Since my first foray into the job market as a teen, I’ve had several different jobs. The arrival of warm weather at this time of year always reminds me of my first job. For a few months, I worked on the wharfs in Steveston, BC. No, I wasn’t working the fishing boats, mending nets, or moving cargo. I was a fry-guy at the wharfside floating fish-and-chips stand.
The shop had hired a couple of fry-guys each summer to help maintain the supply of the “chips” part of their fish-and-chips business. With the help of Chris, the other fry-guy, I’d carry hundred-pound bags of potatoes from the shed, down the ramp, and into the side of the shop, which was built as a houseboat and tied up to the wharf. It wasn’t a fun job, exactly, but there were perks — like the fact that Chris and I were the only guys who worked there.
Beyond that fact, the job had few redeeming qualities. The inside of the shop was an oven under the summer sun as I carted the sacks of potatoes inside. I’d load them into the peeling machine, then unload the peeled potatoes by the chopper and manually produce hundreds of thousands of raw potato sticks. Mechanically, I’d work through the batches of peeled potatoes:
- Lift lever.
- Insert single potato.
- Pull lever down.
- Watch raw potato sticks fall into bucket.
- Repeat until arm falls off.
As you can imagine, it was so completely dull that I almost went insane.
Thankfully I didn’t, due in part to the exciting arrival of the Bad Potatoes. From time to time, I’d find a sack that smelled a little off, and when I opened it, I discovered not only brown, mushy potatoes, but little wriggling things too. Those potatoes had definitely gone to the Dark Side.
Nonetheless, the owner asked me to carefully remove the ones that were obviously rotten, and throw the rest into the peeling machine, which would most likely take care of the maggots and the eggs. And it did take care of it, I think. At lunch, I’d unhesitatingly put in my order and relax in a shady spot, munching my de-maggotted chips.
The process of peeling, chipping, and washing continued endlessly. Occasionally, Chris and I would work at the same time. Because we were both involved in drama in our high school, we quickly made a performance out of the job. I’d stand by the peeler and he’d stand by the chipper. As a potato came out of the peeler, I’d fling it across the kitchen, where Chris would catch it and chip it. Soon we had tourists peering in the kitchen door to watch the show, which continued with rave reviews until one of my potatoes unexpectedly collided with a chashier’s face. The manager closed the show immediately.
That was back in the eighties. Since then, I think they have moved away from the wharf to a nearby park. Business is booming. I’m unsure of whether or not they ever changed their potato supplier.