It's about 8 o'clock on a sweltering, muggy evening in the parking lot outside the Magic City Casino in Little Havana, and 20 people are in line at the Latin Burger and Taco food truck, where I'm working behind a hot stove. Two dozen other trucks are here, and the area smells like grilled meat.
Jen Hsieh
Jen Hsieh
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From the corner of my eye, I spot a bottle blonde with breasts spilling from her casino-issued white button-down shirt. After waiting for about ten minutes, she places her order in a lilting Slavic accent: "Can I have a Latin Macho and an orange soda?"
"Sure," I say as I take her money.
There are already more than a dozen tickets stacked up, but I don't let her know. She stands in front of the window for about ten more minutes and then gets frustrated. "My break is over and I've got to go. I can't wait. I need my money back," she says.
"Hold on a minute," I tell her as I sneak her ticket to the front of the pack. "You're up next, I promise you." Then I offer her a free soda before turning to add cheese, onions, and special sauce onto the meat patty and wrapping the whole thing in foil.
As I hand the casino worker her dinner, I hear grumbling from outside the truck. Then another women asks why her number hasn't been called. She's been waiting for at least ten minutes longer than blondie. Short and wearing a Hurricanes sweatshirt in the 80-degree heat, she looks like a small battering ram.
I remember the raffle tickets the casino provided a few hours earlier and offer her a few along with her meal, which is just coming off the griddle. Then I hand out more tickets to the dozen or so people waiting. "You can win a casino T-shirt or a travel mug," I explain. One by one, everyone gets their burgers and tacos and they are appeased — for now.
These days, Americans spend close to half their disposable income on restaurants and dining out, according to Forbes. Around here, diners range from the rich and famous, who savor an eight-ounce A5 Kobe filet at Prime One Twelve for $240 (sides extra), to college kids, who grab a steak taco for $1.99 at El Taquito in Coconut Grove.
More interesting to me, though, are the people who serve the meals — the waiters, the bussers, and the bartenders. So over the past few months, I observed what really goes on backstage. I shadowed waiters and worked at three restaurants in Miami and Fort Lauderdale plus a food truck. I also talked with dozens of local employees about their jobs, pay, and tips.
At one place I worked, my face and lips swelled like a collagen-injected Real Housewife from the intense heat of the griddles. At another, I watched in wonder as an Italian restaurateur left a $5 tip on a nearly $200 check. A customer at a third eatery fed her Pomeranian bacon from a fork. Some of the workers swore like sailors backstage and then presented themselves like lords and ladies to customers.
But the most interesting thing I noticed is the gross difference in pay between those serving at the brick-and-mortar restaurants and those toiling in the hottest trend on the culinary scene: food trucks. While tips bring old-school waiters as much as $50,000 per year, even in some modest eateries, many food truckers don't earn much more than minimum wage.
Take 35-year-old Steven Korosi, who has worked a little more than a year at the Latin Burger and Taco truck.
He wears many hats, from expediter to manager, yet makes about half what the typical restaurant employee earns. "This is the money that I make. Times are hard," he says, sounding resigned. "I could quite easily be in a worse situation. Though it wouldn't hurt if I had an extra zero at the end of my paycheck."
The Old Fort Lauderdale Breakfast House, or O-B House, in downtown Fort Lauderdale opened in August 2011, but it's already the go-to place for locals who want to linger over a long morning meal. There's no counter service or free Wi-Fi; it has the vibe of a restaurant that's been around for decades. The small standalone building is a Himmarshee landmark. Inside, gold-painted walls are adorned with old prints of World War II seamen. In keeping with the nautical theme, employees wear sailor hats.
A sign in the front reads, "We run a tight ship." That is really the only way owner Rodney Ely can make this small restaurant work. With patrons waiting for a table for more than 45 minutes on weekends, he has to make sure his staff is quick. He has implemented a strict no-substitutions policy with the menu and set other rules for the staff to follow.
The top waiter here is Pete Hardy, who strongly resembles Popeye in his shorts, worker boots, and Greek fisherman's cap. Now in his mid-50s, Pete came to Miami from New Castle, England, in 1982 in search of Fort Lauderdale's legendary beaches and bikinis. Back in the day, he was a punk rocker, but now his Doc Martens are the only remnants of his misspent youth. "We're short a server," he says while naming the special muffins of the day. "Can you bus the tables?"