In August of 1990, I got a job at an up-and-coming italian restaurant in Hermitage, PA.   It was at a time in my life when things were rocky, at best.  I'd returned to my home turf from not only from a big city (Cleveland) but a bad relationship, and I needed work if I was to get by.

My father pulled a few strings and secured a job interview for me at this restaurant with its cook, Guy Combine.  It's been over 19 years, yet I still remember the interview.  Everything went right - it was weird that way.  Not often in one's life does an interview go so well. 

I walked in and was met by this tall, lanky dude in kitchen whites with wayward, straw-colored curls accompanied by the most comforting blue-grey eyes I'd ever seen.  He held his hand out to me and introduced himself as Guy.  He seemed nervous; either that, or he wasn't used to strange meetings like interviews.  I mean, sure, you can open a business, but who's going to tell you how to change who you really are?  After the initial uncomfortable formalities, we sat at an equally awkward, black-painted, padless booth, and he began to ask me questions.

I nailed that interview.  Nailed it.

He laughed, I relaxed;  and as we got further into my application, the formality between us kind of melted.  Guy and I were a good mix from the beginning.  Even though he was nerdy in nature, Guy Combine was one of the most comforting persons with whom I'd ever spent time; and despite the awkwardness of our first meeting, I liked him immediately.  Sitting there and answering his questions seemed like the most natural thing I've ever done.  How many times in your life will you ever click with someone so well?

Needless to say, I got the job.

And what a hard, challenging, rewarding job it was.  I benefitted from the experience of dealing with the public in such a nature.  Being a hostess for Combine's taught me to listen to people, watch them, to expect the unexpected, and to well, kiss ass.  It taught me that many people hate waiting... this restaurant did not take reservations;  it went on a nightly waiting list.  Many people in the Shenango Valley did not like this approach, especially the 'A list'.  I can't begin to tell you how many times certain lawyers, doctors, and business owners would attempt to bump themselves up a few names or outright push themselves into an open booth.  When that didn't work, they either left or stayed; but either way I was made known to their discomfort and often expected to change what they felt was at times a personal slight.  Some whined, some tried to bribe me, and a few bitched and moaned when they weren't seated fast enough.  I learned about entitlement quickly.

Over the next 3 months, Combine Brother's no-reservation idea payed off, because the people who came to eat and stayed would not only stay, but they began to enjoy the two-hour wait one often found during Friday and Saturday night.  These people expected to drink and laugh before dinner.  These were the people Guy was looking for.

While working a nightly shift was exciting, there were monotonies involved that became maddening.  I can't begin to tell you how many times I had to hear "Three Coins in a Fountain" by Frank Sinatra because The Best of Frank Sinatra was one of only two cd's I remember getting constant playing time.  Between than cd and the 10,000 Maniacs cd Jeff liked, I was pretty much up to my eyeballs in Frank and Natalie.  Every night.  All night. 

I've always wondered on the side - why don't certain restaurants and  chains like Pier One get more than two cd's?  What's the damage?  Don't they realize that:

1.) there's lots of music out there, and

2.) they drive their employees crazy?

During the year I worked at this restaurant, I was a mess.  My life was going nowhere, I drank too much, and was unhappy with myself.  The only positive thing I did at the time was work.  I took pride in my job.  From Tuesday to Saturday, I was the hostess and worked from five PM to an unofficial ten PM or midnight on weeknights and weekend nights.  On nights like Wednesday, it was possible to hustle a bit of change off those on the waiting list by remembering drink orders from the previous time they came in and being attentive.  It's amazing how much it meant to customers if I could remember their name from an hour before;  to be called by their name as they walk in the restaurant weeks later often brought about beaming smiles.  To be remembered, to be greeted, to be called by name and dragged to the bar for a drink that you've remembered they drink - for some people this was a real treat.  If I remembered an older person's name and their drink, they would grab my arm or hug me on the way out the door.   While greeting them during their next visit, it became obvious as he or she might self-consciously pull on a suit or dress years too tight that this was the first time this person has been out since the last time they'd come in to eat.  There was no bad side to this.

The Combine brothers' restaurant had a huge italian customer base, and some of them may have not dined out since the Paradise Lounge served up sauce in the eighties.   I pulled in from thirty to sixty bucks extra depending on the night because I learned what my job really was;  I was to keep people from leaving if there was a wait list.   I was to sell the restaurant.  Guy's food was the real sell,  but I was the first face these diners saw five out of six nights a week and had to pimp like crazy sometimes to keep them from leaving.  I had to learn whose kids where going to what school, who drank what, and who hated chairs and who liked the seat by the kitchen; who liked half orders, who wanted the extra sauce taken off his plate (this meant you, Mr. Cardamon!!), and so on.   From the shift's start to finish, there was a full-adrenaline go, and Guy Combine gave me the opportunity to enjoy myself while doing it.  He gave me the opportunity to make people happy and study them at the same time.

Once, during an ABC golf tournament at Tam-O'Shantern gold course, I turned down three hundred dollars in total worth of tip money to put the out-of-towners ahead of regulars on a two-hour wait list.  There were people argueing with me to put them up on the list and showing me one hundred-dollar bills, but I couldn't take the money.  It was more important to Guy to treat the once in awhile rich guy like the twice a week steel worker - to make sure everyone stood in the same line.  Not once during the whole year that I worked there did I ever cross that line.  For this loyalty to the rules, Guy Combine took care of me;  he was a superb boss.

One year his birthday fell on a Friday, a karaoke Friday.  Holy Crap I hated karaoke Fridays.  The words escape me.  They might have been fun for the customers, but they were hell for me.  I had the extreme displeasure of weaving in and out of drunk masses of Westminster College students who all wanted to drink but didn't want to pay, let alone tip, the frazzled hostess.  (One night someone threw a fifty cent tip at me that bounced on the table and to the floor.  While I tried to grab both quarters at once, and couldn't,  I decided that they could get their own drinks for the rest of the night.)  And I couldn't even get away with drinking on the job like the bartenders could.  It basically sucked.