A Freshman at NYU and all of 17, living in the big city. She received scholarship money and loans, but not nearly enough to sustain a lifestyle of daily cab fare and food outside of the dorms. What was a girl to do? Well, start by going out to dinner to celebrate your 18th birthday with your roommate at one of the “hottest” spots in town, Canastel’s. It was September, 1985, the mid-80’s. Wall Streeters, garment center bozos, celebrities all flocked to 19th Street and Park Avenue South to wait in line for a table at Marc Packer’s fabulous Italian restaurant. Unless you were Steve Perry from Journey, or Prince (the Artist formerly known as Prince, or is he Prince again, I’m not sure), you waited for a table.
Her roommate made a reservation, and they were met at the door by a hostess that bleakly advised them that their table for their 8 p.m. reservation was not ready, but to please have a drink at the bar. They were teens, but that didn’t matter, looks alone got you alcohol back then. So they drank, and they waited. By 9:15, they were seated at their small deuce and were eager to feast on exorbitantly priced fresh arugala and shaved parmesan and pasta pomodoro.
When a bald man in an exquisite suit and a beaklike nose, swooped down on their little table and asked how they were enjoying their food, she looked up and in her most sophisticated voice uttered, “it’s fabulous.”
He replied, as he eyed her up and down, “Do you need a job? I’m Marc and I own the place.” She then flipped her 80’s hair back, and said, lying, “I’ve been looking for a job for the longest time.” Truth be told, she wanted a job for the past three weeks, but hadn’t as much as ventured to the job boards at the student union once to try to find one. First semester was tough, and she wasn’t sure she could handle the pressure of work and school.
He asked her to stand up. Surprised, but game, she did. He then twirled her around. “You’re hired.”
This was the start of an eight month stint at Canastel’s as a hostess during which time Marc Packer and the restaurant’s Maitre’d, Moreno, had both, at one time or another, managed to pin her against the counter in the back kitchen on more than one occasion, and forced their tongues into her mouth. The money was so good, with the tips from the cigarette sales and the coat check, that it was impossible to quit. All the girls endured the harassment. The waitresses, Sandra Bullock included, all were treated like geishas. It was her first experience in the working world, and unfortunately, not the only one where she was treated like an object.
Why is it that young women still seem to think that enduring such treatment is akin to "paying your dues?"
Why is it that young women still seem to think that enduring such treatment is akin to "paying your dues?"
