Casa B.

I am writing a non fiction piece about my experiences working as a waitress at a mom and pop restaurant last winter.


I was one of the only people who wasn't related to the owner's family. I was also the only non-hispanic person, and the only person who had a college degree. To sum things up: I was strange in a strange land. But, I've always felt strange, even with my own kind.


I was an anomaly to the other servers...I seldom wore makeup, didn't shave my underarms, was too polite and honest, and I didn't smoke. After the initial few weeks of breaking the ice, claiming territory, and developing alpha/omega working relationships, I believe everyone enjoyed working with me, and I always had a smile on my face while I was refilling drinks, hauling enchilada plates, and bickering with the cooks behind the line. The people I worked with were the most entertaining, closest to the earth, live-in-the-moment people I'd ever met. They were also the most hard off.


I worked there for 3 months during the winter holidays to recuperate the money I'd spent traveling in South America. I felt a constant pressure during that time to get a job where I could utilize my degree. When I finally did at Central New Mexico Community College, it turned out I missed the restaurant folk and found most of the people I worked with to be privileged, arrogant and boring. I wish I would have given myself permission to enjoy my waitress job, and not be so worried about "getting on the right path."


As I was writing today, I felt a pang of nostalgia for the restaurant on Sunday mornings.

Everyone worked on Sundays. There were no exceptions. We all had to be there at 8am. My feet still hurt from working Saturday night, and most of the servers were hung over, or half an hour late to work. Margi (our manager) was always in the best mood on Sundays because it was a fresh new week, and she let us watch "I Love Lucy" on the tv in the bar, and read portions of the Sunday paper. We weren't allowed to help ourselves to drinks unless we paid, but we could always get away with drinking coffee and machine made cappuccinos if we hid them on the side of the fridge. The families who came in on Sundays were regulars. Good looking Hispanic families would come in after church. Many would hold hands and pray before eating, and the old men would need two or three cups of coffee before they took the first bite of their green-smothered burrito.

My favorite couple was a mother and her son. The mother was a traditional looking old Hispanic woman with dark hair and a Spanish accent, but with green eyes and and a Star of David around her neck. Her son looked like a gangster. She would order two coffees with a shot of crown royal in each, and drink her coffee slowly while she watched him eat.

The restaurant closed at 3pm on Sundays, and everyone worked fast to get out as soon as possible. Sunday night was the only night everyone had off.

I don't usually miss working at this restaurant, and honestly there were more draw backs and frustrating, suffering moments then I'd ever experienced at any other job. If I had a choice, I would not go back. Just today, I feel a little nostalgic.

Now, I always have Saturdays AND Sundays AND Thursdays off. It's nice. My life is still interesting, and fun and adventurous, but at times I miss the physical labor and team work, and instant cash that Casa B. granted me.