The Anxiety of Working at a Historic Five-Star Hotel

“This site is the flagship of Europe—that’s what makes it so special,” the lovely HR lady tells me on my first day of being a hostess at a Michelin-starred restaurant in a historic five-star hotel. I’m wearing loafers that are too big for me while passing by men in uniforms, and women in heels that click on tiles. 

I’m drowning under the anxiety of a new job, but I don’t tell anyone. Instead, I focus on the end result: an extra £15,000 a year, free meals on shift, uniforms washed for me. It means I can go on holiday and not worry about expenses, that I can move in with my partner to a nice area, that I can send money to my grandparents abroad who are in dire need of it. 

I put my uniform on, and it’s of a length and a color that wouldn’t flatter anyone. I haven’t shaved my legs, so I want to keep my socks on, but I’m told that’s not how the rest wear it, so I wear these loafers without support. 

When I’m behind the desk, and I’m introduced to my supervisor, she says, “Your shoes aren’t appropriate. Don’t get me wrong! They’re nice. They’re just too chunky.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her I spent £70 on them. So I say to myself, It’s fine! They barely fit, anyway! Move on with your day. I buy a second pair at the end of my first week, ballerina flats with no support. 

I spend my first month shadowing a brunette, trying to pick up everything as fast as possible. I try to learn everyone’s names, even the colleagues that barely make eye contact with me. I keep my head up, and after my shift I soak my feet in boiling water to soothe the pain of standing for eight hours a day.

It’s a choice between being able to barely afford things and preserving my mental health.

I’m alone on my shift for days during my third week, one of the busiest of the year. I wake up at 4:30am to haggle with oil men for their phone numbers, their room numbers, and the reserved tables they’re holding hostage. Because when you’re paying thousands a night, you’ve earned the right to sit wherever you like, right? 

“We don’t say ‘no’ to the guest,” a manager tells me on the phone. “If there’s no space, you make it. You offer something else. You never say no.”

I am scheduled for eight days in a row. The restaurant gets a shiny new red plaque with a Michelin star to brag about. 

“Aren’t you so proud to work here?” guests ask me, and I lie through my teeth. 

“Oh yes, it’s been such a privilege.”

My second month, I’m micromanaged from seven different mouths. I’m looked at like I’m a double-headed stag when I make decisions on my own. I can’t say no, but I have to steer, and manipulate, until I either get the desired result (e.g. someone sitting at a table instead of the counter, fitting a reservation into a fixed one-and-a-half hour slot), or someone makes sure I know I need to do better. I’m on for nine days in a row this time. 

I speak to HR about my struggles, and to the only manager who treats me like a human. He tells me to follow the chain of command, and to shut off the outside noise. He’s right. And I wish it was that simple, but on my seventh day of standing for hours, nothing is. I see a girl crying in the bathroom, and she tells me a story I know too well of a pesky colleague with a smart mouth. 

“My dad just told me something,” my boyfriend says. I’m staying with him on my two days off, and pain throbs in my feet. “He says you don’t seem to be enjoying your job.”

I don’t face it. This is supposed to be it. This is supposed to mean financial stability. Renting an apartment, going out for nice meals, saving up for emergencies. This meant showing I could do it. 

I say, “Well, I don’t love it — but it’s a job, right? No one loves work.”

Eyes speak louder than mouths; directors and managers watch my every move. Waiters watch me struggle, and in passing, they squeeze my shoulder or offer me a smile for comfort. I tell my mom over voice note, “I wish a car would run me over right now so I didn’t have to go to work.” She tells me to quit. That it isn’t worth it. My boyfriend encourages me to apply to other jobs. He also tells me it isn’t worth it.

When my pay comes, I’m so angry I cry. My salary package, composed of a base salary, service charge, and tips, is £500 short of what I was expecting. I ask for an explanation, and HR sugarcoats the fact that we simply aren’t making enough money right now. “But when the year ends, it’ll all be there!” A 12.5% tip added to every bill made up an essential portion of our pay, but our guest number had been low for weeks — a fact the hiring manager had neglected to mention. 

Three months in, my grandfather dies. I apply to jobs to distract myself from the pain, but no one will hire someone who has been at their job for just a few months and wants to leave. I take a week off, and upon my return, my boss asks me why I’m not as perky as I usually am. I almost laugh in his face. 

It’s the end of the quarter. They no longer serve breakfast for the staff. Corporate is in and out most days, and the air is so thick with pressure no one can breathe. On the canteen, there’s a link to the staff survey, and managers have meetings with their teams to get ahead of the damage. Above the clock-in machine, there’s a poster for a mental health service sponsored by the company. 

We sit around a table listening to our boss talk about scones, and this man loves the sound of his own voice more than he loves the job. He says that we can’t hire more people because we don’t have the cash flow, and if anyone leaves, we won’t replace them. We retort with reminding them of the pressure they’re putting us under. Our director tells us everyone is under pressure, while my boss is looking at girls in bikinis on Instagram. 

It’s a funny choice to make, between being able to barely afford things and preserving one’s own mental health. I choose the risk of saying a name wrong, not recognizing someone, cracking a joke at the wrong place, wrong time; or following one manager’s orders, and getting punished by another one. I feel I have to apologize for even breathing in the wrong direction.

I attempt to sign up for therapy, and the company service tells me my work-related stress is too severe for them to treat it. The skin under my feet shed, I dream of work five nights out of seven, and I beg to any merciful God out there that I fail my trial period at this job. At least then I would’ve done everything I could. 

The flagship of Europe burns, and I burn out along with it.