The End
Who would have thought, after 18 weeks of work at a fast food outlet, I would actually feel soppy about leaving the place.
When I first got my hands dirty in all the tasks required for my job, from cleaning the grotty toaster and grill to scooping up mouldy bits and pieces of 'stuff' that had fallen into the drain, I absolutely hated my job. I hated the fact that I was constantly breaking my back carrying stuff that were too difficult to maneuver (such as trays that had to be lifted to chest level so that they would fit into the production bin, or oil drip-trays that had to be lowered to knee level so that it would fit into the grills). The 'correct method' of carrying stuff didn't apply in this place; nothing would get done if you did it the right way.
And so as I agonised through those tasks I started to develop dodgy methods of getting the job done to produce results that LOOKED good but were not necessarily so. I started doing things the fast way and coupled with the tricks that my fellow workmates taught me I became more efficient in my job and grotty in many aspects, but I always got the job done.
I absolutely hated the managers who did nothing to ease our suffering. Whilst some were more sympathetic than others, most of them were not very keen to lend a helping hand even though they were without any tasks. Some would sit back in the office while we slaved away at the kitchen, reading a magazine and not offering any help whatsoever even when we were getting hammered by the unending queue of fat obese kids demanding for their burgers. Some would not allow us to start cleaning until we closed, which meant polishing the whole bloody fucking restaurant in under an HOUR, dismantling bits and pieces of equipment for cleaning and then putting them back all together in what normally takes us 3 hours to do.
On the first week of work I was delighted that I had free burgers and soft drinks to gorge on thought my shift, occasionally stealing a chicken nugget or two from the UHT-bin when nobody was looking or keeping a box of cookies under the preparation table so that I could slowly munch away when there were no burgers to be stolen.
But not long after that did the feeling of disgust start to kick in. The more burgers I rolled out to customers, who bought them, the more I knew of the 'secret ingredients' and 'secret preparation methods' that gave the burgers their trademark flavour. The more I made and prepared the food, the more I felt that I did not want to put that into my mouth and chew at it.
The amount of things that I did as a staff member must have broken hundreds of rules set by the franchise as well as laws set by the government. We never followed anything they told us to do, often using the same gloves for chemicals as the gloves for preparing food, incorrect storage of food in the refrigerators, buns left out in the open after we finished our shifts, meat cooked with a crust of burnt material that helped increase the statistics for people diagnosed with cancer, burgers left in the production bin for more than 2hours (recommended time is 15minutes) yet still being served to customers... A gazillion other things concerning food handling and preparation were done in our own ways with little or no advice from our managers who seemed to do the same. As long as the money came rolling in and the work got done, everybody was happy.
We bred a happy fatty world.
But nobody cared to question what we did. We were the champions of the fast food outlet; the sole reason why people came to the store, because we were the army of men hidden away in the kitchen who turned raw stuff into product that could be sold for 20 times the cost price. We were the ones who carefully added the flavour to the product and made the unhealthy obese kids wanting more. Without us kitchen crew members, the restaurant was nothing.
Things began to take a toll on me as I worked in that fast-food outlet, alternating between the caustic chemicals they used to clean the equipment and the dollops of oil that sprayed onto my face as I churned out more than 300 burgers in 60 minutes on a daily basis. Coupled with the intense back aches from all the lifting, the sleepless nights due to long arduous shifts and unfinished university work, I told myself that I had enough of all this nonsense. I had enough of being bullied around.
Enrolling in a bar course was probably the best investment to date. Not only did we get a free flow of alcohol throughout our shift, but we also learnt a great deal about the different types of beer (and believe me, it is as complex as wine if not more complex) and beer pouring methods, occupational health and safety procedures, and moreover we had a lot of fun through chat and discussion sessions with the other people doing the same course as us.
And at the end of the bar course I enrolled myself for a coffee course to make coffee 'the Melbourne way' before signing up for a trial shift at a well known bar in the city and the rest is history.
I am now into my second week of working at the bar, pouring drinks for people and making them drunk (I somehow seem to engage myself in work that damages society). The bar is located at the other end of the street where the boyfriend lives, and he constantly jokes about me pouring alcohol for the men and making them drunk, men who then walk down the same street and destroy property in the neighbourhood under the state of intoxication.
I am enjoying every moment of my new job though the pay is much lesser than what I was expecting. Then again, job satisfaction over pay. Nobody should to do a shit job just because of the money involved.
