my shifts. It’s no wonder my baby girl loved spicy food. We were just happy knowing that she didn’t come out of the womb shouting, “Tacos & Tequila!”
I truly loved that job. If it wasn’t for us relocating to Lake County and me wanting to be a full-time stay home mom, I think I could have learned to enjoy tequila shots every once in a while. Instead, when I decided to go back to serving the public, I signed up to make coffee at 530 am instead of mixing drinks until 2 a.m. this time. This way, I could enjoy earning some cash of my own while always being available for my girls.
The best part was that my taco buddies would invite me back to fill in shifts for someone who needed off once in a while. Those were the best shifts ever. I made great tips because all the regulars missed me. They would feed me, and they paid my tolls for driving into Orlando. Those were the good old days!
Laugh on. Peace out!
Lisa DeMarco is columnist for Villages-News.com