Barking Orders

Asiimov was new to the job, he’d been working there for just over a month. He wasn’t devoid of hospitality experience by any means, having worked in similar bars and restaurants before. But all his years of hospitality experience would pale in comparison to the shift he worked on August 1st, 2022.

It was a Sunday, and usually Devonshire Terrace – the central London bar and restaurant where Asiimov was working – was closed on Sundays. So something already felt off when he received his rota and saw he had a shift on Sunday. Bright and early he came in at 10 am on that fateful day to start.

“Everyone gather round,” announced Marianna, his general manager, to the assembled staff. She said, “Today we’re running things differently. We’re doing brunch from 11 till 4 and customers will be bringing their dogs with them.”

Some of the staff let out giddy yelps of excitement while some of them, Asiimov included, looked puzzled.

Marianna continued, “We’re only letting 100 people in at a time. They have an hour and a half to order, eat, pay, and leave before we let the next 150 in. There will be a total of four groups. Just be careful near the end of each hour and a half because you need to take payments, get people out, and clean tables for the next group.” The clarity of her instructions masked the desultory tone of her voice.

“To avoid confusion and mistakes,” she added a final note, “everyone has to run their own orders to the tables. Only you know where your orders need to go so you have to run them yourselves.”

“This is no problem,” Asiimov thought, “it should be just like any other brunch, except with dogs.”

Right next to the entrance of the restaurant, the outside seating area is in a courtyard sandwiched between two buildings and covered with a glass roof. It feels like a cavernous greenhouse where sound is amplified alongside the temperature. A clap will echo around for 10 seconds before it dissipates. Asiimov and another server called Stacey – an exuberant and friendly Black girl – were sharing the outside area as their section. So, after the staff briefing, he went outside to prepare his tables. Without any people here, it was serenely quiet and Asiimov was luxuriating in this stillness.

Julia, the assistant manager, came out and approached Asiimov and Stacey with a Bloody Mary in each hand. “These are for you guys,” she offered softly.

“I didn’t know we’re allowed to drink on shift,” declared Stacey, surprised.

“We’re not,” said Julia, “but you’re going to need these for what’s about to come.”

“Uh… what do you mean?” asked Asiimov.

“I worked one of these dog brunch shifts last year and I could’ve really used a drink then,” said Julia cryptically.

“No thank you, I don’t like Bloody Marys,” said Stacey, refusing the offer and returning to her half of the section.

“Well, even better, more for you then!” turned Julia to Asiimov, handing him both drinks and heading back inside. Like a person lost, he stood there befuddled with two drinks in his hands. Never one to refuse alcohol, he took a few sips from his alcoholic soup and put them on his till station.

It was 10:50 am, almost opening time when Asiimov heard something. A distant and insistent barking was cutting through the cradle’s hush in the courtyard. Before he had a chance to question his imagination for playing tricks on him, the source of the barking revealed itself to be a small dachshund with a short couple in tow. Then came another, and another, and another until a loud and bulging queue of humans and dachshunds had formed right next to Asiimov’s section. The infernal sound of about a hundred dogs barking over one another, further amplified by the acoustics of the courtyard, was rattling his brain. Without any paracetamol on him, he had to do with a giant gulp of his Bloody Mary to placate the drilling headache that immediately appeared.

Once everyone was seated, a scrawny man in an ugly green sweater whom Asiimov had never seen before came outside and addressed the seated customers. “Hello everyone, thank you all for coming. You guys have these tables for an hour and a half. We’ve just set up a small stand inside where you can get a cappuccino and some snacks for your pups. Enjoy the food and drinks here. You can now let your dogs off their leashes.”

Giggling, the man ran back inside the way a person runs away from an explosion. And an explosion there was because the moment he said that last part, all the dogs were simultaneously turned loose. The floor beneath Asiimov’s feet had turned into a loud and undulating sea of fur with all those dogs running around. It took him a moment to snap out of it and get to work.

He had to take orders from the tables and then send them through the till for the kitchen to receive them. He’d have to zip back and forth between the till and the tables, so that’s what he did. Trouble was, because everyone sat down and was ready to order at the same time, by the time Asiimov reached his fifth table, he was met by impatient complaining.

“We’ve been waiting to order for half an hour,” some Karen petulantly said to him as he approached the table.