God, I love my job.
When I first got my hands dirty in all the tasks required for my job, from cleaning the grotty toaster and grill to scooping up mouldy bits and pieces of 'stuff' that had fallen into the drain, I absolutely hated my job. I hated the fact that I was constantly breaking my back carrying stuff that were too difficult to maneuver (such as trays that had to be lifted to chest level so that they would fit into the production bin, or oil drip-trays that had to be lowered to knee level so that it would fit into the grills). The 'correct method' of carrying stuff didn't apply in this place; nothing would get done if you did it the right way.
And so as I agonised through those tasks I started to develop dodgy methods of getting the job done to produce results that LOOKED good but were not necessarily so. I started doing things the fast way and coupled with the tricks that my fellow workmates taught me I became more efficient in my job and grotty in many aspects, but I always got the job done.
I absolutely hated the managers who did nothing to ease our suffering. Whilst some were more sympathetic than others, most of them were not very keen to lend a helping hand even though they were without any tasks. Some would sit back in the office while we slaved away at the kitchen, reading a magazine and not offering any help whatsoever even when we were getting hammered by the unending queue of fat obese kids demanding for their burgers. Some would not allow us to start cleaning until we closed, which meant polishing the whole bloody fucking restaurant in under an HOUR, dismantling bits and pieces of equipment for cleaning and then putting them back all together in what normally takes us 3 hours to do.
On the first week of work I was delighted that I had free burgers and soft drinks to gorge on thought my shift, occasionally stealing a chicken nugget or two from the UHT-bin when nobody was looking or keeping a box of cookies under the preparation table so that I could slowly munch away when there were no burgers to be stolen.
But not long after that did the feeling of disgust start to kick in. The more burgers I rolled out to customers, who bought them, the more I knew of the 'secret ingredients' and 'secret preparation methods' that gave the burgers their trademark flavour. The more I made and prepared the food, the more I felt that I did not want to put that into my mouth and chew at it.
The amount of things that I did as a staff member must have broken hundreds of rules set by the franchise as well as laws set by the government. We never followed anything they told us to do, often using the same gloves for chemicals as the gloves for preparing food, incorrect storage of food in the refrigerators, buns left out in the open after we finished our shifts, meat cooked with a crust of burnt material that helped increase the statistics for people diagnosed with cancer, burgers left in the production bin for more than 2hours (recommended time is 15minutes) yet still being served to customers... A gazillion other things concerning food handling and preparation were done in our own ways with little or no advice from our managers who seemed to do the same. As long as the money came rolling in and the work got done, everybody was happy.
We bred a happy fatty world.
But nobody cared to question what we did. We were the champions of the fast food outlet; the sole reason why people came to the store, because we were the army of men hidden away in the kitchen who turned raw stuff into product that could be sold for 20 times the cost price. We were the ones who carefully added the flavour to the product and made the unhealthy obese kids wanting more. Without us kitchen crew members, the restaurant was nothing.
Things began to take a toll on me as I worked in that fast-food outlet, alternating between the caustic chemicals they used to clean the equipment and the dollops of oil that sprayed onto my face as I churned out more than 300 burgers in 60 minutes on a daily basis. Coupled with the intense back aches from all the lifting, the sleepless nights due to long arduous shifts and unfinished university work, I told myself that I had enough of all this nonsense. I had enough of being bullied around.
Enrolling in a bar course was probably the best investment to date. Not only did we get a free flow of alcohol throughout our shift, but we also learnt a great deal about the different types of beer (and believe me, it is as complex as wine if not more complex) and beer pouring methods, occupational health and safety procedures, and moreover we had a lot of fun through chat and discussion sessions with the other people doing the same course as us.
And at the end of the bar course I enrolled myself for a coffee course to make coffee 'the Melbourne way' before signing up for a trial shift at a well known bar in the city and the rest is history.
I am now into my second week of working at the bar, pouring drinks for people and making them drunk (I somehow seem to engage myself in work that damages society). The bar is located at the other end of the street where the boyfriend lives, and he constantly jokes about me pouring alcohol for the men and making them drunk, men who then walk down the same street and destroy property in the neighbourhood under the state of intoxication.
I am enjoying every moment of my new job though the pay is much lesser than what I was expecting. Then again, job satisfaction over pay. Nobody should to do a shit job just because of the money involved.
God, I love my job.
Fell from the sky at 10:25 AM
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