As I consider the life of my 18-year-old son post-high school, I remember my first full-time job, at a small restaurant in downtown San Francisco called Chris' Seafood, founded in 1918.I remember the giant green fish-shaped sign that hung over Mission Street when I first approached it on my first day.
I was a suburban teenager and had no idea what I was in for. This little place had been around for years, and was a perfect complement to the seedy hotels and denizens they harbored in what is now the Moscone Center and Yerba Buena Gardens. We had homeless guys come in looking for money back when the word "homeless" wasn't invented yet. They were just called "winos." They objected when we offered them crab salad sandwiches instead of coins towards a bottle of Thunderbird.
I mopped floors, bused tables, and washed the dishes. I was taught that when the big hot tray came out of the stainless steel box, to dump the silverware into a large white towel and rub it dry. That basic flatware shone. I can still feel the heat and smell the soap today, 40 years later.
We served fried fish, but specialized in prawns, scallops and abalone, all covered with a homemade Louis dressing. I know--because I helped make the mayonnaise it contained from scratch. We also made the French fries by hand--something you rarely see today.
I spent six months working from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. before taking off and strumming my guitar for five months--and hitchiking to Arizona and back. But that's another story.
Here's my beautiful boy, at the same age as I am in that photo above. His part-time career? Model at a clothing store.
Posts
