19 Aug Working in a restaurant was never easy. Now it’s impossible.

In college, I was a camera operator. My senior year, I worked at a small web development agency. After college, I started a video production company with an old friend of mine; when it ended, we didn’t talk for five years. After that, I worked as a casting assistant, then as a production assistant, then as as an extra. But when the work dried up, I turned to restaurants. And I thrived.

I would later hear that working a weekend night at a busy restaurant is like jumping out of a plane. You can pep talk yourself all you want, but as soon as you open the doors, there’s no telling what might happen.

It’s Valentine’s Day, you ran out of panna cotta three hours ago on your pre-fixe menu and they sent a line cook downstairs to make shortcake as a last minute substitution. A man, down on his luck, walked right past the host stand and started asking your table if they could spare any money for something to eat. A loud crash comes from the kitchen, as shards of ceramic clash against the cold, tile floor. You forgot to ask for sauce on the side; the restaurant’s chef/owner spiked your entree into the floor.

And then the doors shut, the rush wears off, and you do it all again the next day.

Bars are, I was informed, a recession proof industry. If the economy is booming, people want to drink. It the economy is down, people want to drink. I learned a trade. I was invaluable. I could always find work. This industry is the second-largest private employer in the country, responsible for 15 million jobs in the United States, about 10% of the entire workforce.

The problem, I would learn, is that bars are not pandemic proof.

Going to a bar during the COVID-19 pandemic, according to most state and federal health agencies, seems to be the most surefire way to contract this life-threatening disease. We’ve learned that this is a virus is most easily transmitted through person-to-person contact in poorly-ventilated areas, turning a crowded bar or restaurant into a petri dish over the course of a standard evening. The consumption of food and beverage makes mask-wearing almost impossible in a hospitality setting, leaving patrons at risk of exposure.

And if you think visiting an establishment is tough right now, try working in one. If you’re a restaurant worker and you’re not feeling well, it’s time to call in some favors, otherwise you’re in the building, rushing to the bathroom between bussing tables and telling your tables it’s just allergies while taking their drink orders. The modus operandi at most restaurants is that if you can’t make it in, you’re the one responsible for making sure there’s somebody there, no matter the reason.

If you do find somebody to cover your shift, you’re sitting on the couch, losing anywhere from $100-$300 for not being able to show up. Most restaurants don’t have any degree of paid sick leave, and in nineteen states, the tipped minimum wage is $2.13/hr, the money guaranteed to you by your employer for being in the building. If you can’t find anybody to cover your shift, your employer may ask you for a doctor’s note, despite providing inadequate health insurance coverage options, with exorbitant monthly costs and high deductibles. When I asked about health insurance coverage when I was hired as a bar manager in the fall of 2014, I was informed by my manager that it, unfortunately, it wasn’t an option. Four years later, he died of lung cancer.

And if you’re a restaurateur during this pandemic, and one of your employees tests positive, shutting down for an additional amount of time could be a death blow to the whole restaurant, especially if it happens more than once. It would mean throwing away thousands of dollars worth of food, completely eliminating any potential income source while still having to pay for ground floor commercial real estate.

Working in restaurants has become more dangerous than jumping out of a plane.

I have seen firsthand the commitment restaurants have been making to the safety and well-being of both customers and employees. I’ve spoken with dive bar bartenders, now responsible for aggressively policing indoor mask policies (mask down, take a sip, mask up). I’ve spoken with a chef, who turned his industry-renowned fine dining tasting menu into an outdoor, contact-free dining experience, complete with mobile ordering. The industry is fighting to survive. But it’s not enough.

I’ve heard this pandemic referred to as a “disruption” by economists, desperate to measure and quantify the big picture changes we’ll see in our day-to-day lives, as they hope to predict what the world will look like when we all emerge from hibernation. This is a cold term for what it’s done to my industry, this terrible, toxic, broken industry that I love so much, that’s employed almost everyone I’ve ever known. While PPP/CARES funding has provided financial relief for many of us, this pandemic is shining a light on the cruelties of the hospitality industry in ways we couldn’t have ever imagined. This isn’t a disruption: it’s a Greek tragedy.

Whatever this industry looks like when all this dust has settled, when we hang our masks up for the last time and we no longer have to weight the moral pros and cons of sitting at a bar, I just hope this industry looks different. I hope food prices are higher, a reflection of a commitment to pay employees a higher wage and guarantee sick time. I hope affordable insurance is available to restaurant employees as a result of healthcare reform only a pandemic could instigate. I hope that our rose-tinted, Edison-bulbed views of a pre-COVID resturant won’t prevent us from taking steps to make them better for everybody.

But mostly, I want to sit at a bar and drink a beer. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.