“It is not very sympathique for me to have to tell you this,” Philip told me over the phone last night, “but…”
I doubt Rachel will ever admit it, and I know for a fact that Carrie Anne is too much of a professional to breach confidentiality, but I think Rachel has been secretly paying Carrie Anne to pray for me to lose my job at Gulu Gulu, so she can have more time with me on her visit (only a day away!). I admire Rachel’s ingenuity, and I would definitely love the extra time with her, but I hope she’s been paying Carrie Anne extra to make sure I at least have a job after she leaves Prague.
I had a bad day at work yesterday, and I think my perfect TGIF sitcom job is in serious jeopardy of turning into something more like a critically heralded cutting edge HBO Original Drama.
After Saturday, I wasn’t supposed to work again until Thursday, if even then. But Philip called me on Monday night, asking if I could come in Tuesday, so I could train behind the bar with Anna and Tereze. “Nah, screw that,” I said. Actually, though I wanted the day off to prepare for Rachel, I think I said something more like, “Certainly, absolutely, yes, oh most definitely.”
I got to Gulu Gulu at 10:30 yesterday morning, but it was locked. I’d run out of minutes on my phone, so I couldn’t text Philip, and knocking wasn’t working because someone was blaring music inside. So I had to wait about 10 minutes before Tereze and Anna were able to let me in.
Turns out I just don’t get along with Anna and Tereze like I do with Petulka and that other awesome person whose name I never knew. A & T’s English isn’t as good, which makes it harder for me to idly chat with them. Beyond that, nice as they are, they aren’t people I would have become instant friends with even if we did speak the same language. My motivation then to “šhóót thě břěěžě,” as we say in Prague, was really low, and I think I came across as a quiet loner guy, pretty much the last category of person who needs to be working as a waiter/bar tender at an upscale international restaurant. Which is a problem, because I am currently scheduled to be Anna’s replacement as Tereze’s shift partner.
I did end up being somewhat sociable, but only when Petulka and, jeez, really, what is her name?, came in for some drinks. “He’s going to be famouse celebrity,” Petulka told the other one. “Nooooo,” I denied humbly, while thinking bitterly to myself, “It’s about time the Czech people acknowledged my imminent rise to super-stardom!”
I thought I did okay with Tereze and Anna, though. I learned how to make café lattes, espressos, café piccolos, cappuccinos, and hot chocolates fairly easily for never having thought about most of those drink before in my life (though perhaps not easily enough for someone who purports to have vest experience making those drinks). I also quickly figured out where the different wines were, how to tell at a glance if they were Czech, Italian, French, white or red, which bottled waters had bubbles and which didn’t, and the various buttons to press for Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola Light, Sprite, Fanta, and Soda Water on the soda dispenser. All the while, however, never fooled for a second that this was my true calling.
Apparently no one else was fooled either. Maybe always forgetting to put the lemon in the Coca-Colas gave me away. The only blatant mistake I made, however, involved me breaking a glass. It wasn’t breaking the glass that was the problem, though. It was cleaning up the glass!
That was, in fact, the most unusual event of the day. Earlier I got a hint of it when two customers came in and Philip whispered to me, “Those are friends of Frederique. Be careful!” Well, I was. So careful that I all but avoided them completely. In a bold, spontaneous move, I asked them if they needed anything else. They said that they were fine with their drinks. Damn, I’m good.
Frederique is the boss. He’s even above Philip, if you can imagine that, though I suppose Hans could kick Frederique out of the building in a merciless German heart thunk if he found out Frederique beliefed in Got like on idiote.
I had never seen Frederique, but heard that he was as short as his temper… which is short, as he is known far and wide for his screaming fits. He had a big business meeting yesterday, and the international investor he was wooing wanted some water. Frederique specifically requested that I, the new guy, complete the task. “Bring ‘im á moi!” he must have bellowed. I didn’t realize it then, but over everything else – writing the daily menu on the chalkboards, waiting tables, making coffee, pouring wine, putting lemons in Coca-Colas – bringing Frederique’s client this water was to be my big test of the day. A test I most definitely failed.
