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This past Friday, we didn’t have regular dinner service. The dining room was closed, except for the bar, and we set up enough tables for 65 people in the function room. It was the night of the annual wine dinner. 

If I had paid attention to the social calendar, I probably would have requested the night off. As much as I love being able to taste all the dishes that will appear on the five course menu, it's my least favorite shift to work. The dining room is my safety, where I know exactly what will happen each night. Where I’m good at what I do. But a function—well, it’s a lot of clearing plates, running back and forth to the bar, which is on the other side of the building. It's a lot of setup, a million forks to be laid down, and a lot of waiting around for things to start. It's not that I’m lazy— it’s just that I hate it. 

I get a lot of writing inspiration from working in a restaurant (see here, here, and here). It’s the people, their conversations, what they say and don’t say. It’s the flow state I often find myself in during a busy night when I look back, surprised I could take all four tables at once, and no mistakes were made. That trance that mirrors what happens during the very best of writing days when I’m so lost in my own words, when I forget my body, and space, and time.

So, while I trudged through that miserable Friday night, I tried to be open to the muse wherever I could find it.

Let’s journey through my stupid little evening, and I’ll share with you some writing prompts we can use along the way, to make it all worth it.

Cheers. 

Cocktail hour from 6:00 - 6:30 pm 

The members all arrive within a few minutes of each other, and before we know it, the room is packed and the bar is three deep. Martinis, vodka sodas, and pre-wine dinner wine. Another server and I are in the way— there are only so many martini shakers, only one soda gun— so we head to the function room to pour the first tasting of wine with the wine rep before everyone files in. I much prefer it this way, when no one is watching us. 

Prompt: Write about a time you felt like you were drowning, the world caving in around you, threatening to swallow you whole. 

First Course: Clam and mussel soup paired with a Chardonnay 

We brought up boxes of wine glasses from the basement, cleared out the function and restaurant bars, and still don’t know if we will have enough. We have racks on deck next to the dish pit so we can clear and load as quickly as we can between courses. The kitchen is slow as they plate the soup— their assembly line of broth, clams and mussels, micro greens, and a small round crostini requires delicate hands. The other waitresses and I, five of us in total, make faces at each other as we wait quietly. The bowls are big, and we can only fit five on a tray comfortably. We become an assembly line of our own, starting from the right side of the room and working to the left. When the last table gets their soup, most of the other's plates are empty. We start to clear.   

Prompt: Write about a time you felt you didn’t have enough. How do you deal with lack? 

Second course: Filet mignon over black garlic and mushroom risotto paired with a Cabernet 

The chef lets me taste the risotto, handing me a spoon from behind the line. 

“Can you taste the black garlic?” he asks. I have never had black garlic before, so he gives me a piece on its own. It’s got a mushroomy taste and a slippery texture. 

“Oh yeah, we can taste it,” I say, grabbing a clean spoon to get another bit.

The meal is plated quicker than the last, which feels hopeful. It’s already 7:30, and we still have so much longer to go. The members are happy, the room chirping with their laughter and conversation. Someone asks me for a beer. When I head to the bar, the room is empty except for one member. We all call him by his nickname. When I first started working here, it took me a while to remember his real name, the one in our POS system that I needed in order to ring in his drinks and fire his food. For this post, I’ll call him Sully. Sully golfed all day and had been sitting in the same spot at the bar when I got there at 4 PM. He’s been drinking vodka for hours. We all know why he is waiting, but we keep trying to ignore it. 

“Sully is still at the bar,” I mention to my manager when we pass on the way back to the function room. He rolls his eyes. 

Sully likes to tell jokes. After a few cocktails, he looks for an audience. And now he has a room of 65 people within eyeshot. He’s waiting for the president to call him in— the board members love his jokes. His jokes are long, and about 90% of the time end with a racist, misogynistic, or just tactless punch line.

“We can’t let him come in,” we say to each other. We remember last year’s wine dinner when Sully had made himself a podium with a high-top table that someone had helped him drag to the front of the room. He tapped his glass with a butter knife, and the board silenced the room for him. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up as Sully told three of his most offensive jokes. One that starts with “so this black guy…”, another that ends with a line about how married women don’t give blow jobs. Some of the tables looked at us, the wait staff, and we felt our cheeks burn red. We didn’t want this either, I remember saying. One member, one of the younger ones, closer to our age, left the room with her friends. They complained to the general manager. But it’s Sully— he’s been a member forever. And it’s the board; they permitted him, so nothing was done. 

Sully waits on his stool and sips his vodka as we clear the filet plates. 

Prompt: Write about a time you felt anger but had nowhere to defuse it. 

Intermission: Lemon sorbet 

We divvy out the cold pallet cleanser quickly and clear as many wine glasses as possible to run through the dishwasher. Sully enters the room. The board asks everyone to be quiet. Some of the members are excited. '“Wait until you hear this one,” they say to each other. Sully must feel like a celebrity with his ability to silence a room. 

“I’ll keep it clean tonight,” he says. 

But why must we do this at all, I want to say. The other waitresses and I give each other looks as we pass out spoons, the five of us moving quickly around the room like little birds, gathering and delivering. 

