Leaving The Kitchen

A forced exit from the service industry

[jakebreslauerwrites]

All I Want Is A F***ing Cup Of Coffee

I’m from Seattle. Best city in the world as far as I’m concerned. Russell Wilson is my god, I feel weak when I use an umbrella, and I have very strong opinions about what qualifies as coffee. 

I was a barista for ten years and honestly, it’s the best job I’ve ever had. The early mornings were hard, but I took a great deal of pride in how I prepared my drinks. Machines were thoroughly cleaned with Puro Caff every night, grinders were calibrated with every new bag of beans, and espresso shots were weighed out perfectly. I knew my regulars, I was fast but didn’t rush, and my latte art was halfway decent.

For me, a city is always defined in my memory by its culinary offerings. In Seattle it was dreary cafe’s that I could spend hours in. Los Angeles had the endless gourmet food trucks that I would shovel down hungover sitting on scolding hot pavement. Now I reside in Portland where I’ve spent endless nights slogging down cheap whiskey sodas paired with some of the best god damn hot wings I’ve ever had.

Every city that I’ve lived in I’ve taken on a new identity. Party animal theatre major in Seattle, broke hipster LA actor, and somewhat emotionally stable early thirties aspiring writer in Portland. 

Each city has offered their own unique experiences but the one constant has always been coffee. But by the time I moved to Portland I was so overly caffeinated that I had to take a break. The jitters and heart murmurs were keeping me up at night. Recently I have rediscovered my love for coffee and have established a more healthy relationship with it. The bummer about this re-kindling is that Portland coffee...just doesn’t do it for me.

I don’t know what it is, but in the four and a half years that I’ve lived here I still haven’t established a good report with a coffee shop. It has nothing to do with the quality of Portland coffee, I’m just an insanely annoying customer. I like to know about the beans, enjoy chatting up the barista, and I order on the “small, medium, large” scale. I usually drink my coffee black but occasionally I’ll treat myself to a vanilla almond milk latte. Not too hot. I’ve become my own worst nightmare. 

Sorry to divulge for a second, but I feel that must express my thoughts on growing old and adhering to a routine: 

The older I get the more my stubbornness clings to my personality like marinara stains to Tupperware. It’s always been hard for me to fathom why older people stick to their routines so vigorously. Then I hit my thirties and suddenly I understood.

The fear of growing old is a common one. On top of the inevitability of death, I’ve always dreaded the idea of falling into conformity. I’m an OG teenager of the early 2000’s and like every rebellious generation, I was fixated on not becoming like my parents. What made that especially hard is that both of my parents are pretty amazing and supported my unjustified rebellion. My dad even went as far as taking me to the mall to buy me my first pair of Hot Topic pants. 

Now that I’m nearing my mid thirties, I’m starting to embrace the things that I once feared. I never knew that I could achieve nirvana by cleaning my house or going to bed before midnight, yet here I am craving cleanliness and a good night's sleep over the forties of Pabst and jumping into bushes for fun. Don’t get me wrong, I still let loose, my instagram stories are proof of that, but now one night of fun and debauchery equates into three day hangovers. I now find mental solace in consistency. As much as I like new experiences, it’s nice to live in a state of familiarity. 

Here’s how that connects to getting a stupid cup of coffee:

I have become a regular Starbucks customer. I know I know, corporations are evil, I fully agree, but hear me out. I go in, know what I want, pay with my preloaded card, get it quickly, go on with my day. With each sip of slightly burnt sub par overpriced “coffee,” I feel a small part of my soul die. My punishment for slugging down this corporate gruel is constant bubble gut and caffeine fueled anxiety attacks.

I’m a huge advocate for small business, but sometimes my need for convenience outweighs my humanity. If only twenty two year old me with a mohawk could see me now. He wouldn’t kick my ass (physically I think it’s impossible for me to ever throw a punch), but boy oh boy would he write an angry poem.    