“It’s only been 10 minutes since you sat down! Either you’re exaggerating or time really moves slower for you.” That’s what Asiimov would like to have said, but through the constant barking, stress, and passive aggression, he only managed to mumble, “I’m sorry for the wait, what can I get you?”

He was stretched atom-thin because even before he finished taking orders from the last of his restless tables, the food and drink for the first tables were ready and going cold on the pass. Panic slithered snake-like up his spine and clenched his heart. Upon going inside to run the orders to his tables, he found the scene inside very similar. Unrestrained, the dogs were running around, pissing and shitting wherever they pleased to the adoration of their owners, clawing each other, and often mounting to fuck one another. Although the barking was less unpleasant inside, only because it didn’t echo around with an insane effect.

As per Marianna’s instruction, everyone was running their own food, so when Asiimov found the food for one of his tables cold on the pass there was no one to blame. He couldn’t even blame himself as he was too busy taking orders one after another. Everyone in the kitchen was running around like headless chickens. There seemed to be little control or coordination. Asiimov got the attention of the nearest chef, a tall Italian called Gennaro, and asked if the order could be reheated.

“Are you fucking serious?” shouted Gennaro across the kitchen. “We’re getting one fucking order after the other and you ask us to reheat orders we’ve already made?!”

Despite his angry gesticulations, Gennaro hoicked the plate off the pass and set about reheating it with the warning, “Don’t make me fucking reheat anything again!”

The message that some of his tables would have to wait longer for their food wasn’t received well. “This is a joke; you’ve only just bought our drinks and now you tell us our food will take longer?” one infuriated man said.

Feeling like he was coming apart at the seams, Asiimov said, “I’m… really sorry. The kitchen says it’ll be ready any moment now…”

Once everyone received their orders and no one was trying to intercept him with their eyes, Asiimov stumbled over to the till, desperately downed what was left of his first Bloody Mary and watched the scene in a daze. People laughing with mouths full of food, kissing and petting the dogs, talking to them in high-pitched baby voices, and letting them eat off the same plate, he found this whole situation incredibly unhinged. He marvelled at these people and their cringey shirts adorned with dog-related statements like, “MY PATRONUS CHARM IS A DACHSHUND” or “I’M NOT SINGLE I HAVE A DOG”. The ever-present smile was gone from Stacey’s face as she ran like a pinball between tables.

It was time to start shoving people out and preparing the restaurant for the next set of customers, but many were still eating. Already not on great footing with most of his tables, Asiimov had to tell indignant faces that they needed to finish their meals quickly. In the meantime, he began printing out bills and dropping them on the finished tables.

The second group of people and their army of dogs were already queued up, and this time all the dogs were Yorkshire terriers. The volume and intensity of the ceaseless barking had doubled with these two convoys of dogs present. The clock hit 12:30 pm while Asiimov was still taking payments. This group should be gone by now and the restaurant cleaned for the next, but he was still taking orders. Gold and Platinum American Express cards were waving impatiently around trying to get his attention. With every passing moment, they were cutting into the next group’s time, and if the conduct of the current group was anything to go by, Asiimov didn’t want to imagine the uncouthness of the next.

Stacey suddenly arrived to his rescue. She said while panting, “I’m going to take payments from the rest of your tables and we’ll get them out of here!”

Asiimov mumbled some gibberish that sounded like an agreement. Within minutes the customers had paid and were filing out of the courtyard leaving behind an abominable mess. Their section looked like the site of a food fight. The spindly man in that repulsive green sweater said to Asiimov and Stacey restively, “These people have been waiting for 15 minutes, can I let them in?”

“Do you want them to sit on dirty tables?!” Asiimov blurted angrily, then he turned to Stacey and yelled over the din of the battlefield, “I’ll start collecting these plates while you can wipe and set the tables!” In that order, they set about turning their section over at lightning speed. Neither of them had ever moved so quickly before.

Unable to wait any longer, the meek, green-sweatered organiser let the people in and made them occupy dirty tables. This irked both Stacey and Asiimov as now they had to abandon their flow and clean the tables that were being occupied. The transition was messy but the customers were finally seated. The organiser addressed the customers with the same speech and encouraged them to unleash the dogs. Which they gladly did.

