After living in San Francisco for a year, my friend Bari from the Sahara Desert finally found a full time job in a Moroccan restaurant. Before this he had various part-time jobs. The most challenging one was working in a pastry assembly line, where in the wee hours he ran back and forth in the factory pouring large buckets of dough and constantly monitoring the machinery. He told me only the Mongolians survive there because they are physically superior. Bari (being a nomad, no less) lasted only a month in that job and had to admit defeat. I can’t imagine a little innocent croissant bearing such human costs.
My daughter, being a waitress, always tips heavy (20%) when she goes out to eat. She understands the underbelly of a restaurant, where many invisible, underprivileged people work to bring about a pleasurable dining experience. I think about these things now, when I go out, and eat my banana-chocolate muffin with a certain degree of reverence.
