True Religion

My 18-year-old son, who is taking a gap year to figure out his future college plans, and how he’s going to pay for the privilege of an education, has been learning some hard lessons about the wonderful world of work. He has two part-time gigs, one at a coffee shop in the posh SB Public Market, and the other down in a trendy restaurant in what is now called the Funk Zone.

Both establishments are owned and operated by sole proprietors with oversized egos. Understand, dear readers, that coffee and food are now serious business – particularly in a destination town like Santa Barbara. The “foodies” have invaded what used to be an industrial swath of territory, with their Avant-garde ideas of food-as-art, or whatever the hell they think they’re doing. Seems to me that it’s all about buzz and presentation, slick marketing and public relations designed to draw in our local celebrities (Oprah, Michael Keaton, etc.) and Hollywood types in for the weekend.

What my son has discovered in both places is that owners have inflated egos and often act capriciously, like deciding, out of the blue, to reduce the kid’s hours by two-thirds with no notice whatsoever – and of course without explanation; the young lackeys who pour the drinks and serve the customers are not entitled to know why the puppet-master yanks the strings.

You would think that a trendy restaurant would spend some time training new employees, but my son reports that this isn’t the case; new workers are expected to know what to do the minute they walk through the front door and, if they stumble, the owner calls them out in front of others. On-the-job training by humiliation. You see, even if they are treated like dirt, workers should be grateful for the very opportunity of working in a popular Funk Zone establishment.

The service industry blues, my son, low wages, irregular hours, asshole bosses. I’m sorry that the American Dream died a long time ago.

If what I hear is true, the Public Market is in financial trouble, surprise, surprise, a dubious idea bearing dubious fruit. According to my son, who is nothing if not keenly observant, foot traffic during the day is scant, and what traffic exists is not made up of people who live in the surrounding area. With much media fanfare about renewal and mixed use, the Public Market displaced an old, dilapidated Vons grocery store that actually served the needs of the surrounding neighborhood. Along with working folk, elderly people and students, my wife and I shopped that Vons for years. Now, most of the million dollar condos above the Public Market remain unsold, and the retail spaces down below are vacant. Again, surprise, surprise. The developer probably figured, it’s downtown Santa Barbara, just a block off magic State Street, we can charge whatever the hell we want and the money will roll in like a tsunami.  

Sometimes the smartest people in the room prove to be dumb fucks when they get out on the street and come face to face with reality. Working people in this town cannot afford to pay $10 for a scoop of ice cream or $12 for a bowl of noodles.

But make no mistake, Santa Barbara isn’t unique in this respect: greed and exploitation is not only our national ethos, it’s our true religion.