Job Searching

 

Like most people in their 20's, I spend much of my life job searching, but I must say, finding part-time work here is another animal completely.  The problem is that if one applies for retail or table service, the employers expect you to be a career waiter or a career retailer.  My friend from the 9/11 memorial forwarded me positions from their HR department, and to work in the Memorial Gift Shop, one must have a bachelors degree. I have had restaurant owners take one look at my resume and turn me down for bussing tables because I don't intend to make a career in food.  This is not to say I've had no luck.

Every day I've had off, I'd start at eight in the morning pacing the streets of Manhattan and the East Village, popping my head in doorways, chatting with restaurateurs and disseminating my resume.  My most interesting contact has been Guillermo, owner of Cafe Andelucia in Hell's Kitchen.  His sous chef, Leo, had given me hope of employment there the day before so returned the next day to speak to the man himself.  He had no work for me, but the company was so good that I remained at the darkly lit, oiled-wood bar for two hours, sipping ice water and listening to Guillermo's stories.  His father worked for the British army during the second war, trafficking Jews (mostly doctors, engineers and others that the royal military found the most useful) to Argentina which then had various territories under control of the Crown.  His most amusing story involved an ex-Nazi neighbor.  This neighbor he remembered fondly.  Guillermo was younger than ten when the neighbor would play lawn bowling with him and lift him high over his head. Then one day, he disappeared, leaving no trace.  Years passed and in the sixties, Guillermo was a young man.  Wanting to meet other Spaniards in the city, he stepped into a Spanish-run gym for some jai alai.  In a corner of the gym was giant man with a German accent that he recognized.  He was now very old, but Guillermo recognized the neighbor immediately.  He called out to him using the name he knew him by and scared the old man nearly to death.  Guillermo's bohemian long hair and beard had momentarily convinced the neighbor that he was an ascetic Jew, come to murder him for his Nazi past.  Soon though, he recognized him as the youngest of his neighbors sons, the boy he used to lawn bowl with and lift above his head.  He had changed his name a handful of times since the war and moved often.  They laughed and reminisced and parted ways.  Stories like this are common in this city.

Hell's Kitchen is the best place on earth.  While I found no work there, what I did find were the most generous and talented chefs of New York.  An owner of a Persian restaurant pulled me into his doorway just to give me a glass of water (making sure I drank at least two) as I marched 9th Avenue, and the kitchen staff of a small Indian cafe offered me vegetable samosas on the house before I took back to the streets.  Despite this, no tourists traffic this area. This is for one reason and one reason only: These restaurants do not Yelp.  The ownership in Hell's Kitchen are vastly boomers and social media eludes them a little (a lot).  With a little social networking, they'd have armies stomping through these beautiful, family-run establishments.

My tenacious pavement-pounding did eventually pay off as for about two weeks, I had 1-3 job interviews EVERY WEEKDAY.  I intend to start work at a signage and marketing firm next week, doing odd jobs, running the laser cutter and making sales calls.  I've also been throwing the whole of my efforts into a self-promotional stunt that I'm launching tomorrow.  There will definitely be pictures of that up soon.

Next time: More food adventure, Nezu visits the Met Opera, and an old friend makes a cameo!