JVD

The job: Busser

My age: 16

Hourly wage: $5.25 + tips

I had eaten at the Wolfshead Inn plenty of times as a kid. It was a local institution in Indian Head Park, Illinois. It was a bar and steakhouse that sat on a former Black Hawk Native American hunting ground where wolves once roamed the area. Rumor had it that Al Capone and his crew used to eat nearby and play golf across the street. Whether that was true or not, it made the place feel like it had a story.

When you’re a kid eating out, you don’t think about the people serving you. The host who seats you, the server who remembers your drink, the busser clearing the table before you’ve even noticed it needed clearing. You just eat. Someone else handles everything else.

I was about to become one of those people.

I got a job as a busser at the Wolfshead working the late afternoon to close shift a few nights a week. The hourly rate wasn’t much, but that wasn’t really the point. The point was the tip out, at the end of every shift the servers would take a percentage of what they earned and split it with the bussers who worked their sections. Someone has a good night, makes $300 in tips, and gives you 10%. That’s $30. Do that across four servers and you’re walking out with over $100 cash at 16 years old. In today’s money that’s closer to $250.

The math was simple. Work hard, get rewarded. Don’t, and you won’t.

I learned that lesson from Barb.

Barb had been at the Wolfs head forever. She was confident, sassy, and took absolutely no nonsense from anyone. Not from customers, not from the kitchen, and definitely not from a 16 year old busser who thought he was keeping up when he wasn’t. She had built a real living in a place most people would have overlooked, and she ran her section like it was her own restaurant.

From day one Barb was on me. Clear the tables faster. Make sure her section looked perfect at all times. Anticipate what she needed before she had to ask. She wasn’t mean about it but she wasn’t warm either. She had standards and she expected you to meet them without being told twice.

I got the message fast.

What I also learned fast was that the Wolfshead had two completely different worlds operating under the same roof. The front of the house — hosts, servers, bussers — was customer facing, fast paced, and polished. The back of the house was something else entirely. The cooks and chefs were foul mouthed, relentless, and had zero patience for anything that slowed them down. There were no pleasantries exchanged back there. Nobody asked how your day was going. You went in, you got what you needed, and you got out. Someone was always out back behind the building smoking something, drinking something, trying to grab thirty seconds away from the heat and the noise.

If the front and back of house weren’t working in sync, everything fell apart. Tables waited. Customers got agitated. Servers lost tips. And bussers who couldn’t keep up became a problem nobody had time for.

I came in around 4pm most days, straight from school. The first hour was deceptively peaceful — sitting at a table folding napkins and setting silverware, getting everything ready for the dinner rush. Then the doors opened and it didn’t stop until 11pm. Clearing tables, running bread, filling water glasses, hauling dishes, running drinks from the bar, cleaning up messes, moving constantly between the front and back of house without breaking stride.

Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. You smelled like a restaurant. And you didn’t stop.

At the end of the shift came the tip out. The servers would pull out thick wads of cash, hundreds of dollars earned over a hard night, and they’d peel off what you were owed. Barb always gave me a little extra when I’d earned it. No announcement, no fanfare. Just a few more bills pressed into your hand at the end of the night. You knew what it meant. You’d done your job.

Then came the free meal.

One entrée per shift, whatever you wanted. I ordered steak and fries almost every time. After a full shift on your feet, back aching, smelling like a kitchen, that steak tasted like the best thing you’d ever eaten. Not because it was fancy. Because you’d earned it. I still make steak and fries for my family sometimes and it never quite hits the same way, but I know exactly why it tasted so good back then.

I didn’t last long at the Wolfshead. Under six months, if I had to guess. But Barb taught me something in that time that I’ve carried into every job since.

The people above you control your reward. Not your manager in the formal sense, the people who depend on you every single day to do your job so they can do theirs. Make their lives easier. Anticipate what they needed before they did. Clear the table before they have to ask. Do that consistently and they will take care of you. Every single time.

I’ve worked in sales, coaching, consulting, and technology since the Wolfshead. The environments look nothing like a steakhouse in Indian Head Park. But the dynamic Barb taught me at 16 shows up everywhere. Be the person others can rely on and you will never have to ask for what you’ve earned.

It will just show up in your hand at the end of the night.

No job was wasted.