What working the graveyard shift at a deli taught me about pickles, people, and p*rn.

Original Post Date: 09.09.2020. Revised: 07.19.2025.

Recycled pickles.

That wasn’t how they were listed on the menu, but it’s how we served them.

My senior year of college, I worked the graveyard shift at a deli/restaurant just off campus—Friday and Saturday nights, 10:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. Every table came equipped with the standard condiments: salt, pepper, sugar, mustard, ketchup... and, for some inexplicable reason, a communal bowl of pickles.

They may have been fresh on Monday morning, but by Friday night they looked like rotting corks bobbing in a puddle of slime water.

Some guests treated them like a delicacy, devouring the entire bowl and asking for more. Others passed entirely. And then there were those who still hadn’t figured out what to do with the shiny silver stick with four points that sat on their table. Unable to decipher the purpose of a fork, they’d simply plunge their hand into the bowl, pop those soggy pickles in their mouths, lick the juice off their fingers, and dive in for more.

Restaurants run on slim margins. Ours was no different. To save money and minimize waste, my fellow server, Sarah, and I were instructed to return any untouched pickles to the kitchen. There, they’d be dumped into the pickle barrel—then spooned into a questionably clean bowl and placed on a fresh table within seconds.

Right, wrong, or indifferent, I possess an EGOT-worthy gag reflex. When I carried a recycled bowl of pickles to a table, it looked like I was pantomiming a performance of “woman in excruciating pain.” Shoulders hunched. Stomach clenched. Arms outstretched, fingers splayed, it was as if I were delivering a grenade covered in baby puke. With all due respect to the cast of Seinfeld™, I was never surprised when there was “no tip for you.”

If that had been the only issue, it might still have been enough to shut the place down. But no, there was more.

Coffee that brewed in urns all day was never thrown away. The remaining half cup from urn #1 was poured into urn #2, which was poured into urn #3, and so on until—voilà!—a full pot emerged. After 10–12 hours on the burner, the glass carafe turned brown and the coffee itself had the viscosity of sludge (and was probably less harmful to ingest).

As for the front-of-house staff—specifically, the deli guys who prepped sandwiches and to-go orders—let’s just say they found creative ways to get our attention. When we picked up a plate of corned beef and potato salad or pastrami on rye, we’d find a delightful assortment of p*rnographic images tucked underneath the dishes. Let’s just say we received more meat than we ordered.

These days, they would be fired. But back then? We shrugged, rolled our eyes, and moved on. Eventually, I left. Between the constant harassment, the questionable hygiene, and my inability to “mime” my way across the dining room without dry-heaving, I left the restaurant to “explore alternate career opportunities.” The restaurant closed not long after.

The take-away, though, is that I developed a deep, lifelong respect for anyone who touches anything I eat or drink.

I go out of my way to be kind, patient, and respectful, especially at QSRs (Quick Service Restaurants). The work requires enormous physical stamina, a high tolerance for chaos, and an uncanny ability to smile at people who are sometimes downright awful. No one gets paid enough to deal with the public—especially now. If there’s ever a place to practice the Golden Rule, it’s the drive thru.

I was reminded of this last week when I stopped at a Wendy’s® for lunch. Even though talking through that speaker system is like having a conversation with Charlie Brown’s teacher, I still peppered my order with a lot of “May I,” “Please,” and “Thank you.”

When I got to the window, the woman looked at me—teary-eyed—and said, “Thank you for being nice to me today. You just can’t imagine.”

What kind of day is someone having when a “thank you” moves them to tears?

And what does that say about us? Just because the food is cheap doesn’t mean the people who serve it are. They have value. And they deserve kindness.

This morning, the barista at Starbucks® bought me my tea. She said, “You’re one of our favorite customers. You’re nice to all of us. This one’s on us.”

Granted, over the years I’ve probably spent enough there to open my own franchise. But still—half a dozen cars ahead of me in line, and somehow, four frantic baristas decided to buy a cup of tea for a customer just because she says, “Good morning” and “Thank you.”  

I’m not patting myself on the back for being polite to an employee. I’ve just been there. It’s also how I was raised. I remember watching my dad address a young man at McDonald’s as “Sir.” I swear, that kid stood a little taller when he handed over Dad’s coffee. I like to think he stood a little taller the rest of the day, too.

So, here’s a tip from a former waitress: Be nice. You might get a free cup of chai. But whatever you do… don’t eat the pickles.

What’s a moment you still remember from your first (or worst) job?

“Food, Glorious Food!” — music and lyrics by Lionel Bart, from the musical Oliver!, © 1960, published by Lakeview Music Publishing Company.