Samantha's

            My first waitressing job was at a restaurant called Samantha’s on Decatur St. in the French Quarter of New Orleans.  I got hired because I knew one of the bartenders, but I knew little about waiting tables, and had to learn almost everything the hard way. I didn’t know about balancing a tray, so when I approached my very first table with two large glasses of iced tea, I sent one of them flying across the room when I handed over the other.  A mistake I didn’t make again.

            Samantha’s was in a beautiful old brick building with an antique bar and real gas lanterns  mounted in the walls that  you had to light with a key and torch, just like in “Meet Me in St. Louis.” It was popular with both tourists and locals, so the lunch crowd was lively and the money pretty good.  The kitchen was ruled by a big, brilliant Creole chef named Cecelia whose mission in life was to fatten me up, a project that I wholeheartedly endorsed.  Everything she cooked was delicious, and I ate her bread pudding as often as I could. A single bite of that would probably send me into a sugar overload today. There was also an excellent salad bar; and after nearly starving for several months, I needed those green vegetables.  Restaurant work saved my life.

            Samantha’s was the first place where I experienced how quickly a restaurant job can take over your life. When I wasn’t working there, I was hanging out there; the other waitresses became my friends and I started dating a bartender with a lot of tattoos named Tony.  Tony stole steaks and shrimp and bottles of alcohol- it was also my first exposure to how much theft goes on in the hospitality business.  

            I only worked there for six weeks, but at that point it was the longest I had kept a job. I quit as soon as I had made enough money to get out of town, escaping the Gulf Coast just as the Spring was turning to steamy Summer, in early May, heading north to have Spring all over again.