I returned to hospitality work as a middle-aged woman – here’s what it taught me | Beth Knights

1 day ago 7

There’s a regular customer opposite me screeching at anyone who’ll listen – and even those who won’t. The frequency of her voice is piercing my brain. I am managing a queue of patrons: taking orders, making cocktails, trying to stay sane. I am trapped here for another four hours. Welcome to the world of bar work.

Just shy of turning 50, I recently returned to the hospitality grind after a breezy 30-year “sabbatical”. My freelance writing work is temperamental, and while I live the work-from-home dream, tapping at a laptop from my lounge can also be lonely. Even as a misanthrope, I need contact with my fellow species. Due to crippling social anxiety, I prefer having a role to play at any social function. I’m great at small talk when also pouring a drink. Standing idly with a drink and talking? Not so much.

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Some shifts, the work drives me to despair: repetitious, arduous, thankless. But more often than not, the hours provide a humbling experience, a welcome respite from a million and one other woes. There’s something deeply honest about a hard day’s labour, the all-consuming physicality of it. For between 5 and 8 hours at a time, there’s simply no room for pondering my more existential concerns – someone needs a drink, and pronto! At one with my chore, I am at peace.

In the yoga tradition, there’s a practice called karma yoga – a spiritual discipline of “selfless action performed for the benefit of others”. Any seeker feeling lost and looking for guidance will have collided with the suggestion to busy themselves in service to others. Whether volunteering or community work, the act of giving is the remedy. While I’m paid to be here, I take joy in the job as an act of service. It’s not social work, but we do hear stories of rough days or difficult nights. A happy customer can make it all worthwhile.

Middle-aged workers in hospitality help to challenge ageist attitudes and outdated assumptions. We’re precocious enough to wield a snarl as required, but know how to spend it wisely. In theory, we help displace notions that the work is simple and only for penny-strapped students. The majority of people I know who have returned to the trade have arts practices, children or otherwise complicated lives. One assumption that works in my favour is customers mistaking my maturity for authority, meaning they’re more likely to treat me with respect.

By my age, I’m rather accomplished at surfing life’s grievances and disappointments. Some might say I’ve mastered the art, having clocked my 10,000 hours of dedicated practice. Years under the (expanding) belt have a way of putting the small stuff in perspective. So, when it comes to the downsides of hospitality most of it rolls off my back. I’m also less quick to judge – it’s a long, hard life after all.

I felt a strange mix of emotions during a recent ruck with a customer. It was an interaction where the stress at having her card declined, mixed with a hint of shame, spilled out in an unhinged way. It’s the kind of behaviour you’d only allow yourself to do in front of a complete stranger. It was so raw, so human, that I couldn’t help but feel a strange tenderness in bearing witness to it.

I’m not one to wade into generational culture wars, but I have to say the most difficult customers, generally speaking, aren’t the barflies or the drunk men that call me “sweetheart” – more often that not, it’s boomers. Some of them exude a belief that they know your job better than you do. The huffing and the puffing when things don’t go exactly as they think they should, paired with a complete lack of awareness about why certain processes exist – like waiting to be seated – can be galling.

This demographic – and I’m generalising here – are often the quickest to judge, the fastest to outrage and the most likely to feel dissatisfied with an experience they’ve had a hand in creating. My job is to make you feel welcome and look after your needs, but your job is to recognise that hospitality workers aren’t vending machines. It’s a human interaction, an intersection of people who all share a planet. We’re not inconsequential strangers.

When customers fail to acknowledge the humanity of the person serving them, the net result is a surly workforce and unhappy clientele. But ask any satisfied customer what made their experience good, enjoyable even, and it always comes back to the hospitality they received. The magic ingredient? The exchange isn’t purely transactional – it’s a relationship. Like all successful relationships, the more you put into it, the more you’ll get out of it.