When the party’s over.Sarah Habershon reports on cleaning up the aftermath. It’s been a great night, and at long last the punters have all been escorted home by a convoy of imperturbable, long-suffering cabbies. As the doors swing shut, the manager flicks a switch and the wait staffs’ pupils contract as subdued mood lighting gives way to a fluorescent glare, revealing the true horror of the night. The party is over, the cleanup begins. Tables must be wiped and smeared with Neopol, the bar washed down, the floors swept and mopped, greasy splatters scrubbed from the skirting, the grills degreased, lurking spillages located and dissolved, gunk scooped from the plugholes and frozen flies picked gingerly from the bottom of the beer fridge – and then there’s the bloody toilets. The post-prandial clean-up tends to be the job of the floor staff in many smaller establishments, but in larger facilities the task is usually beyond what any boss can reasonably expect of staff. This is a job for the professionals.
“It’s a very un-sexy business,” says James Clark of his role as general manager of commercial cleaning company Rosebud Solutions, “perfect for shutting down conversation at dinner parties.” Cleanliness is, by necessity, high on the list of priorities for restaurateurs, who comprise the majority of Rosebud’s clients, along with a smattering of supermarkets and commercial premises. They cover mainly front of house, behind the bar and of course the bogs, but in general they stay out of the kitchens. “By and large, restaurateurs don’t want strangers in their kitchens,” says Clark. “The state of the kitchen mostly depends on the standards of the chef.” Concentrated cleaners are Clark’s weapons of choice, issued to his army of around 100 frontline warriors operating undercover from Kerikeri to Pukekohe. Rosebud keeps a minimum of gear in its arsenal for the sake of simplicity and ease of operation, though it does take in heavy duty degreasers into the field for the serious battles. The importance of product safety can’t be overestimated. Some concentrates can dissolve concrete, so one shudders to think of the havoc they can wreck on human skin. Rosebud uses products with tamper-proof packaging and well-designed dispensers to facilitate the use of concentrates with a minimal risk to the worker. No matter how effective the products, however, there’s no substitute for elbow grease and a steely resolve. “Commercial cleaners are an overhead that most would prefer not to carry,” says Clark, with a nod of respect to the staff of small businesses which can’t afford the ‘expensive hobby’ of maintaining a commercial cleaning contract. How many customers can envisage Fanny, that well-groomed waitress who poured their Bollinger with such a precise flourish, scrubbing vomit out of the urinal at the end of the night when even the dishie is too nauseated to approach the scene? Such indiscretions are not reserved for the frequenters of downmarket watering holes either; the urinal incident in question took place at a refined retreat in Auckland’s Herne Bay. Wait staff are a bold and indomitable breed. Tales of horror abound in hospitality circles of crazed and depraved messes which must be remedied before home time; vomit in the pot of a plastic palm, feminine hygiene products which missed the receptacle, that week-old pork chop lodged down the back of a seat and a bowl of what appeared to be human blood on a secluded corner table after a particularly interesting stag night. Most of us have had to deal to a toilet wall encrusted with regurgitated chowder, or that most common treat, dunny diving – clearing a lavatory bowl blocked up and close to overflowing. Clark reports that inconsiderately deposited faecal matter is also dealt with on an uncomfortably regular basis; surprisingly, this occurs almost exclusively in the ladies’ room. Nightclub staff bear the brunt of dealing with perhaps the most foul and fetid remnants of revelry. Hazel, who tends the bar at a particularly sordid nightspot recalls dealing with evidence of fornication in the wee hours after closing. “I’m glad they played it safe,” she sighs, “but really, shouldn’t you flush the damn thing yourself?” Such trials, all in the name of hospitality; it is the nature of this beast. A hospo facility’s intended purpose is to provide nourishment, atmosphere and the necessary social lubricants for relaxation and fun. Clients are paying for the privilege of partaking in our hospitality and of not having to clean up after themselves. Sarah Habershon is a journalist for grill and has done time from back to front (of house) in the hospitality trade including her fair share of dunny diving. |