Recently my wife and I decided to try a local coffee shop in our neighborhood, switch things up. It was very Portland hip. The walls were covered with local art, shelves stocked with overpriced handcrafted merchandise, and decor that was a mix of a couch someone found in an alley and chairs that were hard as rock. The barista was dressed like a Wes Anderson character and it took them fifteen minutes to make a latte and a pour over. We paid our eighteen dollars, took one sip, walked around the corner where they couldn’t see us and dumped out our drinks. The best way I can describe my coffee was it tasted like someone had used a cup of boiling water to ash their cigarettes. 

Trying new things is important. Supporting local independent businesses is vital. But sometimes I don’t want to be surprised by how my coffee tastes. Somedays I just want what’s familiar, and I’m learning that that’s okay. In the past I would totally settle for a coffee shop with terrible coffee or bars that pour half ounce drinks just to prove to everyone and myself that I’m not a conformist. Technically I was still conforming, but at least I dressed fun. Now I have what my parents would call “standards.” 

To prevent myself from evolving into a full blown grumpy old man at the ripe age of thirty two, I’ve vowed to force myself to continue to try new things. Every week I listen to my Spotify suggested playlist for new music. If I’m getting Takeout, I encourage myself to try something new and not have a complete breakdown if it disappoints. Hell I’ll even take the risk of consuming coffee that tastes like the inside of an old jacket if it means supporting a new business. 

But some days I want to bust out my wife’s fancy gold Starbucks card, get a latte the size of my head, and skip down the street enjoying my bourgeois sugar high.  

[jakebreslauerwrites]

The Art Of Unemployment

I’ve lost three jobs in the last year. Not gonna lie, it’s become exhausting. The emotional journey of losing a job has become remnant of being broken up with. I go through a varying amount of irrational stages of grief, eat too much, take inappropriately long baths, drink too much, and watch Disney movies that I know are going to make me cry (sorry I reference Disney so much). 

Like most during the pandemic, this is not exactly how I saw my life going. I’ve never been unemployed. This is very foreign territory for me. I’ve always had the romantic idea of quitting my day job and focusing entirely on writing and comedy. I tried it once a couple of years ago but after 3 months I was back at my old company. Turns out that pursuing my dreams is fucking terrifying. 

Some people have a couple of shortcomings and personal blockades that keep them from achieving their full potential. At times it has felt like I could write a manual about how to sit on your ass and do nothing while your life passes you by. A couple months ago, when the reality set in that things won’t go back to normal for a while, I decided to create a new normal.  

I’m very fortunate to have enough in my savings to last me a bit. I’ve heard horror stories about filing for unemployment. I’m dreading the eventuality that I’ll have to bite the bullet and sit on hold for 12 hours a day only to get told I don’t qualify. Not having consistent income is hard, but being stripped of my routine when I’m used to working in a very fast paced work environment is jarring to say the least.  

As much as I miss working, believe me when I tell you the service industry can be hell. I wanted to walk into work everyday and have everything go smoothly, but it just wasn’t possible. Working in this business for over ten years I’ve witnessed my fair share of horrors. Guests punching each other, disgruntled employees throwing change at customers faces, having to clean up human shit out of a bathroom sink, the works. A lot of nights I would have nightmares about being the only person behind a bar or on a production line with a slew of angry customers. More than once those nightmares became a reality. 

One thing that I’ve always craved is a normal nine to five type of schedule. I’ve always worked weekends, late nights, early mornings, taking any shift that came my way. So now that I have the time to try and achieve such a cookie cutter lifestyle, I’ve done just that. Since I don’t have a job, I’ve made unemployment my job. 

I have a reasonable bedtime and I wake up early. I exercise in the morning, make the bed, and cook breakfast. I read the New York Times while I sip coffee and occasionally stare out the window for long periods of time. I clean all our breakfast dishes, sweep, then meditate for ten minutes. At ten o-clock I spend an hour looking for jobs and freelance gigs. Eleven o-clock I take my online classes and do my homework. Between noon and one my wife emerges from our home office where she has a big kid job. We make lunch and watch one episode of House Hunters International together. Afterwards I recheck my usual job boards for an hour or so. 

Around three the lure to get high and play Call Of Duty is overpowering. Instead I make a cup of tea, get high, and write for an hour or two. At four thirty I take a walk around my neighborhood and pet strangers' dogs. I get home, pour a glass of wine, and cook dinner with my wife. We watch about two more episodes of House Hunters before she knocks out for the night and I’m left with my Sleepy Time Tea and an hour of video games that I allow myself every day. 

