Anxiety Issue

Guys, I am in great jeopardy here. Friday will be my first day at school and i have to transform from this (my head is in the red elipse):

...to this:

Actually, exclude the tie, coat and spectacles(since my eyesight is still fair and is insufficiently crippled by long hours of staring at the computer screen to merit such "accessory") to get be an idea of my dressing on Friday. The all-too-common anxiety prior to a new experience is taking its toll on me as I constantly worry over the many possibilities, most of which are negative, that would follow relief teaching in SA. Heck, I look like a kid and to dress up so formally will undoubtedly make a funny-looking person out of me.


Moreover, there is this uncertainty gnawing at the base of my heart whether I can handle such big group of students in a class (not excluding the posssibilities of several encounters with spoilt, lazy, unattentive and rude students). True, there will be someone to guide me on the first day, but I will eventually have to teach alone, projecting my voice to the back of the class, putting on a mask of mature wisdom and being wary of making mistakes that reveals the child-like side of me.

Anyway, there is not much to do in allaying my anxiety but to confidently step into school on Friday 7.15am sharp and report to Madam Lee, the Senior Head of the Chemistry Department.
Meanwhile, I will parade with all the formal clothes on to get use to the attires' feel. So narcissistic, ain't I?

Why Inagiku Rocks!

My patience with the tardy, interrupted internet coverage in this house is nearing its limit, very much like a wood splinter lodged in the flesh. However, the connection is good today allowing me to indulge in blogging again.

Anyway, this fine Wednesday will be my last day at Inagiku restaurant, at least until the school holiday jingles its way into the calendar. It will be a heartfelt and memorable day as I'll be leaving a world unique in itself. Unique because in no other place can you find uncensored straightforwardness in full-fledged display as you get screwed, trashed and yelled at the commission of even a single mistake. There is no room for cynicism, sarcasm (except for one arrogant manager who struts around with a self-imagined pomp), and scheming. It's whether "I like you" or "I hate you" verbally expressed in sweetness and vulgarity respectively, as simple as that.

Waitering at Inagiku is also unique because everyone there is family. Perhaps, the bond among us develops from the need to put trust on one another in coordinating the myriad of tasks from taking order to cooking to serving. Otherwise the elaborate chain of action that is necessary for the smooth running of the restaurant would simply break down. As such, we develop a formidable sense of comradeship amongst ourselves with the commitment to help each other out for the common good of the restaurant. Ironically, it is the harshness and volatility of the circumstances there which force people to express goodwill towards one another to create mutual respect and harmony amidst the excruciating and stressful working environment. To cite an example of us being family, a Japanese manager personally encouraged everyone to call her "Mama" (I guess there is no need to elaborate on what it means). And yesterday she bought us cakes from Prego as a treat after a grueling day of work. How sweet!

In a way, some sort of loyalty towards Inagiku has found itself stubbornly lodged in my heart. I love Inagiku not because of the food or the classiness of the venue, I love it for its people. Thanks a lot, people of Inagiku! Muah!

A Change In The Path I Tread

A new day commences with me waking up from an uneasy slumber, which for some inexplicable reason is not caused by a dreadful nightmare. The sky is gloomy as dark cumulunimbus clouds race to block off every shard of the golden sunlight and to call the sky their dominion, for the moment at least. My back is aching as it was yesterday and the day before yesterday due to the heavy and exhasuting waitering chores at Inagiku.

Nonetheless, the same pain will not be visiting me for some time in the future since I have secured a relief teaching position back in SAJC. Credits to Mr Mannan for helping me out otherwise I would still be running around picking up dirty plates and delivering sashimi to the front counter. For the time being, I will be aiding a pregnant tutor in her Chemistry tutorial (and not in her labour, mind you!) and doing some administrative work.

Oh dear (such a cliche), time is running late and i myself should be bolting off to work! Will talk more about the post tonight.

8 minutes of crapping

Well, I have only 8 minutes to type out something in this post since I have to rush to work later. Actually, I have no idea the sort of cognitive substance that I should mould into letters and words. It is just this "blogging" addiction that has taken a toll on me, taunting my poor soul to tell something about myself, today, people, events, actually anything that is perceived through the senses or arises in the mental activity of the organ that lies within the cranial cavity.

Anyway, I am here to express just how tired I have become these days, due to work. Everyday is a struggle to defeat the ever-growing laziness, to drag my feet to the restaurant, and to kickstart some actions that are needed for work. However, it is strange though, that when the working shift is over, I feel happy, yup happy. Happy because I have achieved something in my life. Happy because I have lived another day as a person of some use. Happy because I am able to sustain myself in the costly setting of Singapore.

Oh dear, 1 minute left. Anyway, I better slap myself out of this post-sleep hiatus and be the enthusiastic Ryan again.

Anne

There I am at it again: blogging in the middle of the night when everyone else is already in deep slumber (well, almost everyone since one must acknowledge the existence of nocturnal subspecies among mankind).

Today, I would like to talk about a part-time colleague at Inagiku restaurant. Lets call her Anne although it is obviously an awkward name to give to a girl of Burmese ethnicity. Since I have no knowledge whatsoever of the Burmese language, lets be content with the mock name "Anne".

When I first met Anne, the first impression that lighted up in my mind was that she was a typical international student whose parents were rich enough to pay for her bills to study in the local polytechnic. I assumed that she resorted to working simply because she spent all her allowance and her parents refused to send her more. In fact, I had little opinion of her at all since I myself was busy with the demanding chores that a runner was entasked to carry out. We chatted mostly about trivial stuffs and did our own things, though we occasionally helped one another out when need arose.

Then, on one fateful day, I made a call to my employment agency to book for my working slot in the restaurant. The exact wordings of the dialogue with the agent are lost in the shrouded messiness of my mind but here is the gist of the talk:

Me: Hi, is there any (working) slot for coming Sunday(at Inagiku Restaurant)?

