“Poison Ivy” or How I Got That Itch from Working for that Bitch

The Truth Behind the Lie

For those of you not familiar with restaurants, let me say this. Waiters are waiters because of the flexibility it allows. This explains the long and noble part that restaurants play in the lives of aspiring alcoholic artists, musicians, college students, etc...

The Poison Ivy is alone in its disregard for this tradition. They demand loyalty to them. They have, over the years, assembled a team of immigrant employees, mainly from Mexico and El Salvador, who, if not illegal to begin with, are nonetheless grateful to have an income 4 times that their high school education warrants.

Make no mistake about it. The Poison Ivy is a beautiful restaurant. An old farmhouse transformed into a quaint “shabby chic” cafe with wrought iron tables and handcrafted wooden chairs with exquisite floral arrangements on each table. The owner, forever to be branded as The Bitch, really nailed that Ralph Lauren/Town and Country/ Sunset Magazine fantasy of western living. The waiters wear spanking clean white tennis shoes, white jeans, pink oxfords and floral ties. The only thing we leave behind when we walk in the door is our masculinity and self esteem. Ah...what we will do for $250 in tips for lunch. Fucking whores. I’m often mistaken for a being gay in real life--clean cut, handsome, and bathed will usually send out the “I’m a homo alert” on the Gaydar--so the outfit never really altered my self image; however, the Mexicans have had more than their share of cat calls from their neighbors and children over the age of twelve. “Puto!” is a common refrain heard in the barrios as a Poison Ivy Latino heads off to another day on the Poison Ivy plantation.