A Christmas Tree with a giant red star above.Along with it being the time for giving and sharing and love and excessive eating, Christmas, in the catering industry, is one of work. I would even go so far as to say that there is no industry that works harder, puts in longer hours or gets less praise than the people who churn out Christmas party after Christmas party, who exude Christmas cheer like it’s fun and who are still available for commentary afterwards without crying.

I don’t have a day job in the catering industry at the moment, but Barny does, and in the month leading up to Christmas, in the restaurant industry, that means he has very little else. He tends to work an A.F.D, where A.F.D. stands for All Day, and that usually means open-till-close standing in a kitchen that is either ferociously hot or fiendishly cold, churning out plate after plate of food for people he will never meet. Yet he loves it.

I, on the other hand, am less easily pleased. I have been down there, where the days are 12 hours long if you’re lucky and the nights are never long enough, and I beat a hasty retreat. It was just over a year ago, before anyone even knew the name of the Jabberwocky. I had just managed to cut lose from the 9-5 job to pursue a career in restaurant management, so that one day Barny and I could open our own. I took a job at a pub 25 minutes drive away, and almost instantly regretted it. When your day starts at 10 and runs till midnight, and your only break is 2 hours between 3 and 5, you really don’t want to spend an hour in the car.

This is what’s so hard about the restaurant industry. The job itself I find hugely enjoyable: talking to people, delighting them with plates of food, giving everyone a lovely evening. But when you look back on a week and see 70 hours of that behind you, then two days off and 70 hours ahead of you before your next break, it takes the shine off it a little. I decided against it, quit, and frolicked off to the job market again.

Therefore the fact that Barny can do this has always amazed me, and gives me the greatest respect for him and other people who do that job, although as kitchen-banter is more a way of life rather than a mode of speech I would probably call them poor little princesses and then try and get them to cook me dinner rather than tell them that.

Either way, this post goes out to people in restaurants everywhere, who are eating or cooking or cleaning or serving: Merry Christmas and don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon.

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