One of the most common problems I had to deal with as a restaurant manager was people not showing up for work. A restaurant's schedule is a delicate balance, it must provide enough manpower but it can't afford the luxury of many extras. Often just one person calling out could cause problems. It was also almost impossible to call in a replacement on short notice.

During my management career I'd been forced to fill in as a cook, bartender, waiter, dishwasher, cashier, and busboy. This would occur only as a last resort, after every attempt to talk, coddle, bribe, or beg someone else to step in had failed. One day at El Torito I used perhaps my most unique recruitment technique.

It was a Sunday morning, by far the slowest shift in the week, when the scheduled bartender called in sick. None of the bartenders liked working on Sunday afternoons. As a species, bartenders don't like being up early and most apparently consider it a sin to be up early on a Sunday. Besides they all knew there was no money to be made. I knew I'd be only going through the motions as I called looking for a replacement.

I also knew I could not afford to be trapped behind the bar all day. When I had been hired at El Torito their Sunday business was so bad that they would open and after sitting around idly for a few hours close it up. I was determined that if I was going to go to the trouble of opening the place that I was going to keep it open. Rather than shutting down early to cut our losses, which I felt was a self perpetuating response, I decided to just schedule to the bare minimum. There were times when I had only one bartender, one waiter, one dishwasher, and one cook in the restaurant and my ability to bounce from place to place was vital. Were I to put myself behind the bar I would be unable to leave. The bar at El Torito was upstairs on street level while the kitchen and dining room were downstairs. To leave the bar unattended for any length of time would only invite theft.

I was desperate. As much as I hated to do it and knowing full well what the responses would be I called everyone capable of filling in. I even borrowed a few phone numbers from the manager of the adjoining Houlihans and woke a few of their bartenders with predictable results. I had only one other option before resigning myself to the task. It was staring me in the face but it was as inaccessible as first base on a sharply hit grounder to second.

Every Sunday morning my head bartender came in to do the weekly inventory and restock and reorganize both bars. Joe had been doing this long before I ever came to the restaurant and despite my offers to do it myself he adamantly insisted on performing his duties.

Joe was a tall, skinny man with a classic bartender's demeanor. He was opinionated and knowledgeable on a wide range of subjects, yet was easy to talk to because of his respect for other people and their feelings. He took great pride in his job and he had the most important quality in a bartender, he was incredibly trustworthy.

Unfortunately, he was also steadfastly unwilling to step in for absentee bartenders. Being there on Sundays, Joe was always the first one any of the previous managers had turned to in their times of need. Knowing that Joe was there to bail them out, the other bartenders called in sick with increasing regularity. By the time I arrived Joe had declared that he would not ever fill in again. Sunday was his day to spend with his nine year old boy and there was no talking him out of it. I never asked him unless I was truly desperate and even then he had always refused.

I deliberately avoided asking Joe to work as I wallowed through my futile efforts. His refusal would officially seal my fate and I hoped to delay the inevitable as long as possible. Besides, I still held a glimmer of hope that Joe, seeing my rigorous and noble attempts to locate a replacement other than him, would volunteer to stay. I held this hope despite the fact that, as soon as he became aware that no bartender had arrived, announced that I should not even consider asking him to stay.

Tom Gamino, the Houlihans manager who had given me some phone numbers, told me I should simply order Joe to work. This was not the way I operated my restaurant and I gracefully declined his advice. While I was downstairs, however, Tom took it on his own to come over and tell my head bartender that he had to stay. Joe was incensed, assuming that I had asked Tom to do my dirty work. When Joe let me know what Tom had done I assured him that he did not have to work if he didn't want to and asked him if he would just spend an extra hour to set the bar up for me so that I could get the rest of the restaurant ready to operate without me.

When I came back upstairs prepared to take my position behind the bar, Joe suddenly pointed out the large plate glass window that looked out towards Fifth Avenue.

"I'll tell you what. You get that girl to keep me company and I'll work until four."

I was shocked. I was being offered a bizarre and unexpected reprieve. My heart beat wildly.

"Which one? That one?" I exclaimed frantically as I looked up and pointed to the first figure my eyes focused on, a small Oriental man walking quickly towards Thirty Second Street.

"That one." Joe was somewhat taken aback by my intensity.

I fumbled for my keys as I ran to the front door. Finally managing to insert the proper key into the key hole I pushed through the door and sprinted out onto Fifth Avenue taking no time to admire the reflection of Joe's dumbfounded expression in the glass.

The woman Joe had indicated was already a block and a half away and making good time. If not for the sparse pedestrian traffic typical of a Sunday morning in midtown I would not have been able to spot her. I ran as fast as I could in my dress shoes finally pulling up alongside her as she waited for the light to change on the corner of Thirty First.

