Every Day Is Like Sunday

Sundays can be a royal pain in the arse when you're working a full-day shift, and that pain is compounded when town is crammed full of people getting their Christmas shopping done early (industrious little pricks. Why can't they be like the rest of us - i.e, me - and do it all in one panic-stricken hour on Christmas Eve? It teaches you to be resourceful in your buying. My dad absolutely treasures that plastic bottle-opener I bought him that plays the French national anthem every time you use it).

Anyhoo, Sundays like this always tend to follow a pattern; we all show up slightly late for work and spend an hour or two shuffling around and mumbling at each other until our hangovers clear. At some point around mid-afternoon Andy regales us with colourful tales of his latest bowel movements ("I like it when my turds poke out of the water. They're like little brown volcanoes.") and starts screaming abuse at the printer every time a check comes through. The food-lift breaks down two or three times every hour, and has to be winched back up manually, forcing one of us to climb a ladder into the crawl-space above the lift and spend fifteen minutes turning the wheel. The dishwasher breaks. The grill breaks. The microwaves make funny noises. The heat lamp only works if you hit the switch with just the right amount of pressure, while standing on one leg.

And through it all, we manage to turn out consistently great food that not only keeps the customers satisfied, but also keeps them coming back each and every Sunday. In some ways we're our own worst enemies. But by the same reckoning, we're also our own best friends.