Under Pressure

Culture of Alcoholism

After one month and three weeks at Da Peppe Due, suspicions about my sobriety emerged. Three colleagues: a 25-year-old unofficial floor manager; a 63-year-old chef; and a third, Muslim waiter around 40, subtly influential. The more I deflected, the more suspicion I drew.

As an athlete, I drank often — in sips — from a insulated Camelbak flask filled with custom blends: hemp protein, sparkling water, or filmjölk with cinnamon, ginger, glutamine. It stood out — especially in a place where people struggled with a single staircase.

Ironically, the 25-year-old who raised suspicions had back pain and often asked me to lift for him. Yet he served alcohol daily. Being labeled by him felt obscene. So I proposed a challenge: fail a breath test, and I’d pay 50 SEK or run 10 km at 10 km/h.

Later, I learned "Tutti" — an Indonesian server in her 50s, very kind — drank regularly after her shift. Colleagues tolerated it, sometimes serving her directly. On Saturdays, she asked me to escort her to the train; most other days, she used a different station. It had always struck me as odd.

I proposed a breath-test challenge: fail and I’d pay 50 SEK or run 10 km at 10 km/h. The owner left the group instantly. Only later did I realize: he used his personal breathalyzer 2–3 times a week — before driving.

When I joked, he replied, “Patrice, you can’t take a joke.” But I’ve seen addiction up close. I only drink red wine, never more than 3 glasses, and never without red meat, cheese, or charcuterie. Beer tastes like piss to me. Bear Testline Piece.

2. First Glimpse: The Dishwasher Job in Hamburg (2012)

In April–May 2017, I worked as a dishwasher at Das Strandrestaurant, in the Rostock coastal region. The place served 75 guests a day. I cleaned the machine area and took initiative to restore the back facade and staff zone.

Nobody said a word. No warnings, no frowns. It was routine. And yet this man was giving orders, shaping service, barking instructions at the staff. When I told the owner, her only response was, “I’ll talk to him.” Nothing changed.

3. Ex-Girlfriend Waitress Saw 3 Alcoholic Chefs in 6 Years in Australia

Later, my partner—who had spent six years as a waitress in Australia—confirmed what I’d seen. She recalled cooks getting drunk mid-shift, treating it like a badge of honour. I began to see a broader pattern: kitchens where alcohol wasn’t hidden but normalized.

This wasn’t just about indulgence. It was about silence. A culture where denial, tolerance, and complicity formed a triangle of dysfunction. I’ve been the odd one out my whole life—the guy at the club drinking soda. When I spoke out, I was met with disbelief, deflection, and sometimes outright hostility.

Culture of Permissiveness

The Loyalty Contract

When someone trusts you, feeds you, listens to you—you want to give back. I filled in when needed. I cleaned more than asked. That mutual understanding kept everything running. Even if unspoken.

In some restaurants, leniency is not a managerial style — it’s a shield. Employers allow small rule-bending in exchange for loyalty and silence. You get to snack, check your phone, stay a little loose — as long as you don't destabilize the structure or speak too much.

• I spent 14 months as a dishwasher in a high-volume establishment where I was paid on time, listened to, and respected.
• We were encouraged to rest during downtime. No one punished phone use during calm periods.
• The chef wanted smooth operations and no drama. That attitude shaped the atmosphere for everyone.

Loyalty Through Trust

My manager never interrogated my movements. That kind of restraint earns you loyalty. And I gave it. Even now, I struggle to criticize him publicly—not because everything was flawless, but because his human decency was real.

Systemic Tolerance of Toxicity

The staff was mostly Turkish. A long-time Greek cook—loud, degrading, and borderline cruel—was tolerated. Management stayed silent, waiting for him to leave on his own terms. Silence was easier than confrontation.

Culture of Silence

Unspoken Rules and Invisible Limits

The freedoms were real. No one clock-watched. I could vanish for 45 minutes, take breaks as I wished, even start shifts two hours before any activity. Presence only mattered when it mattered. But beneath that liberty was silent monitoring.

Dishwashing shifts ran in flexible pairs. If one didn’t show, the other adapted—no explanations needed. It was a workplace built on trust—but bounded by silence.

The Line I Never Crossed

And because of that, I can’t betray him. I’ve seen things—but I won’t speak of them here. He gave me space. He gave me dignity.

Everyone knows what not to say. Complaints stay inside. Problems get absorbed by the team — not solved. The silence is not passive; it's a strategic, distributed defense. If no one speaks, no one gets exposed.

Silent Control

At Da Peppe Due, the system was more polished. Nothing was explicit—but everything was controlled. The manager never raised his voice. He didn’t micromanage. His mere presence shaped how people behaved. It wasn’t fear—it was calibration.

What struck me most wasn’t discipline—it was generosity. From day one, I was paid properly, allowed to eat premium meals, and encouraged to ask for raises. This kindness created an invisible contract: enjoy everything, as long as you don’t cross a line.

Quiet Generosity

Despite the flaws, generosity flowed. Former staff, kids, and friends of the owner often ate for free. No announcement, no posters—just an unspoken rule of belonging.

I was paid fully and on time. Once, after a delay, I received a bank transfer within hours. He listened to me. He offered more than I asked. And I refused his Facebook request—not out of spite, but to maintain boundaries. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was just kind.

Trust as Compensation: What Makes a Rule-Bending Workplace Acceptable

• The law may not always be followed, but respect can compensate. That was the deal.
• At that restaurant, I had access to quality meals, flexible breaks, and autonomy—all without fear.
• I was even offered a raise without asking. These gestures forged a kind of social contract.

Culture of Secrecy

My restaurant background spans roughly two years, with the longest stretch—14 months—spent at Da Peppe Due in Stockholm. This job coincided with a moment where I became more observant of what made a kitchen thrive—or quietly rot.

One of my first shocks came during a trial shift at RIPIG. I offered to work two unpaid hours. The owner panicked and ordered me to clock in immediately. Her tone revealed a deep-seated fear: legality here meant invisibility, not compliance. That moment marked my first encounter with the sector's unwritten rules.

Resentment of Vitality

In a kitchen running on fatigue and inertia, my energy—fueled by sleep, nutrition, and training—became suspicious. I moved fast, lifted heavy, stayed alert. Others resented that. It felt absurd to be whispered about simply for being alive.

Culture of Evasion

Evasion doesn’t scream. It whispers. Contracts unsigned, slips delayed, trails erased. Everything is there — just never all at once.

1. Missing documents, missing responsibilities. No onboarding papers. Payslips delayed, partial, or absent. When pressure comes, nothing formal can be held.

2. Accounting opacity as method. External accounting firms issue neutral slips — 3 lines, no context. Details fade: no overtime, no tax logic, no breakdowns. Visibility is optional.

3. Bankruptcy as exit strategy. When claims rise, structures collapse. Companies fold, partners vanish, and no one stays accountable. It’s not disappearance — it’s a reset.

4. Hidden ownership, offshore instincts. Ownership passes through wives, brothers, or ghost firms. Sometimes offshore, always unnamed. Secrecy isn’t the tactic — it’s the framework.

Standing My Ground

In the early months, a server tried to boss me around. I drew a line: I belonged to the kitchen, not the floor. The manager pulled me aside—not to shout, but to warn. I adapted. I learned the hierarchy. And I stayed 14 months.