"Excuse me." I said to her, gasping painfully for air.

In typical New York fashion she ignored me. My blurred vision beginning to clear I could see that the woman Joe had selected was extremely beautiful. She stood just under five and a half feet tall with long silken black hair. Her delicately feminine frame was covered with dark, creamy skin. She wore tight fitting blue jeans and a black cotton tee shirt covered by a small blue denim jacket.

"Excuse me." I said again still panting slightly, "I need to ask you a big favor."

This time she turned her head to me and pointing her large black eyes at mine spoke slowly and very deliberately,

"Me no speak the English." she replied in a thick Hispanic accent.

As the light had changed she turned away from me and continued on across the street. Undeterred I proceeded after her suddenly aware of the impossibility of what I was trying to do. I hurried on ahead of her backpedaling so I could face her. I clasped my hands together in front of my chest.

"Please," I pleaded to her with my eyes as well as my voice. "I just need you to do me a tremendous favor. I'm not going to hurt you. Por favor." I said, now holding my palms up towards her, gesturing for her to stop.

She appeared quite bewildered. I don't think she was yet used to being chased down the street and accosted by a stranger. Having only arrived in New York a few weeks before I was probably her first. Again she said no as she continued on her course. I matched her step for step as we headed downtown together. Once more I made my impassioned plea and this time as she slowed to a stop, her refusal had the insincere sound of curiosity. For the fourth time I repeated my request, my eyes locked on hers, my voice imploring her gently,

"You've got to help me. I won't hurt you. Please, you are my last chance."

"Why?" she cried.

"I can't explain, please just come with me."

"But why?" she was clearly on the verge of agreeing but I had to sell it now or watch my hopes fade into the distance.

"Mi loco," I said calling on my complete repertoire of Spanish phrases. "That's why."

She laughed in resignation and I gently turned and guided her back towards El Torito. We were now four blocks away and about five minutes away from opening time. I introduced myself to Maria and was able to ascertain that she was Brazilian and had only recently moved in with her sister a few blocks further down the street. During the walk back to the restaurant she continued to protest weakly with a friendly laugh and a warm smile.

There was a look of disbelief and admiration on Joe's face when he looked up and saw Maria and I walking in the side door. I offered our guest a seat at the bar and introduced her to Joe. He extended his hand towards the woman and she smiled brightly as she reached out and shook it. Joe was impressed and I was relieved.

I excused myself and went downstairs to find a spare waiter's apron and Nancy, one of the two waitresses on duty. I knew Nancy spoke fluent Spanish and since Joe's skills were no better than mine I enlisted her as a translator. I asked Nancy to welcome Maria and to offer her anything she wanted to eat or drink free of charge. After a few polite refusals Maria accepted a cup of coffee but declined any food. I presented the apron to Maria and asked Nancy to explain to our cheerful but bewildered guest that I was hiring her to sit and talk to Joe for the afternoon. Her pay would be whatever food and drink she could consume and that she was free to leave at anytime. She accepted the apron and tied it proudly around her tiny waist and then we shook hands with exaggerated professional vigor.

Just then the other half of the waitress tandem, Katie, came storming upstairs to the bar. Stories of our exploits had traveled downstairs and reached the waitress's puritanical ears. She charged her four and three quarter foot frame towards me waggling her index finger like a dagger. I received a seemingly endless tongue lashing on the evils of pimping an innocent girl off the street interrupted only by the occasional moments when Katie would turn to Maria, shake her head sympathetically from side to side, click her tongue softly in her mouth, and mumble the words,

"Lo siento mucho, mi pobre nina." which means "I'm so sorry my poor child."

I quickly found Katie something to do in the dining room and unlocked the doors opening the restaurant for business. Despite Katie's protestations, Maria remained extremely good natured and seemed more than willing to relax and enjoy her captivity. Joe convinced her to accept a sample of one of our fine liqueurs in her next cup of coffee and I returned to the duties of running a restaurant.

As people started to fill the seats of the bar we realized that New York City's annual Gay Pride parade was coming down Fifth Avenue from Eighty Fourth Street and would be passing us by in about an hour. The bar filled to capacity and what had started as an act of sacrifice by Joe turned out to be more profitable than he could have ever anticipated. The parade was one of the most impressive and creative I'd ever seen. Maria was thoroughly entertained, as were we all, by the outrageous costumes and pageantry on display out our window. She remained seated at the bar until late in the afternoon enjoying several more coffee cocktails.

Long after the parade had passed Maria stood up, placed her apron on the bar, kissed both me and Joe gently on our cheeks, and, waving her good-byes, departed out the door and down the street. That was the last I ever saw of Maria. Over the next several months she returned to visit us several times but I was never fortunate enough to be there.