DOES ALL THIS PRETTY REALLY HAVE TO END?

DOWN AND OUT IN MALMÖ AND COPENHAGEN, THE LAST SHIFT

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual restaurants or hospitality workers living, deceased, or drunk is unintentional and should not be inferred.

“I’VE GOT KETCHUP ON MY HANDS, I’VE GOT KETCHUP ON MY HANDS, I’VE GOT SO MUCH MOTHERFUCKING KETCHUP ON MY HANDS I CAN’T SLEEP AT NIGHT.”

That’s why I have to go. It’s not that I’m above the dirty work; all I am is the dirty work. Ketchup on my hands, beer in my hair, wet mayonnaise under my nails, other people’s dinner in my arms. All I am is other people’s problems at work. All I am to other people is a drinking problem on my day off. I’ve been here way too long. What can I say? It’s time to be a problem somewhere else. I’m quitting the life until I’m forced to come running back.

Malmö, like any other small town that’s also the third biggest city in Sweden, can feel oppressive in its familiarity. The restaurant business compounds it. There’s only, like, ten of us working between twenty spots. And I’ve been here eight years already, how wild is that? I know it’s not that wild, some people stay forever, some people grow up and thrive here, but it’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere that’s not Oakland. I even became Swedish, that’s how crazy it is. You don’t gotta speak the language or nothing, after a while they just give you a passport. If they’ll let me in the country, they’ll let anybody in. That’s what the Swedish Democrats have convinced 20% of the country to believe anyway. I know the racists probably aren’t concerned about this white guy from California, but they should be. I’m one of the worst Swedes out. I don’t want to learn the language and I definitely don’t want to die in Sweden. Now that I’ve got citizenship, I just want to go. So I’m going.

I enrolled in Pasta College. At least that’s what I’m calling it. Officially, it’s the “Food, Culture, and Communications Masters Program” at the “University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo”. Unofficially, it’s a great excuse to take out more student loans and leave the country. Killing myself while studying food in Italy sounds a lot less plausible than getting found hanging from the rafters in my apartment above the restaurant I work in. It’s not actually that bad. It’s only occasionally that bad. It’s only getting worse. But I love it here when I don’t hate it. During the pandemic, the restaurant was the only place I wanted to be. I was grateful for the work. We didn’t close, shit, I think we made money. People love their grass-fed burgers, craft beer and fries, no matter what the health risk is. I get it. There’s a lot of pretty things to love about the place. It’s got a long brass bar, a gorgeous neon sign, and memories of every friend I’ve ever made in Sweden. I love my coworkers even if they’re assholes, I love the guests even if they’re assholes, I love the food even if it’s the same damn shit every fucking day, and I love filling the ketchup bottles every night and mopping the grease off the floor every morning. It’s not the job I hate, it’s everything in between that’s killing me.

On my last day I’m burning it down. Figuratively. We’re having a party and the whole town is invited. Everyone I’ve ever served is coming, which is pretty much everybody in Malmö. In other words: Pool Party, my house, eight o’clock. There’s gonna be food! and girls! and more food! and Mike Gerudo is coming! Apparently, me dropping burgers at all these peoples tables for the last five years has meant something to them. I can’t believe it either.

My last day at work goes like this: I walk out of my apartment at 8:45AM. I go down four flights of stairs and enter the restaurant through the backdoor. I put coffee on, go upstairs and change. Deliveries arrive soon. I help the kitchen with theirs, then I vacuum and mop the floor before the beer delivery arrives. Stavo makes us breakfast sandwiches. We open at 11, by 11:30 we have a line, and by 1:30 we’re empty again. We’ve already sold 200 burgers. We’re fully booked tonight but that’s not my problem. The regulars who know it’s my last day say they’ll miss me.

Is it true you’re going to Pasta College?

Rigatoni 101 here I come.

The thing is, I’ve been happy serving this community. I don’t know what’s wrong with me or why I’m really leaving. Well, OK, sure, there’s plenty to pick at. But why can’t I just let a good thing be a good thing? It’s not like I’m better than burgers. Sometimes a guest will ask what I want to do with my life, generally when they’re drunk and lonely and acting too familiar. I wanted to be a writer, I say. Then I wanted to do this. This? Gesturing to the restaurant. I wanted to be of service. The thing about waiting tables is that they can’t wait themselves. They can be waited on badly, service can be devalued, but it will never be automatic. Mostly the guests never ask about my life. That’s probably for the best.

I clock out at 5PM. The dayshift is a glorious thing. I like working nights for the rush, but nothing beats clocking out, sitting at the bar, and watching chaos take shape. That’s what service is. I’ve spent so much of my life at this bar, it has its own gravitational pull. Tonight’s no different. Waiting for me at my favorite corner off this big brass behemoth are all my favorite regulars and my favorite coworkers, plus a few that I hate.

The end of an era, somebody says. Has it really been five years?

Five fucking years.

You ever stay at a job that long before?

Hell no.

Staff retention is an important barometer to measuring a restaurant’s success. This place has a pretty good average. Plenty of people stay for years. They get sucked in like a cult. There are worse cults. People are surprised I’m actually going, the way I’ve been talking about it and sitting still for so long.

You’re really going?

This isn’t just a joke funeral to see who actually cared?

Are you sure your skills are transferrable to anywhere else?

People cared, I promise. If you ever want to see a waiter cry just show up on their last day at a place that’s actually meant something to them. Few places do, but when they do? It’s overwhelming. The thing about emotional labor is that it’s emotional. Service takes a toll on your body and your heart all the same. My back is killing me. My liver can’t function. My tear ducts are open.

Remember the time you flooded the keg room?

Remember the time that customer tried to kill you?

Remember the time those kids stole our tip jar?

The night goes on like that. Anti-climactically. The building doesn’t burn down but it does burn slow and it does warm me by the fire. People come and go. Memories come in and out of focus. At one point guests line up and let me tell them each about all the times they were assholes. That only lasts ten minutes because the real assholes don’t bother to show up. We end the night at the only bar in Malmö that’s open until 3AM. We drink a lot but that’s not really important. We snort something but that’s not very interesting either. All this shit happens off-camera. We laugh, we cry, we have the same exact night we’ve had so many times before, except this time I’m going to Pasta College instead of showing up so hungover to the morning shift I have to vomit in the customer toilet while I pretend to clean it. We keep going until we can’t anymore.

In the morning it’s the afternoon and I didn’t dream about ketchup and I don’t have to clock in so I have a drink in bed. It’s Sweden and it’s winter and the sun is already going down through the porthole window in my attic apartment. It’s one of those days after one of those days. I never have to clock in again. I’m no longer working at a restaurant you’ve never heard of in a place you’ll probably never visit that meant so much to me I can’t stop writing about it even four years after I’ve left.

But it’s got to stop sometime, doesn’t it?