Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

No, this post is not about that all-American place that serves up greasy burgers.  Nor is it about an old Rolling Stones song.  It's about a very good man who happened to have a lot of nicknames, "Ruby Tuesday" among them.

I got a call today, or more specifically a text, from a friend who also happened to be my boss during one long and incredible chapter of my restaurant life.  He told me that another friend, and former co-worker, our man "Ruby Tuesday", had passed away today.  It was a kick in the gut.  A punch square in the nose.  A slap right across the face.  I knew he had a long-term health concern but he was still just in his thirties.

Chris was "Ruby Tuesday's" real name.  I liked and respected Chris. Chris was highly intelligent, highly intuitive, had a wonderful dry wit, and had impeccable taste in everything.  He worked as a server at that time.  He was also a student in a rigorous pre-professional program.  As for me, I split my working hours between days in the kitchen and weekend nights at the hostess stand, which is where I got to know him the best.  I'd get him tables when his section was empty.  I'd send someone to bus his section when it was a wreck of dirty dishes.  He'd run a message to the manager for me.  Or give me a 20-second serenade along with Sinatra on the muzak system.  Chris became a good pal.  He'd help me out when he didn't have to.  He'd tell me funny stories with a deadpan straight face.  He'd share his thoughts about writers whose work he appreciated.  He'd tell me about a great band he thought I'd enjoy, too.  And I was always tickled that while the other servers were running to the lockers to check their cell phones, Chris would run to his books to see if he could get a couple more pages into his studies.  He completed thoughts eloquently and was truly one of those "soul of a poet" types.  Chris and I also learned we had many friends in common, and we would sometimes cross paths socially, but I can't claim to have been especially close to him outside of work.

And yet, the loss of Chris hits me hard.

Why?

Well, I'm a little too tired tonight to check my references, but I seem to remember Anthony Bourdain comparing restaurant service to war, and restaurant co-workers to brothers-in-arms.  Bourdain, or whomever said it first, is absolutely right.  Restaurant work, like war, can be excruciatingly boring (as in, waiting for someone to come in) or white-knuckle harrowing (as in, 11:00 am, Mothers' Day when every table was accidentally double-booked).  The people you work with are in it with you.  They help you pass the time when it's boring.  They don't leave you behind when it's harrowing.  You might not have a whole lot else in common with them, but you have this--- these awful moments of chaos you must all survive in order to eek out a living.  You know how rough it is, so you help your co-workers.  Whether or not you think of yourself as a team player, you are forced to become one in a restaurant.

Chris was on my team.  Plus, after a while, you just know if someone is true-blue or a clever B.S-er.  Chris was true-blue.

Ladies and Gentleman, now is your chance:  Please PLEASE tip your servers generously.  They could be the hostess's right-hand man.  They could be a true-blue guy.  They could be slogging it out for their degree by day.  They could have the soul of a poet.  They could be someone's brother-in-arms.  They could be someone's brother.  They are probably someone's friend.  They are certainly someone's child.  They are certainly ephemeral.

Yes, they certainly are.

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday.