While it’s hard to find routine in the middle of a crisis, I’ve found some peace in quick strolls around my neighborhood. Oftentimes, this means walking up and down Brady Street, the bustling belt of Milwaukee’s lower East Side. The typically busy street is packed with college bars, grungy dives and restaurants that specialize in everything from cracker crust pizza to all-you-can-eat crab legs.
With the city is in quarantine, this menagerie of places to indulge and imbibe is eerily quiet. Many establishments are scrambling to adopt online takeout menus, while others are turning into pseudo grocery stores. (I’m hoping this is the only time in my life I’ll see disinfectant and toilet paper for sale at the local cigar bar.) Most places have closed down all-together as a part of the statewide order. And it’s not uncommon to see business owners sitting inside, just staring into the distance. Undoubtedly, they’re thinking of if and how they can survive the upcoming weeks.
It’s a little backwards that during all of this, you’ll see businesses posting apology letters to customers on their front doors (and social media channels, too):
“Sorry, we’re closed!”
No. We’re sorry you’re closed.
My heart goes out to so many of the small-business bars and restaurants and cafes I cherish so dearly. I already miss settling down with a pour-over at Interval or scarfing down an oyster mushroom taco at Boone and Crockett—and my recent birthday dinner would have been ten times more delicious if I were have been able to celebrate over momo and samosas at the cheel.
Beyond the food, I’m saddened by the loss of culture and camaraderie that lives within restaurant walls. It’s been a few years since I’ve scribbled down daily soup specials or scrambled to find an apron that wasn’t covered in stains from an exploded pen or hot sauce bottle gone awry, but I still think about the restaurant community and the meaningful (and often unlikely) bonds I’ve formed with people I’ve slinged dishes with in the past.
If you haven’t worked in a restaurant before, let me tell you this: You become family with the people you work with. The work conditions you draw you closer together than any putzy team-training workshop or group project ever could.
One hour you’re bored out of your mind, rolling silverware, waiting for customers to arrive. I remember making conversation over just about anything. Food, relationships, politics, gossip. People were always quick to share their aspirations. Most of the times you’d hear servers supporting themselves through school or between auditions for theater gigs—but some stories were more eye opening. One day I learned my hardest working friend was struggling to pay for surgery for her sixth or seventh cat. Another was using the gig as a way to escape an abusive relationship. And one of the most surprising realizations was that a 17-year-old busboy was making ends meet so that his wife and kid(!) could escape gang violence in the city.
The next thing you know, you’re in the weeds. The floor is full of with impatient customers—some regulars you’ve grown to love and some fresh faces who are bewildered by the menu. You buzz around the floor and can barely squeeze past the 5-top they managed to pack in at table 8. You’re multitasking skills are pushed to the limits as the requests come in at rapid fire.
Crayons for the kids?
Check.
What’s the driest red you have on the menu?
The 2016 Sangiovese.
Can I swap out the chicken for salmon? And my wife would like dressing on the side. But can you make that gluten-free?
My pleasure.
I’ll just take a hot water with lemon.
Screw you.
The only thing that keeps you from unraveling is the support of your coworkers. I learned quickly that my true friends were the ones that would help me make a cappuccino while I rang in the first course of a 10-top. Or the ones who gave a heads up that the soup was about to be 86’d. And there was nothing more reassuring than hearing someone say “BEHIND” while I tried to balance a precarious tray of olive-topped martinis.
Of the four or five restaurants I’ve worked at, there were similarities: We’d lament over rude customers and long hours and how bleaching the countertops has dried out your hands. We’d get jittery when someone semi-famous walked into the place. We’d keel over laughing at slap-happy jokes while bussing tables at the end of the night.
It could be my rose-colored glasses, but the good times that came with serving tables were some of the happiest moments in my life.
That all being said, my experience is not unique. This not-so-secret subculture is at the heart of every bar and restaurant in your neighborhood, too. You might think you’re just buying food or an experience—but the people you’re supporting are some of the kindest and most hardworking you’ll ever meet.
So if you have a chance, reach out to your favorite local spot and see how they’re doing. Is there a gift card you can buy or fund you can donate to? Switch up your weekend plans by ordering takeout for brunch or try a dish you’ve never ordered before from the Chinese place across the way.
And if you’re in Milwaukee, Lori Frederich from OnMilwaukee has put together a great list of ways to support bar and restaurant workers in the area. And brilliant friends at Milwaukee Record have daily coverage of all the ways you can take advantage of takeout during these troubling times.
Let’s all be kind, look after one another and tip generously.
Briars & Brambles 