Agent: I am sorry there is none. The slot has been taken by Anne.

Me: Who? Can I change slot with her? Can you move her slot to some other time?

Agent: She is studying and that is the only time that she can work.

Me: What about moving her slot to some other day?

Agent: Look, she is motherless and must partially support her family back home while studying here. She really needs this job and the money that comes with it. I don't want to fiddle with her working slots.

Me: Oh, ok then.

The conversation, though short, is more than enough to deal a shocking blow on the nexus of my mind. All the sudden, I feel a sense of awe and guilt. Awe, because she is not some wealthy international student, rather a cash-strapped one who is determined to believe that the education here would provide her and her family a better state of living. Guilt, because I was trying to wrestle away her opportunity to earn the much need income that would go into supporting her family. Whenever I now look into her dark brown eyes, I know better than to judge a book by its cover.

In reality, we are surrounded by individuals, each of whom has his or her own poignant story to tell, unyielding resolve to inspire and amazing contradiction to astound. From the bubbly student on her way to school to the smiling cashier behind the convenience store's counter to a sleepy executive sipping coffee, each is a person unique not only in oneself, but also in one's predicaments and more importantly, one's will to challenge all odds. Anne inspires me.

Why Study History?

History is arrogantly selective and deliberately parochial in its study. First, because it only chronicles the accounts of selected few individuals, whose "decorated" stories are deemed worthy, appealing and meaningful compared to others. Two, because it grossly leaves out many details, even in the accounts for the selected few, and chooses to tell a limited perspective and supposedly "main" ideas. As a consequence, most of our stories, despite their potential life-changing impacts on ourselves and on others, go unpublished as they are alleged of being too personal, too emotional, too dramatic and more.

After all, it is this personal touch, this emotional encounter, and this dramatic enactment that drive the passage of our lives as we largely depend on how we feel and what our personal takes are on a particular issue, rather than pure cold logic, to make our decisions. If life were pure cold logic, this would be a dull and selfish world indeed. Dull, because the chain of occuring events is highly predictable given that it follows the flow of logic. Selfish, because altruism and love will perish, replaced by the overt display of self-preservation and cold-heartedness that are increasing evident in the modern society.

As such, history in its grand attempt to tell the story of mankind ("history" is "his" story, right?) falls short in achieving its purpose due to its philosophy of high selectivity and parochial reporting. No wonder, history has failed to impress on the younger generation the same fascination that the latter has for story books and movies.

Waitering: Not Easy

Yesterday, to be technically correct since I am reporting this account past 12 midnight, has been dishevelment, or more aptly a waitering disaster, at an unprecedented scale.

The new caller, due to her being inexperienced regarding the setting of the dishes as well as the order in which they are delivered to the customers, was obviously disoriented when she was hit with a barrage of orders. This, coupled with a record high number of walk-in customers, provided the ideal setting for a catastrophe of volcanic intensity. A small error, on the part of the caller, was sufficient to initiate a chain of errors and disorganisation from preparation to serving. Cooks began to screw up their recipes, and had to prepare the order all over again while servers outside were screaming for orders that took far too long for the diner’s patience to bear.

As a result, we had managers barking madly at us in a vain hope that this would somehow restore the smooth flow and impeccable perfection of work that was expected of the main kitchen. Runners, like me, were bound to suffer as we had to coordinate between sending ready dishes out to the servers, preparing special orders and desserts, topping up plates, cups and cutleries that were fast dwindling in the full-house restaurant, and not to mention, clearing mountains of used plates and cutleries

I don’t really blame the new caller entirely though; the girl is new to the task appointment and provision must be given for errors and setbacks. After all, the duos are among the best ways for one to learn the art of self-improvement as well as to gain invaluable experience and wisdom in carrying out the said task. The managers are forgiven for their ire, although unjustly unleashed upon us, since they are ultimately responsible for bearing the brunt of dissatisfied customers who are either irritated by a slight change in food taste or the unexpected delay of their meals. As for the waiters, one must understand that putting on a fake smile, supplicating to pernickety whims, saying nice things to nasty customers takes up a lot of patience, leaving little to spare when to interacting with the other staffs.

The experience of part-time watering has revealed to me a world that I had never ever seen. Behind the perfection of food, quality of service and extravagant setting in an expensive restaurant are the sweats of cooks, short and puffy breaths of waiters and the thumping hearts of managers. In other words, so much physical duress, mental effort and emotional resilience are involved in providing the near-ideal dining experience. I occasionally gave some time to self-thought, questioning whether such big sacrifice on the part of the restaurant sevice providers has to be made simply because the customers paid for it. Indeed, money can buy many things but should we use money to put others under such great ordeal to the extent that it almost bordered on a voluntary torture? Are we entitled to put the entire kitchen into havoc because we are unhappy with how the food is presented, despite that it is palattable?

It is true that as customers, we reserve the right to demand for the best quality of goods or services as our money can buy. However, as human beings, we should also understand that sometimes, money can bring unnecessary harm to the state of happiness of others and in this scenario, breeds suffering among the restaurant service providers. So, calling out to all consumers:

“Avoid being too demanding, be patient and close one eye to minor mistakes as they are not purposely meant.”

The waiters, especially, will appreciate this a lot.

Note: A caller is a person who receives orders from waiters, then informs or “call” the chefs to prepare the corresponding dishes. A runner serves as a “middle man” who delivers dishes from the kitchen to waitering counters outside, delivers special orders and clears out used plates and cutleries that are sent in by the serving waiters. A server, as the name implies, “serves” the guest by attending to their needs, taking down orders, serving ready dishes to them, and in some cases, doing cashiering work.