THE MAROSAN’S WAITRESS (PART 1)

August 26, 2023 Opinion

The restaurant at the peripherals of the Light of the North has served thousands of cash strapped
hungry students for decades. Marosan’s is a familyowned business spanning decades in the city, with its meals both affordable and tasty, giving its famished patrons something to look forward to
everyday. “Marosan Rice” is the top treat of many composed of a chicken, pork, sautéed
vegetables, rice and a sunny side up egg, top of the line and most expensive rice meal in the menu, the ordinary student wont order this daily, and would reserve this as a special treat.

Most students will circumvent hunger pangs by doing a Marosan’s food hack to save money and load on carbs by ordering the famous “Chicken Mami,” and a cup of rice. The famous meal comes
with a piece of fried chicken and the budget wise student will separate the protein and enjoy a bowl of hot noodles while having fried chicken and rice on the side. Another Marosan favorite is the “Fried Rice with Porkchop,” which consists of a huge cup of rice, fried with garlic and soy, turning
it to a delectable brown rice, topped with a porkchop chopped but keeping the bone, breaded and deep fried.

There would be pipe-in music from an old-style radio which would be tuned in to 99.9 magic, all day and everyday with its Dj’s greeting the establishment from time to time as its employees were part of its loyal patrons. Country music would be a main stay and there would be no qualms to it,
everybody liked country music, if you didn’t, you would have to pretend you did. I become a waitress at Marosan’s by chance, as the branch near the school was owed by the family of a friend
who happened to need extra help, so I said I would take the job, if they would have me.

My friend’s sisters, looked at me from head to foot, I was not Cordilleran and dressed differently, I didn’t speak the language that well, in short, I stood out like a sore thumb, they knew it and I knew it, but they agreed nonetheless, maybe out of pity or just because my friend asked them to. They paid me 50 pesos an hour and I worked for four hours a day, varying from the morning lunch rush or the afternoon snack breaks, I was a happy worker, smiling that I got a job on my spare time, not knowing what the near future will bring me.

I was taught to ask for orders by saying “Anya Ngay,” with a smile, so I did, but we all knew I said it funny, but of course, I was understood by the amused costumers, who tolerated a non-Cordilleran,
non-Ilokano speaking waitress. Most of the orders would be of the “Chicken Mami,” and a cup of rice, which required me to carry the order with a tray or with my hands, navigating the small space.
Being a klutz by heart, the only logical eventuality was for me to drop or spill the order on the floor or to the hapless costumer, both I accomplished on my first day, making my friends sister’s rethink their decision to hire me.

But I continued with my out order “Anya Ngay,” soup falling, wrong order taking and inability to sustain an Ilocano conversation. I learned to like country music and maintained my friendship with my friend who thought I was adorably clumsy adding to the worries of her family.