Esther McCarthy: How I ruined a man's favourite dessert forever during my work experience

Irish Examiner

10-05-2025

Lifeguard, lab technician, maritime engineer. Three jobs my eldest fella tried out recently as part of his transition year work experience.
A week in each job, all with fabulous support and kind staff members helping him out, showing him patience, camaraderie, and the ropes.
We're talking about how he got on, things he liked, careers he could imagine himself in.
'The main thing is you didn't make an eegit of yourself,' the youngest observes, sagely.
'Well, gather around, my children,' I coo to them softly, expanding my arms as I usher them to me.
'For I shall tell you a tale of my own work experience. The year is 1993, Mary Robinson is president, Niamh Kavanagh makes magic in Millstreet winning the Eurovision Song Contest, Prince changes his name to an unpronounceable symbol, to get out of a contract with his record label and I've finally saved up enough to buy my own bottle of White Musk...'
Nah, I've lost them. They've wandered off, careful not to make eye contact.
I didn't know a teenage boy could simultaneously keep his head down and roll their eyes at the same time.
He looks like he's one of the precogs from Minority Report having a vision of a really boring pre-crime.
' Super Mario Kart is first released in Europe!' I shout after them, but it's too late.
One's playing Clash of Clans, the other's twacking a sliothar off the wall over the sofa, BECAUSE THERE'S NO WALLS OUTSIDE HE COULD BE MARKING, and the other one's drawing a fairly terrifying yet incongruous demon duck from Five Nights at Freddy's. He's got the haunted eyes bang on, in fairness. The bill needs work, though.
I bristle at the unfairness. I listen to their garbage all day long! And feign interest. Mostly. The lousy ingrates.
The dog is still listening though, head half cocked, although he possibly misheard 'work' as 'walk'. He's a small bit thick, the poor fella.
My work experience was two weeks in a small Italian-style restaurant in the middle of Cork city. It's long closed now, but I swear it had nothing to do with me.
I was 15, and seriously clueless. We didn't do eating out much as a family. Mam made all the dinners, mostly meat, poppies, and two veg and what more would you want?
A chicken Maryland in the Owenahincha Hotel was about as much experience I got as a punter in a restaurant, and after getting over the shock of biting into a battered pineapple slice, mam's bacon and cabbage was good enough for me.
So I was slightly aghast when they put me out on the floor waitressing the first day of my work experience.
But fake it till you make it was my kinda buzz back then so I flounced around throwing a few Mamma Mias around the place, and I put a pen behind my ear, because it made me feel bossy and busy. I was getting in the flow by the end of the first lunch rush. A guy in a suit finishes his pasta and calls me over, and asks for the dessert menu.
What IS a pavlova?
'I'll have the pavlova,' he tells me brusquely.
I head back to the kitchen where the chef was flinging things around the place like your man in the Muppet Show.
'Fancy Dan outside wants a pavlova,' I say as nonchalantly as I can, seeing if I can get away with actually having to say the words out loud: 'Follow up question. What IS a pavlova?'
Look, 'tis far from pavlova I was reared. A homemade apple tart with a nice bit of custard, a cheeky trifle here and there, maybe a Viennetta if it was a very special occasion, but a dessert named after a Russian ballerina? Eh, that would be a hard no.
The chef waves vaguely over at a tray and said, 'Don't forget the cream,' and points at the fridge.
I grab a big bowl out and dollop a generous amount of white creamy stuff on top of the crispy marshmallowy yoke with strawberries on the plate.
I deliver it to Mr Wall Street and then go to clear a booth that has just been vacated.
After a couple of minutes, suit features is clicking his fingers at me.
'Ah, miss, the pavlova's excellent...' he says, with a weird, pinched look on his face.
'Nice one,' says I, twirling my j-cloth impatiently, looking at the substantial bite he's taken out of it.
'... but the mayonnaise is a bit out of place with it,' he says grimacing like a man who's had his favourite treat ruined forever. I slink away, plate and eggy mess destined for the bin.
No tip for me, unsurprisingly, but an invaluable lesson.
Even if you do make an eegit of yourself, I tell the dog, as I grab the lead and the poo bags, at least you've got a story.
One your children won't listen to, granted.
But a story none the less, plus a deep respect for clearly-labelled condiments.
Certainly not the cream of the crop of waitresses.