I Lost My Appetite

An essay by MALI KAMBANDU

We had been waiting for that meal for almost an hour, and after the fight, I didn’t want to eat it anymore. The entire experience left a bad taste in my mouth, but more than that, I felt a great sorrow for the young waitress who had to endure that job.

On a lazy weekend afternoon, my family decided to go out for Asian food. We headed to a popular marketplace that housed small shops selling Asian crockery, vases and art; there were offices and small supermarkets. I had visited these stores before, wandering through the broad collection of items that gave me a sliver of insight into Asian culture through the kitchen. After the shops, I went downstairs to the vegetable market to see the selection. Fruits and vegetables were piled high, and their vendors sat in pairs or groups of three, chatting and sharing stories to while away the time between customers. The ladies smiled at me as I walked by, inviting me to make a purchase. They insisted that their goods were the best available; I loved their confident persuasiveness. I’ve never been able to sell convincingly, and I admire those who can. On that trip, I bought some fruit––naartjies and cashew nuts, then made it over to the edge of the marketplace, intrigued by the large freezers piled with seafood of all kinds. 

It was fascinating that the Asian immigrants to Zambia had imported so much of their food culture to make it more of their home. Of course, this happens worldwide and has occurred for centuries, enriching the host countries, but I’d never seen this progression. Most immigrant communities here are already established; the voluminous arrivals of new residents happened years ago, when I was a child or even earlier, so this was new to me. It was fascinating. I found it exciting that more diverse food options were available in Lusaka, and I enjoyed the moments when I sampled these.

One of those moments was this lazy Saturday afternoon. My family went to the marketplace, but instead of visiting the fruit and vegetable stalls, we entered the section that is like a strip mall of Asian restaurants. The length of the food court was door after door of small restaurants tucked into tiny spaces, but busy while the staff stood over their steaming pots and sizzling woks to prepare the dozens of dishes they advertised. The menu items were displayed on the glass panel walls of the restaurant––colourful images of delicious-looking meals. The air around the food court was filled with aromas of sauces, oils and meats, accompanying all the sizzling sounds.

Outside the restaurant stood waiters ready to entice or receive customers to the establishment they represented. There were mostly female servers, young and friendly, but most looked uncommitted to their being here. It was understandable––working in a business that you had little stake in; waitressing is a contemptible job. An exhausting job of dealing with people in all moods and of all attitudes while trying hard to give them a wonderful experience. I understand it because I spent years doing it myself. I am sympathetic to waiters now, having left my last waitressing job over a decade and a half ago, but I still bristle at poor service. Over the years, I’ve come to accept lacklustre service in many establishments in Zambia; some of it is because the business doesn’t invest and train their staff in good customer service experiences, and other times, it’s because the staff cannot be––bothered. And I understand that, too—a contemptible job.

I remembered being a young waitress, steamrolling through busy shifts in a well-loved Central London restaurant that saw customers of all types: students, families, poised professionals, celebrities and so on. The entire wait staff were young, bubbly people who looked good enough to draw smiles from customers and were malleable enough to commit to the business and buy into its vision. Providing a good dining experience was paramount to keeping the business alive and respected, but as waiters, it also supplemented our wages in tips and made the job enjoyable. We took pride when customers left the restaurant smiling as they bade us goodbye, happy with the time they spent there and eager to return. In retrospect, this job taught me a great deal about customer service, teamwork, and I picked up other cool skills like bartending and barista work––I can still foam milk brilliantly for a bitching cappuccino!

Service jobs are hard. All economies rely on them, and in countries where the distinctions between economic classes are stark, these jobs are often looked down upon, and the service workers are treated like secondary beings in the world. Yes, we were a cheap resource. Yes, our bodies were used to look cute and appeal to customers. Yes, we were responsible for cleaning the restaurant at the end of a shift. Yes, the hours were long. Yes, the chefs yelled and swore at waiters who got orders wrong or let food sit on the pass for too long. Yes, the manager ensured rowdy tables of tipsy customers didn’t get out of hand. Yes, better waiters got the busier shifts to encourage customers to buy more and deliver good service. Yes, the manager watched the floor to steer leery customers from the female waiters. Yes, our manager ensured tips were distributed equally among all the staff. I was grateful that my waitressing experience happened where this servant-like attitude towards service workers didn’t exist in my restaurant. Still, I was aware that this wasn’t widespread across all industries that relied on these people’s labour. 

