18 Minutes

Today my world wears a badge embossed with “18 minutes”, a private honour reserved for individuals who share my profession. 18 minutes is the stuff of legend, an accomplishment of mythic proportion meaningless to all but a team of elite lunatics brave enough to prove it can be done.

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So why does 18 minutes have me beaming with pride? Last night with two teams of five servers we served 180 guests the main course of a plated dinner in 18 minutes. I’m talking flawless execution, no screw-ups or dead plates returned to the kitchen for “they ordered beef not salmon”. It was 18 minutes of perfection, feathers in the cap of our existence, testament to the power of professional satisfaction. If there were a catering Olympics, my team would be standing on a podium collecting a gold medal. 18 minutes is why I get out of bed in the morning.

 

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4 thoughts on “18 Minutes

  1. I used to organize amateurish dinners for that number for fundraising events. I can confirm that we never got close to 10 plates per minute. Perhaps half that. And no menu choices.
    I am visualizing the flow of waiters past the serving station, 1,2,3 plates and off.
    Hats off to the Champs!

  2. All right, listen up: great work people. There’ll be a little extra in the Christmas pay envelope. OK, now… BACK TO WORK! (Sorry about that, I was remembering working for Coca Cola… for a mere 42.5 years. Life sentence, no parole, but I’m out on good behaviour now.)

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