The second wave went worse than the first. The customers being let in late had a domino effect on everything that happened afterwards. Being made to wait for 15 minutes (1 hour in customer time) had turned the customers irritable, which stressed Asiimov tenfold as his emotional energy was being exhausted by fending off their whinging.

As he was taking his written orders to the till, some customers would demand his immediate attention for more drinks, tap water, or cleaner cutlery. In fulfilling these requests Asiimov became completely side-tracked and forgot to send a handful of orders through the till.

It was when Asiimov spotted a couple of exasperated tables with no food or drinks on them that he went to investigate the bar and kitchen.

“Have you seen tables 4, 5, and 7’s order?” he’d ask uncertainly, only to be told no.

His stomach sunk and the ground disappeared beneath him as he felt in his back pocket to find the written orders for those tables that hadn’t been sent through the till.

His heart was racing as fast as his vision was spinning. He blearily stumbled to the till to send those orders, unknowingly stepping on a dog which let out a painful yelp that drew livid glares from the surrounding customers. The orders were quickly sent through and he put on his most ingratiating and apologetic tone to explain the lateness of the orders.

“The kitchen is really backed up right now and they apologise for the wait. I’ll make sure they send out the order as soon as possible,” he told them, blaming it on those absent to defend themselves.

It was complete pandemonium. Food and drinks were ending up on the wrong tables, dogs were pissing on the table inches away from the food, and some customers swapped tables or left to go pet someone’s dog, further adding to the cluelessness. Once everyone was served, Asiimov’s legs threatened to give out underneath him so he leaned against the till. He fell into a valley of hysteria, alternating between hyperventilation and random bursts of laughter.

It was an uphill battle, except the hill became steeper, almost vertical, with every new request or complaint. Still, they managed to get through the second wave and sent them grumbling on their way.

The third group turned up with pugs. Things were better during this torture session. Pugs’ tendency to huff and grunt rather than bark did significantly quieten things down which helped Asiimov’s grinding headache. And whether it’s because they had gotten into the rhythm of service or they just stopped giving a shit, things went much smoother.

There was one tense interaction, however, between Asiimov and a customer. The drink names had been altered on the menu for this brunch.

“Can I have a Barky Mary?” ordered a customer before laughing at this comedic gem.

“Alright, a Bloody Mary for you,” confirmed Asiimov.

“No!” blurted the customer, “I want a Barky Mary.”

“It’s the same thing man…”

“But it’s a Barky Mary, not a Bloody Mary!” retorted the customer vehemently.

With a mask of utter hopelessness, Asiimov continued, “Anything else for anyone?”

“Could I,” started another customer, “have an Aperol Sniff?”

Rapturous laughter broke around the table while Asiimov was trying to keep down the urge to strangle them.

Later on, while he was cleaning a table a pug licked him on the elbow which he then drove right into the pug’s face without thinking twice.

“What are you doing?!” the horrified owner demanded.

“Sorry, reflexes…” he replied without an ounce of care.

So apathetic had he become that little memory of the fourth and last group of customers remained in him. He and Stacey went through this last session in a heavy daze, everything sounding and looking as if through a blanket of smoke. Thankfully for them, nothing of incident took place during that last wave of customers.

Asiimov and Stacey were cleaning up the battlefield after the conflict. The beasts had left with their dogs, leaving behind dozens of plates, broken glasses, puddles of dog piss, and the odd piece of dog shit. If Asiimov had any emotions left to express, he’d have been pleasantly surprised to see he still had a whole Bloody Mary which he had completely forgotten in the throes of this pandemonium. Albeit the melted ice had watered down the drink, but who cares?

As he was leaving to go home, Marianna stopped Asiimov.

“What did you think of today?” she asked cheerfully.

“It was a nightmare.”

“Well, you did really good,” she said, then continued, “Now that you’ve gotten through one, the one happening next week shouldn’t be a problem!”

“I’m sorry,” Asiimov tried his best to keep the venom out of his voice, “but what do you mean by the one next week?!”

“Yeah, there’s one next Sunday too. The organiser booked these events two years ago. He wanted to book five but that’s just ridiculous so we only gave him two becau……………..”

Asiimov didn’t hear the rest, it was too much for his mind to endure. He just stared wide-eyed at Marianna and left when she had finished speaking whatever she was saying.