I had taken my first waitressing job to bolster my overall income. It wasn’t a critical job. It was a choice. I worked during the day and was paid a decent starter salary, but I was trying to save for more long-term education goals. The job was available, and I took it. It worked out perfectly as I already had many free evenings. The cafe was around the corner from the house and was a trendy place I had visited for its cool drinks and vibey music. It was a simple job compared to others I had seen around town––the menu wasn’t complicated, and the customers weren’t fussy. We were not required to do much more beyond serving the menu items and some light tidying up; the business hired a cleaning company to do the hard lifting. I knew other jobs where the staff’s workload was much greater than mine, and the environment was less desirable. I was grateful for this job in more than one way, and my positive experience made it easy for me to consider another waitressing position while I was taking a course and needed to meet some expenses.

This second job wasn’t as easy, but it met my needs. I was also comforted by the fact that the restaurant had a good reputation and a sizable workforce. My gut told me that places with a small number of workers could be less comfortable. There were many things I considered when taking that job, but the one thing I overlooked was that it was a choice. I wasn’t desperate. I didn’t realise then how powerful the privilege of choice was. 

I expected the day we visited the Asian restaurant to be unmemorable. I had been here before, and the transaction was seamless––I spent time gazing up at the large menu displays, decided on my dishes, ordered with one attentive waiter, sat down to wait for the food, received the food, paid, and left. I didn’t remember anything significant about that experience except that the food was plentiful, tasted authentic, and had a myriad of flavours in each mouthful. That’s why I returned with my family that Saturday.

We sat down and began studying the food options, gazing at images of colourful plates of food. Many were struck off because we had tried them before, or they just didn’t appeal. There were four of us, and we decided that each of us should choose one entree, but our family favourites––the wonton soup and baozi, were already on the list. Together, our choices would make a fantastic selection of dishes for our lunch. We were all excited, anticipating the delicious meal to come.

Just before we made final selections, a waiter approached our table and greeted us. She asked if we were ready to order, but we asked her to return in two minutes. I noticed that the girl went to join her workmates on the edge of the food court, watching the customers and, like the vegetable vendors on the other side, passing the time until the customers were ready. While my family was deciding on their selections, I looked around the food court to see which other customers were there, how busy the restaurants were and what the general atmosphere was. This was the usual analysis I conducted in any restaurant, my own personal study to help me figure out how long the food would be, how popular the place was at this time of day and what the general patronage looked like. Among the tables of customers enjoying their meals, I noticed some Asian people dotted around. Some customers sat at tables eating; others dipped in and out of the restaurants, managing orders and systems, owners. Seeing Asian customers assured me of the quality of the fare and convinced me that we were in for a treat. 

When I finally settled my gaze on the service staff, I saw how the waiters would take the order into the cooking area and monitor the cooking of the food, as if assuming complete responsibility for their customer’s order. I liked this, the continuity and ownership of these plates of food. It was completely different from any restaurant I had worked in or even seen operate. That was the unique touch these restaurants brought to their trade. It seemed they did things their own way, I found that interesting. 

Our waiter was young––they were all young. Her body was small and slim; she was fairly plain-looking with simply styled natural hair, and she seemed quiet. She appeared the type of girl people didn’t pay much attention to, but she was attentive to our table because she came back exactly when we’d asked her to take the order. She listened to our list of dishes and repeated them back to us but made a mistake on one of the menu items. Then, she got a pen and pad to write down the order and ensure there were no more mistakes. We joked about this; she saw the humour in it and assured us nothing would be forgotten. Then she went back inside to inform the chefs. 

My husband wanted to pay before the food arrived so he could go buy some fruit on the other side. He beckoned the waiter over and asked for the mobile money number to which he could send the payment. They spoke about the payment method. My husband was very clear that he was going to send a bank wallet payment, not mobile-to-mobile payment. The waiter confirmed that this method was fine and repeated the number to use for the transaction. My husband went ahead to input the payment, receiving a confirmation on his phone app that the payment had gone through. The waiter went to inform the owners, but the man shook his head, indicating that no payment had come through. The owner waited about a half minute more but shook his phone at the waiter again, emphasising that nothing had come through to his phone. The waiter returned to us, questioning if the transaction had been completed, and we confirmed it had. This satisfied her, and she was confident about what we had told her, but as soon as she reported this to her boss, I saw her confidence wither. He yelled something at her and pointed at us. Flustered, the waiter returned to us and asked about the transaction again.

