I mentioned in my last column that I have a new job as a restaurant hostess. I came back from my cross-country odyssey and the rent was promptly due, so I took the first thing that came along. I had a friend who hooked me up, which is how everything seems to go in New York City. Thus it began. It’s a fairly ritzy place on Park Avenue – low lights, buzzy music, white tablecloths, that sort of thing. I’ve now been at it for three weeks, seating guests with a smile on my face, and I have some tales for you all.

Being the new hire is always awkward. Being new to the industry only slows the transition to comfort. At 24 years old, this is my first service job. Through years of different gigs, I’ve managed to avoid it until now. So this has been a learning curve. Just yesterday, the owner of the building wandered in, and I unknowingly greeted him as a guest. It was early, the place was empty, every server saw me do it, the laughter was uproarious. These are the sorts of blushes that come with the territory. I’m new.

The first week was all shouting. I let two potential customers walk away 20 minutes before the kitchen opened and got properly flayed alive at the pre-shift meeting. “You let a potential customer walk away and you lose us $2,000,” my manager spat. That was rather over the top (the restaurant isn’t that expensive), but I knew this was a ‘smile and nod’ situation. I got the message and got back out there.

There is no cushy desk training here. No HR department full of pamphlets about coworker sensitivities and conflict resolution. No time for that. We are soldiers with marching orders. Mine are to make sure every butt has a seat. And critically, I must look good while doing it.

New York is crass that way. Beauty is currency. So I show up in skirts or slacks, boots or heels. This is the hostess uniform, as the first person the customer sees in association with the establishment. All over the city, young women like me make restaurants look good, standing up straight with grace, serenity, sweetness, style.

Usually, this is the sort of topic bosses dance around, or allude to in some more palatable way than a demand for beauty. But my manager said it to my face the other day when another young woman came in looking for a hostess job. I let him know, and he asked only, “Was she cute?” He turned to me seriously. “You know, we only hire beautiful people.” Straight to the point.

There are those in my life who are perplexed that I’ve subjected myself to an environment like this. It’s harsh, even objectifying. I’m the first to agree. But I’ll tell you what. It’s uncharted territory, and as a writer, there’s nothing better. I don’t want to be elitist in my curiosity, or turn up my nose at an entire universe. Stories are everywhere. They’re in the waiters on visas from Albania, and the regulars who sit at the bar, and even the owner, whose face I finally know. Two weeks from now, you’ll hear even more about it.