I get ready for bed, kick the cats off my pillow, and read a paragraph of a book before I fall asleep to the gentle sounds of artificial rain emitting from my phone. It helps with my night terrors of being alone in a kitchen.

I love every second of my routine. 

Not everyday is as picture perfect as the one I just painted. Some days the call of my couch and Xbox is more alluring than the desire to better myself. Recently I spent all day preparing for a job interview that I was vastly under qualified for. On more than one occasion one glass of wine has turned into a bottle. The next there is no exercising or healthy breakfast, but there is plenty of complaining and McDonalds. 

It’s not perfect because I’m not perfect. What I’m grateful for is that in the last couple of months I’ve dropped twelve pounds, gotten a few freelance writing jobs, and am finally pursuing a career I’ve always dreamed of and have actually gotten interviews for said job. But most importantly, for the first time in 32 years, I’m taking the time to become the best version of myself that I know I can be. 

The future is uncertain, we can all agree on that. What is certain is that now I know I have the ability to cure my chronic laziness and self doubt. I’m confronting my anxiety and accepting the fact that I don’t have to be perfect. 

I’m slowly learning that self care comes in many forms. Some days it’s adhering to a strict mental and physical quotidian, and others it’s having a popcorn and whiskey dinner. 

All I know for certain is that everyday I have the opportunity to do nothing, but now I’m choosing to do something.  

[jakebreslauerwrites]

Beware Of Postmates

Last week I wrote about being a proud Postmates driver. This week, as you can probably guess by the title, I will not be so kind towards my now former employer. 

Here’s the story:

I worked for Postmates most days during the lunch and dinner rush. I’d average between one and two hundred dollars a day (before taxes). The money was good, I picked my own hours, and it gave me the freedom to further pursue a more satisfying career. 

It was an average Thursday night, around seven, and I was getting ready to call it a night in an hour or so. I realize that this setup is remnant of most mystery novels and I apologize for that. Sometimes when I’m feeling over dramatic it feels necessary to let me myself dive fully off into the emotional deep end. So please indulge me while I light up a lucky strike, pour myself a glass of scotch, and let my internal dialogue that sounds like Dick Tracy take over.

Upon arriving at my next pickup location, the person working the counter told me that Postmates had called them before I arrived and wanted me to call them before I picked up the order. In hindsight I should’ve found this weird, but odd and surprising things happen often on this platform. I called the number that had been provided to me by the restaurant. The person who answered introduced themselves as Postmates customer support. They then proceeded to inform me that there had recently been a string of deliveries in the area that weren’t reaching customers. They said they needed to verify drivers coming from this restaurant. It isn’t unusual for orders not to get to customers. Sometimes they’re stolen off porches, sometimes the driver is sketchy and keeps the food for themselves. 

After they explained the situation they were able to go into my phone and cancel the current order. They then sent me an email from an official looking account where I could reset my password. They gave me a temporary password to sign in with and set up a temporary account for my earnings to go into. At this point I started questioning the whole thing, but everything they were sending me looked official. Plus they were able to get into my app and reset everything, so I went along with it. After resetting my account, they said I was good to go and that they were giving me a bonus because I had to miss a delivery to get everything rebooted. 

Afterwards I put all the pieces together and realized I might have been screwed. I looked at my account and saw that it was at zero. Also there was no bonus. I called customer service back but was met with a busy tone. Now I knew I had been screwed. 

I called an official Postmates number and the customer service rep didn’t seem surprised by the fact that I had been scammed. I asked her if it was possible to get my weekly earnings back and she sent me over to their accounting department. I was on hold for three hours. They informed me that they were going to look into it but that it was my fault for being scammed so I probably wouldn’t get my money back. 

Let me take a second to admit where I was at fault. I should’ve seen the warning signs earlier, some of them were pretty obvious, but I was put off by the official looking email and the fact that they were able to access my app. What instantly took me aback was the fact that no one at Postmates found any of this odd. So I did a little digging and found out that this has been an ongoing problem FOR TWO YEARS. I’ve been driving on and off for about that long and the fact that I’m just now hearing about it is unacceptable. If this is an ongoing problem then why aren't Postmates alerting it’s drivers to beware of scammers? As one of their employees, I have the right to know about something like this.

