Page 34 of Wassailing We Will Go
In the restaurant, there are just enough chefs to manage most of the menu and a senior member of the waitstaff to manage the restaurant, but it’s going to be hectic, and we decide to remove two items from the menu that we don’t think we’ll be able to deliver on.
The main problem is the retail area, which was apparently ground zero for the cookie situation. Only one person shows up out of the four I had scheduled, and I resign myself to having to spend most of my time there, even though the other departments will need the help just as much.
Didn’t Gwen work the shop before? offers Harrison. Charlie mentioned that she used to work here before her knee went bad.
You’re right. If Charlie can spare her, she’d be amazing, I say and call her up. She agrees quickly—evidently, Charlie’s company is not so fun at the moment.
Gwen rushes in to arrive at 10:56, and the first tour vans start arriving at 11:00. The day is starting off alright enough, but I know that the traffic is only going to double by the time the afternoon rolls around. Harrison’s suggestion to bring in Gwen gets me thinking of anyone else I might know who could fill in, and I scroll through my phone, desperately looking for anyone who might reasonably be able to pour cider or operate a cash register.
In the end, desperation leads me to shamelessly text all of my book club, my parents, a random friend from high school named Bailey who lives nearby, and Rodney the DJ. To my absolute shock, everyone shows, and Bailey has even brought her college-aged brother, Caleb, to help.
He asked if he could be paid with a mini keg, says Bailey. I told him I’d ask.
Honestly, Caleb can have the keg. I’m just grateful that people showed up.
By the time I’ve assessed everyone’s skill sets, Caleb is in the back doing dishes, Bailey is working as a server, and my mom, who has a secret bartending past that I am only just now learning about, goes behind the bar. With that, Root & Stock restaurant is back to fighting shape.
Over at the tasting bar, it turns out that Stephanie really knows her Sparks cider, as I always bring some to our book club meetings. However, she has little Hazel in tow, who, to her credit, is taking the entire situation very seriously. When she arrived, she happily handed me a five-dollar bill made out of thick felt, clearly from some kind of playset.
I explained the concept of work to her before we came, explained Stephanie. But she really only grasps the exchange of money part.
My dad, who as of late has been expressing some disappointment in his career-oriented children’s lack of progress toward any kind of eventual grandchildren (and the creation of possibly more future NHL players), takes Hazel under his wing with great enthusiasm so that Steph can work the tasting bar with Liz and Harrison. Our other book club members, a nice middle-aged stained-glass artist named Anne and a young middle-school teacher named Hannah, help Gwen in the gift shop.
Rodney looks at me expectantly. Can I also be paid with a keg? he asks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Fine, but I need the actual mini kegs back after. They’re expensive.
Rodney, God help me, goes to the tasting bar to help with clearing glasses and dishes.
From there, the afternoon goes by shockingly smoothly. If someone had told me around 10:00 a.m. this morning that this day was actually going to be fine, I would never have believed them, but as I move through every department, it’s clear that our rag-tag team of last-minute additions are doing well. There are some minor hiccups, like when I catch my mom out there making everyone doubles (That’s how we did it in the nineties! she protests after I tell her to calm down a little with her pours) or when Hazel briefly decides that actually, she hates my dad and demands that Stephanie come and get her immediately. Fifteen minutes later, during which time she has a snack, she returns and asks if she and my dad can go back to playing with Hot Wheels and watching Bluey in the office.
As the day progresses, some have to leave for other previously made Saturday plans, which, fair enough. I thank them all for coming, note their hours, and try to make up the difference with their vacancies. There are still points in the day that are a little overwhelming: the dinner rush comes, and Bailey informs me that there is a server having a small-to-medium emotional breakdown in the walk-in fridge, and I try to cover them for a little while so that they can have a break and find their footing. Later on, right before one big tour bus is set to leave, the gift shop is overrun, and I try to jump in to help Anne, who is trying her best with the point-of-sale system and is honestly doing great for her first time, but is nonetheless a little slow for the lineup that is starting to wind around the store.
Out in the orchards, Hugo has a small but very engaged group huddled around the now-dormant trees, explaining excitedly about how the pruning will go in the spring to maximize yield. Several people are giving him their rapt attention, and a few more just look drunk and happy to be there, but still, it’s a pleasant scene.
The tasting bar, however, runs completely smoothly for the duration of the day. Every time I go in, there’s Harrison, with about a dozen people paying rapt attention to his performance. And that’s what it is: a performance. Much like MCing for the karaoke night, he’s at home with a crowd in a way that I can’t even fathom, making the tasting notes for our new barrel-aged cider sound like the most interesting topic on Earth. Liz and Stephanie cover some smaller groups and help with the uncorking and the pouring, and Rodney runs around like a maniac, retrieving empty glasses and providing new ones. I am begrudgingly forced to admit that Rodney really is out there earning that keg and maybe some tips on top of it.
Watching all of this unfold, I realize that my aunts were, in fact, two whole people. Two very different people with very different skill sets, and for the last eleven months, I have been beating myself up daily for not easily being able to do everything that they could. But watching Harrison with a crowd of guests, seeing how easily he’s giving kind but clear directions to Steph, Liz, and Rodney to help everything move along—in short, how insanely competent he clearly is in this role—I realize that maybe this whole time I was not the problem.
And sure, I have an amazing team. Chef, Daniel, Charlie, and Wendy could all do my job starting tomorrow if they had to (and if their digestive systems were all back to regular factory settings). But they’re amazing at their respective fields, and I think managing the whole operation and trying to keep up with all its moving parts is what was dragging me down. Or, at least, managing it all alone.
During dinner, the tasting bar calms down as most of the traffic is in the restaurant. With the rush over, Steph has to leave to bring Hazel home for dinner, and while I’m not usually big on hugs, I can’t even stop myself.
Thank you for today, I say. I’m so grateful I’ll even pay you in real money instead of felt.
Dad brings Hazel back in, who is getting a little grouchy now that it’s dinnertime.
I’m strong lady! announces Hazel as she comes back into the bar, holding my dad’s hand.
We may have watched some PWHL games on Kate’s computer, confesses Dad. She now wants to be a ‘strong lady’ like the hockey ladies.
I can live with that, laughs Steph. Come on, kiddo. Oh, wait, I want you to meet my new friend Harrison.
Hello, Hazel, Harrison says and gives her a little wave. Your mum’s a hard worker. And she’s super fast at opening bottles of cider.
Mm, maybe she doesn’t need to know that little fact, says Stephanie, and she turns back toward me. I was a tiny bit disappointed to hear the accent, given that it confirmed which half of the rumour my mom told me was true, but honestly, the jury might still be out on the underwear model thing, she whispers to me before scooping up Hazel. Say bye to everyone! she says to Hazel. Hazel, who is clearly done with all of us, buries her face in her mom’s coat, and I don’t blame her one bit.
The evening starts to quiet, as the tour buses and vans are all done for the day, and I start to send some of the staff home. By the time we close at nine, all our last-minute team are gone, cash in hand, with Rodney and Caleb triumphantly carrying out small kegs of whatever cider needed to be moved, under solemn oath to return the metal mini kegs as soon as they’re done with them.
