My bittersweet life in the hospitality industry

My childhood is a complicated story to tell, but for the very early part of it, and then for the last part of my teenage years, I grew up in the hospitality business.

I was born in 1983.

My parents owned two restaurants. Their first restaurant failed miserably due to a partnership disagreement. The second one took off from the mid-1980s, but came crashing down in the mid-2000s due to mismanagement, although not before becoming a pioneering blueprint for Thai restaurants in Sydney.

Before transferring to Thailand as a result of parental separation, as a young child I remember annoying the kitchen staff because I wanted to help them chop vegetables or decorate dishes. I would then annoy the floor staff because I wanted to serve customers, and eventually annoying the customers because I wanted to sit down and eat with them. 

Back then, for some reason, everyone was pretty relaxed, so I got away with a lot of things, including eating half of the customers' entrées at their tables. 

However, just because I grew up in restaurants didn't mean I wanted to own one. 

Once I graduated, I headed straight for the suit life and swore off hospitality completely for almost a decade. Besides, as much as it was a great memory of my childhood, it was also a rough one. 

It tore my family apart, left me stranded and neglected in Thailand for a good half a decade, and had me picking up the pieces again once I came back to Australia - story for another blog entry.

But you can't run away from what you know so instinctively, and you can't hide away from something that has defined your life for better and for worse. 

As luck would have it, at a turning point in the not too distant past, I faced it again, for a few reasons mostly explained here.

So, having not been to culinary college or barista school, graduated from a business degree, (albeit having dabbled in a few part time businesses in the past) or having ever worked in the hospitality industry, how am I still here, sitting in my café packed full of customers, greeting them between writing this blog?

I guess I got lucky.
..or else I guess all those late nights spent watching chefs prep and cook up dish after dish during service, watching the waiters and waitresses flip table after table in the dining room, and sleeping between table cloths and spare chairs hidden behind the counter whilst waiting for my mother to reconcile the takings for the night meant that my rogue education in hospitality paid off.

Also, my mother ran a tight ship, but she was also kind and generous. She was flexible with shifts, paid everyone on time, and she even drove every staff member home late at night to make sure of their safety at the expense of her time and energy - I definitely took all of this on board, because I understood that the success of the business starts with the happiness and morale of your staff.

Therefore, half a decade later, with two highly coveted awards in the industry and a number of positive reviews and spotlight features in both online and offline publications, my rogue education in the art of the restaurant business has proven to be effective. 

Having said all of the above, I wouldn't have known this about myself until I finally listened to my heart and built my own restaurant after having sworn off the industry for all these years.
It was like I had unlocked a vault I kept shut all these days from denial, and found a treasure of mine that I never knew I had kept inside.

It's funny how life works sometimes, right?
Blessings in disguise?
I'm just grateful that I've discovered this about myself sooner than later, and had the opportunity to see it through.

Lets talk about my past, just for a little bit.

I had to rush home, because the apartment block that I'm currently living in has no electricity due to a cable blow out this morning from the heavy rain we've been experiencing in the past week so far in Sydney.

..and I'm home earlier than usual because I have a cat.

You see, pets aren't allowed in my apartment block, and I happen to be living in the apartment that has the only manhole to get up into the roof, which is where all the wiring are. 

So after the estate agents called me requesting access into the apartment, I raced home as fast as I could. 

But, thanks to my girlfriend's mum, she got here before I did and hid our cat in our bedroom. Crisis averted.      

Anyways, I'm here now, at home, with the cat hidden in the bedroom while electricians walk in and out of the apartment leaving me with nothing else better to do, so, to pass the time, let me tell you a story of a young boy who walked the streets of Bangkok on his own.

The year was 1995.

Home was this building deep in the catacombs of Bangkok. 

This building had a lot of 'live in' staff. 

It housed a factory, a factory with machines that produced clothes. 

Most staff members lived in little rooms tucked in corners throughout the factory.

Those that didn't have rooms just camped out on the floors of the factory. Most used industrial stock rolls of fabric as blankets and pillows. 

Yes, I lived in one of these. 

I believe they are called sweat shops from a western point of view, but for us, it was more like boarding school. 

I was always rushing home so I didn't miss dinner time at the factory. 

Most nights I was late because I went to school on the other side of Bangkok, and the fact that the traffic in Bangkok doesn't allow cars to go faster than 50 kilometers an hour at the best of times meant that I was always going to be late home, regardless.  

Because of this, I had to hit the streets myself to find dinner, with a handful of cash to buy a meal and a pocket knife for protection. 

I was eleven. 

To make my life a bit easier, I would make friends with the street vendors, the shopkeepers, the local kids and the stray dogs. Even the shady characters in the dark alley ways recognized who I was, 

'the neighborhood kid'; 

not poor enough for the slums, but not rich enough to have his own bed, yes, I shared a bed, ..but at least I had one.

No one gave me trouble. 

Through their eyes, I was one of them. Struggling, but not crying about it.

Suffering, but smiling through it. 

We'd look out for each other because we were all we had. 

Being selfish wasn't an option if you wanted to survive here.

I would walk through lanes where illegal activity were conducted; hustlers, alcoholics and dealers of certain products. 

The ice cream vendor was even in on it, whom at night had a side business in the gambling industry, conveniently embedded in his cart. I would put a punt or two just for kicks if I passed him on the streets.

I never won any money, but he always gave me a free popsicle so I didn't leave empty handed.

That night, I was deep in the slums bringing food for my friend who didn't have any dinner to eat. 

For that night, no one had to go to sleep hungry, and no one had to feel like they were in it alone. 

When I came home, the owner of the factory had already locked down the building, but one of the metal doors was still open.

He was waiting there for me to return, and he wasn't pleased that he had to wait.

Needless to say, he had put the fear of god in me afterwards for breaking curfew.

But, at least I went to bed knowing my friend had something to eat.

As I reminisce, I am reminded that:

In the poorest of places resides the most generous of people. 

..and that my childhood was full of valuable lessons, in which I'm slowly understanding now. 

(The above photo is me with my friends. I'm the one on the far left getting down on the shot. Nothing has changed much lol)