Because things move so fast in Spain, in a matter of months we have gone from bitterly complaining about being “a country of waiters” – say it with a tone of contempt – to deeply regretting the lack of waiters. It’s hard for me to get used to these hiccups, maybe because I’m a little slow to understand. It just happens to me like the United States Supreme Court justices, who have stayed in Genesis and are not coming out from there.
In this current crisis of waiters, I feel that not only the low pay and the hellish hours weigh but also the futile social consideration of a job that always seemed extraordinarily complicated and admirable. After all, there are thousands of environmental lawyers and business graduates who are recycled into the most picturesque professions in Spain, but nevertheless the universities continue to produce them like sausages and their parents sing the gaudeamus and we are not going around denouncing that Spain is a “land of lawyers”.
I remember some waiters from my childhood, royally dressed in waistcoats, who cultivated a proverbial bad temper, but were industrious and memorized and ruled the terraces like Napoleonic marshals. Some of those beautiful Iberian specimens capable of ruling in chaos still survive, which is a very rare trait outside the Pyrenees, where the dictatorship of the Indian line reigns. It happened to me once in France that for a miserable coffee I had to take part in two successive processions, first before the cashier and then before the waiter, who now only stands in the middle and shoots the skimmed milk with an arrow.
Source: La Verdad
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