It should have been easy enough. “Fřěděříqué wantš ýóů tó bříng hím wátěř,” Anna told me, as if it was nothing. She didn’t know if he wanted bubbly or still water, so I expertly whipped out an Aquila and a Mattoni, and the corresponding glasses for each (just about every drink at Gulu Gulu has its own glass with the product name splashed across). I plopped the bottle opener on the tray, and then for some reason, probably for presentation, Anna put the glasses upside over the bottles (an important detail to remember for later, readers!).
Frederique was “upstairs,” and since I had no idea where that was, Anna told me to follow her. She dashed off, and by the time I got out from behind the bar, she had already rounded the corner and was out of sight. In a rush, I grabbed the tray, and as I lifted it off the counter, the Aquila glass flipped off its designated bottle and crashed to the floor.
A conundrum, but I didn’t realize how dire. I either had to delay Frederique’s water to find a broom and dustpan and clean up the Aquila vessel’s shattered remains, or I had to put Gulu Gulu’s customers and workers in mortal danger by leaving huge, blood-thirsty shards of glass at the bottom of the steps in the main hallway. Anna was still out of sight, waiting vainly for me around the corner, so the decision was all on my shoulders. Perhaps this too was a staged part of the test.
It takes three days to die of thirst. Broken glass can cut your foot in a second. Glancing under the bar, I found a hand broom and dustpan. AHHHNNNNTTT! WRONG! The whole process of breaking, finding cleaning implements, and making sure I had every piece of glass off the floor set me back at least five minutes. Not only that, but Frederique might very well have enjoyed the sound of a cook’s pained scream after a slip and a gash.
When I finally put a fresh Aquila glass on the tray (not resting on top of the bottle this time), Anna came back and led me at a more reasonable pace, so I could actually follow. She led me through a back door, past a courtyard, over a small hill, and to an elegant apartment building. She pressed a button, and after about 30 seconds (which Frederique doubtlessly spent drumming his fingers together and cackling), we were buzzed in.
Anna led me to a marble staircase with an intricate golden banister. It wasn’t narrow enough to be a spiral staircase, but it was circular, so that the inner part of the stairs was more treacherous than the outside. In my rush, I almost stumbled a couple of times – which would have been the end of me for sure – until I had a good sense to slow down and take the outside track. We must have walked up five floors, with brass cherubs, stone lion faces, and the stuffed heads of endangered animals benevolently watching over us the whole way.
Anna opened a door for me, and here I was in Frederique’s office at the top of the palace tower. Frederique was in a giant leather chair, holding court with the businessman, who might have been American or English, but thanked me in Czech after he chose… the Mattonni! If only I’d known! Had I looked closer at Frederique’s diamond-studded coffee table, I might have seen an angry stopwatch blinking emergency red.
“Happy now, Napoleon?,” I asked the emperor with a sneer.
Actually, I said lamely – in my best possible Czech accent - “Thěřě ýóů gó. Ěnjóý!”
Frederique seemed happy with me (evidently a sign that he couldn’t be more displeased), and since it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d been undergoing a trial all along, I skipped joyfully on my way back to the bar, little realizing that I’d failed catastrophically in Gulu Gulu’s eyes… eyes which stare at you from every wall of the restaurant, cubist and very colorful. Hopefully history and the international community will take a kinder view of my fateful choice.
Not long after I settled back in the bar, prepared to satisfy the mind-bogglingly diverse thirsts of our now completely non-existent customers, this charismatic born-to-be-a-waiter Slovakian named Petyr bounded confidently in the door and announced to Philip that he had worked at Gulu Gulu for three months over the summer, and would like the job again. Philip, it turns out, who has always been the face of Gulu Gulu for me, is rather new there. Anyway, it was certainly Petyr’s right to demand this. Though I am supposedly on the schedule full time starting on Monday, the sign looking for waiters who speak English is at the window. Savvy, my dear Frederique. Very savvy.
