"Hello my buddy!" Harry Handoo pumps my hand not holding my iPod video with great enthusiasm. I like this guy. A lot. There aren't many restaurant managers that I'd help out as often as this guy needs it. There aren't many restaurant managers I'd brake for if I saw them crossing the street.
Owners, sure; I'll kiss their asses all day, and honestly too since they actually write my paychecks. I like owners. Rich people are alright. When your main worry is whether or not your son is going to live up to the family name and make it into harvard (which wouldn't even make a minor dent in your bank accounts), and not whether or not your next paycheck is going to be a week late or a month late, you tend to be a more mellow person.
Anyways, Harry. Hari actually. He's indian. He came here with high hopes (since he was from a lower caste in Indian society), became a citizen, and had those hopes destroyed just like the rest of us natives. He fits in well.
"Sit, sit, sit!" he crows. He waves to the back, his smile stretching from ear to ear across his welcoming, round face. I smile back, he smiles more, and we compete for a few seconds as to who can be happier to see the other. Finally, I concede defeat, and Harry/Hari sits down. He winces for just a brief moment, and I worry for my friend.
Managers work far harder than owners, since the owner is just a guy who happens to have enough money to buy a restaurant and hire people to work in it.
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