The Heroes Return

Having been called out by a critical friend of mine posing as an anonymous blog poster for a sense of entitlement, I will do what any good writer would do and bask in my glorious hubris, celebrating my heroes return to The Restaurant. Coming back to work has been great, and I've been warmly welcomed by all of the staff, especially the other waiters. Although the summer months are slow in the city when all of us urban dwellers head out of town up to the wine country or the mountains, I'm making enough to live on, thanks to the ever-blossoming freelance gig, seems more editors these days want to print Restaurant Girl's entitled commentary on cheese, wine, and important chefs.

I got up early enough this morning to visit the farmers' market down at the Ferry Building, an unusual occurrence since I've already established that I, along with most other waiters, am a total vampire. My friend and fellow waiter Boozely heads down there every morning, but he's an anomaly; he works at a neighborhood place in Pacific Heights where he's off by ten every evening, and then he gets up early and rides his bike all day, taking a pre-shift nap before he heads in to work in the evening. I did this when I first moved to SF, but dating a bartender sort of quelches that. It's no fun to get up at 8am and go ride bikes when you've got a sweet Valentino under the covers, protesting noisily in his sleep if you try to throw them back and carpe diem. So I usually just carpe coffee instead.

Which brings me to my final and most pressing point: waiting tables vs. physical fitness. As a collegiate waitress, I didn't have time for exercise, studies, and earning a living. Eating a rich family meal every night at 11pm and then going out drinking to alleviate the stress made Restaurant Girl a chubber. Luckily when I left the biz and started racing bikes the beer weight dropped off, and I managed to maintain my reputation as a somewhat-athlete. But now I'm waiting tables and NOT collegiate, so I have no excuse and no motivation. Does the restaurant suck all will to do anything non-restaurant-related (like grabbing coffee, eating out, drinking beer, or writing about restaurants) out of the poor waiter? Is he left a shell of his former-waiter self, simply a Perrier-sipping, wine-talking, cheese-eating foodie?