“Could someone please get me some fucking tartar sauce?”

As a sophomore in college I have (obviously) encountered, and for that matter spoken, the present participle of this infamous expletive before. Tartar sauce, as well, is by no means a foreign concept. The two together however, is a combination I had never truly considered.

Maybe I should back up.

This summer vacation I worked as a waitress at the New Hampshire seafood establishment known as the B. W. Café and Bar*1. Before I began, my conception of the restaurant business had always been a tad romanticized. I did not envision anything specific — more so just pieced-together, broken, sunny shards of expectation: sleepy beach goers who ask for “the usual” and a jovial old cook who spins stories about his surfing days and slips me free grilled cheese when business is slow. But I learned fairly early that my preconceived notions were sorely misguided. In particular, the latter.

In his mid-fifties, the head cook, Tom is (relatively) old. But jovial he is not.

As a waitress in Tom’s kitchen, your name is either “little girl” or “jack ass” and if you make a mistake well, it will be something much worse. Questioning Tom’s inherent wisdom? Never a shrewd choice. You could either be subjected to a menacing, probing glare, or, more likely, bear witness to his unhinged wrath. He wears tattered denim shorts that fall just below his beer-belly. Sometimes he makes up playground-reminiscent jingles about his private parts — which he will graciously croon to whoever is fortunate enough to be in his presence.

When he needs a break, Tom sits on a pile of egg crates, above which a sign reads: “World’s Biggest Douchebag”. This sign was created by Anthony, a 20-year-old, Dominican-born dishwasher turned assistant cook who got to know Tom a couple of years ago. They possess a peculiar son-I-never-had/father-I-never-had camaraderie that I still don’t really understand. When Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” seeps from the stereo, Tom dubs it his mock love-ode to Anthony. When the Snoop Dogg remix of “Riders on the Storm” comes on, Tom informs us to “Bark, bitches, bark!”

In addition to Tom, the fantastical realm that is the B. W. kitchen houses Willie, a 4’6″ legal dwarf with thick-rimmed glasses who will either be belting along to the radio or discussing one of three subjects: his truck, getting stoned or the waitress Jackie who he insists is “the most beautiful woman on earth.” Then there is Farley, the pudgy, gap-toothed hamburger and steak man who used to work at the local truck shop. It was only recently that I realized his real name is actually not Farley, but Dan. Tom, swearing by Dan’s allegedly uncanny resemblance to actor Chris Farley, resolved that in the kitchen his name would henceforth reflect this likeness, despite being blatantly false.

Finally, there is Matt, a skinny-legged, twenty-something skater-punk with infinite tattoos, mainly on his legs. The one on his left calf is a rose beneath the words, “Hopeless Romantic.” The one on his right calf is a bloody skull with a sword going through its temples. He quit mid-August after Tom called him a cry-baby and blamed him for spoiling a stash of Kraft macaroni and cheese. It was a pretty dramatic exit — complete with the hurling of an apron and the phrase, “I’m sick of your mother-fucking shit” shouted through the back screen door.

Regardless of the zaniness permeating the kitchen, the true marvel of waitressing lies in the split personality that it fashions. I can spill the cocktail sauce, burn my hand on the lobster ravioli, dodge the inevitable insults, and curse myself for mistaking a clam role for a clam strip role, but once I penetrate those swinging doors I am all smiles — a spritely girl-doll of “How is everything?” and “Do you need anything else?” The B.W. clientele will thrust their sunburned noses in my face, the red, white and blue on their “Proud to Be an American” sweatshirts, smug and inflated, and yet, while my brain churns with sardonic retorts I just patiently grin, submitting to each wish, stomaching every complaint. If I am especially lucky, it may even be karaoke night, a biweekly B.W. wonder that permits me to rattle off the specials menu with a rasping, Tequila-fraught rendition of “Buffalo Solider” as my soundtrack. For three hours straight.

Yet, while karaoke Tuesdays and Thursdays are consistently well-attended, nothing compares to the Superbowl Sunday of the B.W. summer season: Fourth of July weekend.

Which brings me back to the fucking tartar sauce.

On this beloved U.S. holiday, overzealous patriotism is abundant, wallets bustle with carefree frivolity and customers grow giddy and eventually, wasted. Any penchant toward negligence or just sheer laziness must therefore be checked at the clock-in counter. Especially when it comes to keeping the sauce trays stocked. The B.W. wait-staff grew acquainted with just how imperative this seemingly minor detail is when Tom, after staring into the unfortunate abyss of a nearby freezer shelf, shrieked aloud his fuming request.

But Tom’s notorious outburst just serves as one more square in the colorful, albeit crazed, patchwork that the B.W. Café embodies. Its quirks, while outwardly infuriating, combined to create a summer that never failed to surprise, and at times, win me over.

Oh and from July 5 on, tartar sauce was always available. In fucking copious amounts.