I wasn’t too worried at first, since Philip actually seemed put off by this guy. Philip demanded a CV, which he never asked of me, and acted miffed when Petyr didn’t have one. Petyr, who of course speaks perfect Czech and Slovak and decent enough English, said he was a student of English at Charles University. Philip, not betraying a hint of being impressed, pointed at me and said, “You ‘ave a good English teacher here,” optimistically implying that both Petyr and I could work at Gulu Gulu – doubtful, since Anna is the only one leaving. Philip, still appearing annoyed with Petyr (perhaps for initiating this exchange in front of me), reluctantly offered his phone number and went away. I figured that was that for Petyr, at least for the moment, but I must have missed a sentence or two, maybe some things were said in Czech, because Petyr stayed to chill at the bar with me, apparently waiting for Philip to come back.
He took off his hat, revealing a perfect waiter do, and asked for some soda water from the soda tap. “That iz thě frěě watěř, Í rěměmbér,” he bragged. This guy wouldn’t debate cleaning up the glass for a second. He even pointed out the button he thought I needed to push for the soda water, but anyone with half a brain could tell that was for the Sprite. I didn’t fall for the trap, and pushed the big button in the middle to fill his glass. “Summer was a long time ago, eh?” I thought with a smirk.
Then we went through the usual how are you’s where are you from’s.
“Ah, Těxas! Vůck, maín, Í havě fríěnd hěyré fřom Houžton!” “Houston? Puh! I’m from Austin,” I huffed. “Aůžtín! That íž capítal of Těxas, Í tínk!”
Yeah, you’re real smart, I thought. You know the capital of Texas, and I bet you think I couldn’t name the capitals of most of the countries in Europe without Nicole here whispering them to me. And, yeah, you’d be right. Jerk.
Petyr’s English was worse than mine (and, admittedly, my Czech worse than his), and I had trouble getting where he was from out of him. “Are you from Prague,” I would ask. “Přagué? Yěž, Í waž hěyré ín summéř, trěé monthž!” Finally I learned he was from god knows where in Slovakia. Man, in retrospect, I should have gone on about my sort of friend Tomas, Marie’s fiancé from Slovakia, and how I bet Tomas knew the capital of Slovakia. Then again, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have dropped that Aquila glass. Also, in retrospect, I should have studied Czech, not French, and should have spent more time as a waiter and less time cooking in the states. While I’m at it, I should have got Michael into that screening of Sean Connery Golf Project. Also, I shouldn’t have joined the Columbia House music club in sixth grade. And… oh, this is a bad game to play.
Petyr seemed like someone I could be friends with, if not for our unfortunate bitter rivalry. Still, I was the guy behind the bar, on the schedule for next week, and he was just some schmuck applying way too late. It became clear, however, that Petyr saw our current roles as a mixed-up illusion. He asked about my waiter experience, was surprised when I claimed to have some, and talked about how the tourist season was picking up, making it easier for unemployed waiters to find jobs. But he wasn’t saying this to console himself. He was giving advice to me! When he finally realized that Philip wasn’t coming back to toss me out and give Petyr the job on the spot, he said, “Góód lůck, máín,” and walked out the door.
By the end of my still more eventful yet too tedious to recount half shift, the cooks thought I was arrogant and thankless, the waitresses thought I was quiet and boring, Philip thought I was slow, Petyr was certain I was a temporary apparition, and I myself thought I was nothing but a depraved white flour chomping butter-eater. Was that the eerie howl of a wolf I heard as I walked out the door, or the malicious cackle of emperor Frederique as he tugged all of our puppet strings?
Then came Philip’s call late last night, apologetically giving me the decidedly non-sympathique news that I didn’t need to come to work today, because Frederique was training someone else instead, and he would call when he wanted me to come in next. I wonder who this mysterious trainee might be. Perhaps I’ll look up the capital of Slovakia and stop by for a chat.
If Philip has to fire me, I hope he doesn’t lose sleep agonizing over it. He needs to look out for Gulu Gulu, not me, and if that means firing an American fraud for some hotshot tri-lingual food service expert, Phil needs to drop the guillotine. Of course, Frederique, who must relish such bloodshed, will probably be the one to do it. I think, in any case, Rachel’s fears of never getting to see me during her trip may have been premature – and probably resolved with voodoo.
By the way, as I type this on my laptop, in the relative luxury of my fine fully-furnished room, Ukrainian laborers are outside my window banging on pipes, and our landlady is squatting on our bathroom floor, scrubbing it with a toothbrush. No, wait, okay. She was just squirting the toilet with a spray bottle.