“I’m sorry you have to hear this,” I say to one of my tables, the one closest to my generation, who looks annoyed that they have to stop talking among themselves. I give a lighthearted shrug. I can’t come on too strong, but I’m trying to relay to them that we don’t want this either. I keep my face serious as the other tables laugh over a joke about something going up someone's ass. 

Prompt: How does your character show they are uncomfortable? Do they have tells on their face? Do they bite their lip, blink faster, or pick lint off their sweater? Without saying anything, show how they react in a tense situation. 

Third course: Arugula and radish salad paired with a pinot Grigio

I have a headache. My back hurts from carrying the trays. During dinner service, I only use cocktail trays for drinks. The dining room is small and so close to the kitchen, so I never bother with the big trays I have to balance on my shoulder. But now, my body is on fire. 

We weave through the room to see who is finished so we can take their plates. We have to hover to see who is done. Once or twice, we pull plates away too quickly, and the members grab them back. “Hey, wait!” they say. We apologize with red cheeks again. 

“I hate this,” says one of the waitresses. “I feel like a seagull looking for scraps.”

Prompt: What animal are you most connected to? Write into that association. What do you discover about yourself? 

Fourth course: Lobster ravioli topped with seared scallops paired with Pinot Noir 

Everyone is significantly drunk now. We are tired. It’s passed nine by the time we divvy out the ravioli dish. The wine rep and my manager walk around again with the pinot noir— it seems like everyone's favorite—and they add more and more to their glasses. I wished, not for the first time that I was enjoying this dinner rather than serving it. 

Sully is back at the bar, waiting for dessert so he can come back in for another round. We can’t serve him any more booze. He’s slurring his words. But country clubs are not like regular restaurants. The members pay to be here — to never hear the word no. The bartender called in my manager, who we assumed would tell Sully we had to shut him off. When I returned to the bar to get someone a drink, Sully held up his glass. 

“It's just regular iced tea,” he tells me and the other server with me. 

“That’s good,” she says to him. “It’s always good to know when to stop.” She laughs. 

“Well, that’s my problem,” Sully says. “I’ve never known how to do that.” 

Prompt: Write about a time you wanted to tell someone to go home but couldn’t. 

Fifth course: Apple strudel with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce paired with a Riesling 

This time, we don’t walk around with the resiling bottles. We ask the members if they want it instead. We imagine some will decline after almost five hours of eating and drinking, but many of them want to try it. Sully has come back and pulled up a chair at the eight top where the board sits with their wives. He’s telling more jokes. As I walk by to make sure they have enough spoons on their table, the president catches my eye. 

“Kailey,” he says,” listen to this one.”

I have no idea why he wants me to stop and hear this particular joke. I humor him for exactly one minute before saying,  “I’ve heard this one before,” and walk away.

Look, it's past ten, okay? My usual politeness has clocked out. My head still hurts. One can only smile for so long! 

Prompt: Write about a time your character felt a false sense of authority. What did they do with that “power?” How did they wield it? 

After dinner drinks

The best part of the night is when the chef gives the kitchen staff the go to put all the leftover food out. They call us from our table duties, and we scurry to grab take-out boxes. We pile them high with risotto and filet pieces, heaping spoonfuls of velvety au jus sauce. I pluck a ravioli out of the pan with my fingers and eat it standing in the middle of the kitchen. It's dried out from sitting there for so long, but I don’t care. I fill a box with pieces of apple streusel and drizzle it in caramel sauce.

These are some of my favorite moments with the crew. All of us in the kitchen, building sloppy versions of the dishes we served all night, excited to bring them home and reheat them in our microwaves. It’s a different type of chaos than before, one filled with joy and comradery and love. We did something together; now we can enjoy the spoils. 

Some groups leave for the night, pulling twenties from their wallets, building small piles of cash in the center of their tables among unfinished wine, crumbs from bread, softened pads of unopened butter. Others head to the bar to keep drinking. I pull the linen from the tables as fast as I can. We have to reset the room for a function tomorrow. We move tables and stack chairs. It’s passed eleven. 

They cut me before midnight. I hate how irritated I am. I never leave work feeling this way. Even after a busy night that feels like I’ll never catch up, even after bossy or rude members, I always leave the club happy. Tired, yes, but pleased with another shift done. There is a rush that comes with properly executing a dinner shift. When I can pace myself perfectly, when no one has to wait, when I make a connection with someone that feels genuine, I feel proud after my shift—a job well done. 

I chalk my irritation off to my throbbing back and pounding head. To Sully’s ridiculous jokes. To how many plates we had to clear (can you tell yet how much I hate bussing?)

When I get home, I stand over my kitchen counter with my take-out boxes. I eat, and I eat, and I eat. The luxury of the meal gone cold now. But it's still delicious. I think about how I’ll write about this stupid wine dinner. I know I’ll have to, if only to understand why I hated it so much. It was just a shift, I tell myself as I finally get into bed. At least it afforded me a decent night's pay. But it seems more important that I’ll get a writing session or two out of it. I think of all the things I can bring to the page, and it suddenly doesn’t matter that the shift was so irritating. No matter how the day went, I always have this; I always have writing.

Prompt: What brings joy to your life? What makes it all worth it?