‘THE BEST SHIFT is me, the bottle crusher and no customers for thirty minutes,’ says Joe. He’s leaning back in his chair, top three buttons undone with sweat collecting on his upper lip while sinking the off-label beer the restaurant buys in pallets specifically for our knock-offs. He makes the face he always makes, like he’s just tasted cat’s piss, but he doesn’t care because it’s free. He goes for another sip. We are allocated two bottles per shift, but no one ever goes in for a second. He wipes the sweat off his face, tries to decipher the foreign language on the label as if learning something new about the beer would change its flavour, and sneers. 

We’ve just finished one of the longest and hardest shifts of the year, and we are too tired to leave the building. It’s Christmas Eve, a 35-degree night, and we survived three dinner seatings while being two people down. We also all worked a double, and our staff meal was the butt ends of bread choked down with blood-temperature water while polishing cutlery. Every single person we served was tired, stressed, sick of spending money and not looking forward to seeing their in-laws. They also all wanted dressing on the side, no garlic and everything gluten free, but to also have multiple serves of the pasta of the day. Bah, humbug.