I still haven’t heard back from Postmates about my money. Also I called the restaurant where I had been scammed and found out that Postmates hadn’t called and informed them about what had happened. 

My theory is that the company doesn’t want the fact that their system can be hacked so easily put out there. I can understand that, but people like myself are losing their earnings just so a multi million dollar company can keep face. It’s a disgusting practice, but one that happens way too often. It’s sickening that during times of crises people will take advantage of others like this, but it’s just as unfavorable for a company to be aware of a problem that affects their employees and decide to do nothing about it.

After this debacle I had to reset all my bank accounts, put a hold on my credit, and reset my phone to factory settings.

The worst part about this whole experience is that once again, for the third time in a year, I’m out of the job. I thought about driving for a different delivery service but after everything, it’s not worth the risk of getting hacked again. 

I’m not going to lie, it’s becoming exhausting living a persistent state of “what now.” I was finally at an okay place. I had a routine, and it was working. So once again it’s time to meditate, reset, smoke a bowl, watch all the Harry Potter movies again, and hopefully somewhere in between I’ll find some time to get a new plan. 

In times like these it’s easy to feel like a failure, but for some reason I don’t. I want to, but I’ve been here before, and I know that I’m capable of finding a way out. 

And if nothing else works I hear that OnlyFans pays good money for pictures of feet, so at least I have a plan B.   

[jakebreslauerwrites]

Love, Shame, and Burgers

My high school P.E. coach used to tell me that I’d be lucky to get a job flipping burgers.

I’ll start this post off with one simple question:

What’s so wrong with flipping burgers?

For me a burger is sacred. I rarely eat them so when I do it’s one of these special occasions:

“Fuck I’m sad, I’m going to eat a burger.”

“Fuck I’m happy, I’m going to eat a burger.”

“Fuck I’m drunk, I’m going to eat a burger.”

“I’m going to get a salad. Fuck I accidentally ordered a burger.”

Alright so maybe I eat burgers more than I care to admit. The amount of beef and cheese I consume in a week isn’t something that I usually like to brag about. I didn’t mean for this post to be all about my love affair with burgers but once I start talking about them, it’s hard to think about anything else. So let’s get back to the main topic topic which is the pariah we’ve built around service industry jobs (I’ll probably circle back to talking about burgers at some point).

Working in the service industry I’m always met with the same line of questioning.“Ugh, how awful is that? Is it your full time job? What else do you do?.” Although I’ve talked openly about my dislike for working in restaurants, it’s unfair to assume that everyone who works in that environment is unhappy or in a transitional period of their lives.

The service industry is nothing to be ashamed of. Far from it. It’s an actual career that people go to school for, make it their livelihood, and use the money to buy houses and insert themselves into the wheel of society. I feel like too many people look at a fast food employee or a waiter and think “What has gone wrong in that person's life to lead them to this point?” We shouldn’t be questioning why they’re there, but should be grateful for the fact that we have someone serving us our food and putting up with our bullshit. And guess what? Some people like those jobs, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. In a society that built around making money we sure do tend to get shitty towards people trying to make money. 

One mentality that I’ve recently adapted is getting rid of a good portion of my shame. Not all of it though, I keep a little shame on reserve just in case I decide to eat a large bag of Cheetos by myself after my wife has gone to bed.

A new practice I have is not letting people’s judgement get in the way of how I dictate my own life. When people ask what I do for money I now unashamedly admit that I drive for Postmates. I had a friend inquire “I thought you were a writer” to which I responded “I am, but how many writers do you know make money from it?” That shut them up. It baffles people even further to find out that I quit my well paid job during a pandemic to work for Postmates. Again, there’s that judgement around working a job that most view as beneath them. I had normal hours, normal paycheck, everything was as close to normal as it could be during a global crisis. The reason why it didn’t work for me is because normality sits in my stomach like a shot of tequila. I crave the excitement of new projects and challenges. Also I was miserable and my twenty year old employees kept making me cry at work.   

