Place - Chowdah's

After the forty-five minute drive to Bar Harbor, and taking back ways, I would finally make it to work at Chowdah’s Restaurant. It wasn’t the finest place in town, by far. In fact, that was the place across the street.
Through the small pick-up window from the kitchen, I could see people fighting over parking spots and lines that extended down Main Street. Perhaps for hours at a time, Chowdah’s wouldn’t hold a paying soul.
I was the dishwasher, full-time and paid a decent wage. I’d come in every morning around ten, gritting my teeth for another day of being sliced by knives or lobster claws. I had to park in the abandoned hotel next door and walk around an unbalanced fence being harassed by tourists for directions, so I usually cut across the flower beds.
The back door was most always locked, the owner having been late because of dipping into his bar too much the night before. Eventually, he’d stumble in with his keys jangling by his side and let in the whole crew of waiters and kitchen preps, complaining we were late because no one had found a way into the joint.
As the waiters gossiped and set the tables out front, I’d fill up the bath-sized sinks with warm water and soap with hardly any water pressure. The day had begun and I yawned with dissatisfaction that didn’t disappear till ten hours later when I got to drive home.
It was a sad sort of place with its lack of sanitation and fervor of the workers. They were all there to make money and obviously didn’t care about the quality of service, nevertheless quality at all. Disheveled was the bartender as he scooted in around three, two hours late. He’d sit in the back on the ice bucket and suck down his cigarettes till the owner came out and barked down his throat. “I ain’t paying you to smoke, and I can get a new bartender anytime. With ease, I tell you.”
The truth is I was the twentieth dishwasher this season and wasn’t expected to last for long because he was paying me ten bucks an hour and knew he could cheat a Russian kid into working for less. He was all about the money, not to mention the booze.
Many times, he’d come in the kitchen hooting and hollering for no clear reason. “Do you have to slam the dishes so hard?” He asked me one night.
I looked at him with confusion as it was plain to see the shelves were much too high for me to stack gently and I practically had to jump to put them away.
The mood was so nerve-racking, it was surreal. Catching my breath between jobs was a real task. Cruise-liners made their way into town, full of hungry Canadians and French tourists that stupidly found themselves in Chowdah’s. Spinning out clean dishes was painful at best.
It was especially a true treat when the workers left me a sharp knife at the bottom of the sink and moving as quickly as I could, injuries couldn’t be afforded to be treated till the end of the day. And by then, I was itching with infection and pus would prevail.
The place smelled of rusty deep fryers and sulfur from the fish, tartar sauce, and starchy clam chowder. It bottled inside my nose and left me no choice but to run outside gasping for air every five minutes. And then in this case, the owner would once again furrow his brow and demand I return.
This place was a wreck and now it’s for sale. But nobody wants to buy the shithole that was renown for bad reviews from both customer and employee.