By this time, we knew this had gone on for too long but acknowledged that it was an essential step of the interaction––food had to be paid for. We rechecked the app and verified that the funds had been sent to the number she provided. Another waiter came over to check and help her colleague sort through the issue, and another girl came for what I thought was to alleviate her boredom, but I later realised that it was for moral support. The gathering of staff at our table and an unpaid bill must have raised concern with the owner because he walked over, cigarette smoking in his curled fingers, angry face contorted, speaking frantically in a language none of us could understand.

We politely asked the other wait staff to move along so the matter could be sorted out without a piling on of voices. One waiter refused to leave but stood by her friend’s side. The owner barely made eye contact with us but continued berating the young woman at our table. She remained adamant that she had given us the correct number. The owner stormed off, still upset, but quickly came back, still yelling. He grasped her shoulder and pulled her to face him. He kept on, but in this moment, pointed at his temple, the universal symbol for not using your brain. My heart sank for this girl, and I became very uneasy. Something was very wrong here. I looked around the food court and saw that one table of customers had stopped eating to watch the chaos at our table. It was getting embarrassing. 

We tried to speak to the owner and diffuse the situation, but the second waiter stepped in, saying, “He doesn’t understand anything. Let me speak to him.”

After a moment, he stormed off, heading towards his table, but before he took his seat there, he pointed his phone towards us and shook it angrily, still yelling.

By now, the waiter looked distressed and continued to explain to her friend what she had done. She kept repeating that she had given us the correct number. The friend went back to the owner to check something on the phone, then returned to our table where the waiter had stayed, almost afraid to move from this position. We waited, watching the back and forth, becoming annoyed, until finally a breakthrough. The friend returned and revealed it: the owner had been looking for the payment on his mobile money number, which was different from the phone number he used for the other transaction. He had misunderstood the payment mode and took his frustration out on the waiter.

My husband walked off, partly to go to the fruit market but more to calm his temper. I stayed and waited for our order. 

Under normal circumstances, I would have demanded an apology from the owner, and when I asked the waiter’s friend if he would come to apologise, she chuckled and flicked her hand at my naiveté. “He won’t do that.”

The waiter quietly packed our meals for us in takeaway containers. Then she went to stand beside her friend, a mournful expression on her face. This had not been a good experience for her, but how the young women dealt with it told me it wasn’t a new experience. The manner of handling the owner’s anger and belligerence showed me that this was something they had nurtured over time, just like the familiar workaround you develop for a kitchen appliance that doesn’t quite work the right way.

When we got home, I couldn’t taste the food I had been looking forward to. I had lost my appetite.

We were upset by what we had witnessed. The anger on the owner’s face flashed through my mind. I thought of the misery on the waiter’s face and her downturned head, indicating shame. I was deeply concerned about the waiter and her friends, what abuse they experienced daily, what they tolerated and what they had gotten used to.

I remembered my long days scribbling orders, placing plates gently on tables, blowing up balloons to gift expectant children and smiling broadly to bid the customers a good weekend. There was the couple that came in regularly every Wednesday evening and insisted on sitting at the same table every night. There was a group of what looked like City bankers who kept ordering tequila shots and wanted us to linger after we brought the drinks over so we could keep them company. There were the cold winter mornings opening the restaurant while the biting wind blew around my ears. It wasn’t a dream job, but I was sure it was better than what I had just seen. I was relieved at the chance I had at working in a job where I was still respected as a person. I knew I was lucky to even choose this job, not be forced into it or suffer it because I felt confined by my circumstances.

Before leaving the restaurant, we returned to the waiter and apologised. I didn’t know what for, but I felt sorry. I wanted to stand in solidarity with her, and protect her from future onslaughts. My husband told me to get her phone number. “That girl needs a better job.”

I had never heard anything more true.