Training to Be Ambidextrous
I work at a Lebanese restaurant that opened its doors 30 years ago. It's an authentic place created by a chef who migrated to Canada with his wife from Libya in the 1990s. With love and dedication, he replicated classic recipes and made new ones, attracting a sizeable Canadian clientele that remains loyal. The passage of time and economic challenges have slightly reduced the portion sizes, but the flavours have remained, as I'm told by customers every day.
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The chef suffered a seizure five years ago, which has kept him away from the kitchen and the restaurant, which his five heirs now manage. After their mother's premature death, each of the siblings occupies a strategic position in the empire. Their tactic is to hire attractive waitresses and well-dressed waiters from the most diverse places in the world. This pleases customers and distracts them from the physical wear and tear of the place, which, due to a lack of care or time, has yet to receive maintenance. It's a good strategy; the restaurant is almost always full, and at the end of the day, the rich flavours triumph over the sight of a mouse, crooked pictures, or stains on the old chairs' upholstery.
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F. is located in a bustling part of the city, the quintessential gay area of Toronto, which also houses a sizeable homeless population. I work the night shift, so I witness the contrast between vibrant nightlife and the struggles of those without homes. The nightlife, the distress, the constant partying, and a daily ordeal that sounds and smells of hardship. There's also a significant hospital two blocks from F., from where some patients escape to end up at the restaurant, indulging in a hearty meal, breaking their diets, and capping their escape with a smoke. That's how I met two regulars, Jon (without an 'h') and Gery (with a 'G').
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They came one afternoon, both in wheelchairs. I accommodated them, removing the chairs and creating space for them to enjoy their feast comfortably. With appetites somewhat dulled by painkillers, they began to share their stories with me. Jon suffered a workplace accident in construction, falling from a great height and breaking his spine. He was told he would never walk again. Gery was admitted after a heart attack. His phone was stolen while he was getting an echo, and he smoked with gusto and ate with fury that night when I met him.
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One afternoon, Gery came to say goodbye; his surgery was imminent. He told me this between shaky puffs of a cigarette. He promised to return if he survived. I became one of his few confidants; his family was far from Toronto. I took his cell phone number, with the promise to call after three days, either to attend his funeral or to celebrate the extension of his life. I called for one, two, or three days in a row after the date, and my call kept going to a full voicemail. I thought he had died until one day he left me a message apologizing for not answering because, incredibly, his phone had been stolen again. I felt genuine joy that came after a profound relief. It's curious how some strangers unintentionally become cherished acquaintances.
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I heard from Jon for several weeks when he walked into the restaurant one day. He told me that his case was a miracle. He felt doubly fortunate, not only for regaining his mobility but also for being eligible for early retirement. Who wouldn't want to retire early and stop breaking their back, quite literally, in their field of work: their hands from the material (or the chlorine), their foreheads from the sun, their feet from heavy boots (or heels)? Or life itself from the stress of money and the constant torture of survival in a significant metropolis.
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When I arrived at F., I hadn't slept well for weeks in the spring as I had accumulated tremendous stress. I spent my days filling out job applications that I couldn't get. I've never been rejected so much in my life. I started by looking for vacancies in my field, and with my various skills, I was sure a door would open for me. But two months passed, and even lowering my expectations, I couldn't find anything. I started reducing them even further.
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Then I heard they were looking for a 'hostess' at Fadi's restaurant. I asked what I needed to do: "politely greet the customers and seat them, provide the menu, clean and set the tables for new guests, and that's it," I was told. It seemed perfect; I didn't need to be a genius to work as a hostess. I didn't need years of experience or a PhD.
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One day, at the end of winter, I dressed in my finest attire. After a brief interview with one of the heirs, he told me I would start in a few days. Despite it being a part-time job, I accepted without hesitation. I'd receive a basic salary, but it was magically OK. I'll continue applying for another position that will give me the hours (2080 at the managerial level) needed for Permanent Residency.
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Jon comes to dine every week. He arrives dazed and hungry to devour lamb. He says he wants to go far away, to the countryside, to live with his sister on the farm where he would also work. And although he's still young, he's ready for his retirement. He told me a fantastic story about Gery. He says that he has won the lawsuit he fought for years with his ex-wife, who had taken everything from him, and that he's won. Excited, he tells me he has recovered his entire fortune (which was not small) and with interest. Now, he's torn between travelling the world by land or buying a boat and sailing around it. I don't know whether to believe him; we'll see what he tells me next Friday when the story unfolds over a cold beer at the corner bar.
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I've been working at F. for six months, and it still feels like a divine gift. I use my left hand to complete daily tasks to exercise my brain, keeping it young. I continue filling out applications, writing, and creating art. I have some contract jobs that will eventually lead to Permanent Residency. Being an independent artist is demanding here and everywhere (maybe it's worse in China). I must dress well today and bundle up a bit. Autumn's started.