If I’m being completely honest I love working for Postmates. I work 5 hours a day, take 4 hour breaks in between shifts to write, listen to tunes, cruise around, deliver burgers, make people happy. And the money’s not terrible. I make enough to pay rent and bills and have the proper amount of luxuries on the side. Is it what I want to do for the rest of my life? No. Am I proud of myself for getting out everyday and making money while I pursue a more satisfying career? Absolutely. 

So next time you’re in conversation with someone and they talk about their service industry job don’t make hasty decisions about their character and life choices.

Also don’t be a dick, vote for fifteen dollar minimum wages. The person taking your ridiculous coffee order deserves a livable wage.

Also also, I promised I’d circle back to talking about burgers so here are my top three favorite burger places in Portland:

Canard 

Ankeny Tap and Table

Portland Burger

[jakebreslauerwrites]

Origins

I’m a restaurant brat. Both of my parents are chefs, I grew up in kitchens, I consider fancy spatulas eloquent gifts. I tried my whole life to escape my fate of flipping burgers and tossing salads (you know what I mean, grow up). I went to college for theater with the grandiose idea that I would eventually move to LA and make it as an actor because at the time I still believed in magic. Four years later with an expensive art degree under my belt I was finally ready to enter the world and make my mark as the greatest actor since Brando.

Three months later I was working in a kitchen. At the time it was nice to do something other than memorize Shakespeare and stress eat backstage. Instead I was getting yelled at by an expeditor and stress chugging whiskey in the walk in fridge. 

Eventually I made the move to LA, enrolled in acting and improv classes, worked on movie sets as a production assistant, performed at The Comedy Store, lost fifty pounds, and purchased expensive air brushed head shots. It was the life I always thought I wanted, but it scared me. Anyone who has tried to make it in LA might be able to relate to the fear. Rejection was constant, judgement was everywhere, and cocaine was a lot more expensive than I thought. Once again I fell into the trap of working in the service industry, but this time it felt different. 

In the past I’d always viewed restaurant jobs as something to avoid. It had been my entire world growing up, and I was desperate to experience something else. But being emotionally lost in LA I found working with food and beverage less of a fall back and more of a place of comfort. Memories that I once found insignificant were now essential emotional comforts. Memories like having coffee with my dad at my parents restaurant before school, getting high with friends and sharing a plate of french fries, making pasta before prom to impress my date and absolutely butchering the dish. These were things I liked to look back on when I was in a casting room with a producer telling me “don’t call us, we’ll call you.” 

After a few years of this I realized that tinsel town wasn’t the place I had always dreamed of. I had a passion for comedy and writing, strong skills in kitchens, and a vicious case of homesickness. My parents had recently moved to Portland Oregon and after a couple visits, I did what every other millennial in LA was doing. I packed up my fixed gear bike, grew a beard, bought a flannel, and moved to Portland. 

For me, Portland has been perfect. I’ve been able to still pursue comedy and writing while holding down a good job at a catering company that fulfilled my love of food and booze. Everything was perfect until we GOT LOCKED INSIDE FOR A FUCKING YEAR. It goes without saying that my career trajectory was violently thrown off course and into a ditch. I started this pandemic like everyone else. Bitter and constantly reassuring myself that it would be over soon. 

I was lucky to snag a job at a bakery after losing my catering job. A few months later I lost my job at the bakery. Lost may not be the correct word, I quit. Sort of. More like they said they were going to fire me, but didn’t, so I clocked out for lunch and never came back. I had never pulled an Irish goodbye on a job before, but this place was especially unbearable so I felt very little remorse. It also made me realize that maybe it might be time to finally step out of the kitchen.  

So where the fuck am I now? Great question. I have no idea. What I do know is that for the first time in my life I’m content. I have taken the shambles of my mosaic life and created some form of normality. I drive for Postmates, take online classes, exercise, cook every meal, make stupid videos, write everday, and drink too much on the weekends. For the first time in my life I’m making my own path, my own schedule, and the only person standing in my way is me.   

This isn’t a success story. Not yet. Hopefully this is an origin story that’s worthy of your time.