This all started with the tiniest, subtle impulse.

Yesterday morning I was in the kitchen and separating out some food that I would be delivering to friends later in the day. One item (a sinfully decadent donut) was slid into a spare takeout bag that I had picked up while at the bakery. As I folded the bag closed, I absent-mindedly flipped up the end to give it a double fold, and then bent the side edges down before curling them under– a perfect handle for takeout food. And then I realized what I had done. It was a skill that I had spent years performing, but I had completely forgotten about until the moment when I sealed the bag shut. I smiled in nostalgic delight.

One of the best jobs I ever had was working in a seafood restaurant for the better part of five years: McMenamy’s Seafood. The original shop, McMenamy’s Fish Market, is located in Brockton, Massachusetts. This is the town where my father grew up, and it is surprising to me that Dad never knew the McMenamys back then. Both families lived on the same street and were big Irish Catholic broods, and both even moved out of town and set down roots on Cape Cod, as did many other families at that time. Straddling Mashpee and Falmouth on Cape Cod, this the place where I got to know McMenamy’s Seafood Restaurant.

Ahh Road Race Weekend…

I’ll take you back to teenager Megan sitting in summer traffic one day as I inched my way towards the Stop and Shop lights. I looked over to my left and saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of restaurant that I had driven past for years, but had never set foot in. It might seem hard to believe, but as a Cape native I never cared much for seafood. Yuck! I had eaten my share of Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks growing up, and I had zippo interest in refining my palate further. The only exception? Perhaps a stuffed quahog served generously with lots and lots of butter.

I pulled out of traffic and decided to inquire within. I remember talking to the McMenamy on duty that day, and in no time I was standing behind the counter wearing a magenta polo shirt and aquamarine apron. I had to learn about seafood from the ground up, but in no time I was handing out trays of fish and chip platters to Cape Cod tourists as we called out order numbers on a microphone located behind the counter.

“Order Number 141”

“Order Number ONE FOUR ONE…”

“Order Number 141- your food is getting cold.”

Another Falmouth mainstay. Signs like this? If you’ve worked the summer tourist season, you know why these things are necessary.

You might find little virtue in seeking employment as counter waitstaff, but I can tell you that this is one of the best jobs for learning about the Law of the Jungle, aka Real Life. The place got jam-packed in the summer, and there was plenty to keep tabs on as the early evening quickly crescendo’d into closing time when we’d turn up the radio to close out the night by cleaning errant clam strips from under the sticky tables. The crews working in the kitchen were smart but absurd, cutthroat but patient, and also largely unforgiving of dimwitted screw-ups. They would give you shit if you earned it, and you learned to take your thumps accordingly. Some cooks would get pissed if you sent the kitchen a special order grilled cheese request—“NOT ON THE MENU!” while others could carry out a complete conversation with those of us up front by shooting forward a single knowing look. Everybody worked their asses off, and each night we would retreat out the back door, carrying with us the distinct perfume of the Frialator.

Early on in my tenure, I found myself bagging up some takeout food for a customer waiting by the credit card machine. It must have been a roll of some sort (you know– lobster, clam, or scallop) because the customer stood there watching me fold the brown bag closed, and then commented on what I was doing:

“You guys always fold your bags the exact same way—the McMenamy’s way,” she said as she took hold of the makeshift handle and held the other end up as she departed out the creaking side door.

A lot of these trade secrets were passed down from one employee to the next over the years. We showed customers how to deconstruct a lobster, we learned to mysteriously “break” the player piano when the noise level got too loud and no one could hear their number being called (Order Number 141- we’re still waiting for you, by the way). We even mastered carrying the scalding filled-to-the-brim steel tubs of homemade clam chowder without spilling the whole vat on yourself. Essentially, we learned how to multitask in a fast-moving environment while leaving plenty of room for New Englandy quips that kept the place lively.

The fish you eat today, swam last night in Buzzards Bay.

It’s easy to relegate your first real job to a treasury of forgettable and means-to-an-end memories, as periods of time that only served to score you a bit of cash. But in doing this, I now realize, it truly does a disservice to these experiences. In our younger years, we keenly pay attention to everything that takes place around us—and we pick up on how people are treated, and how people respond to conflict. Early workplaces do a lot for you in terms of laying a foundation for the rest of your life.

The owner of McMenamy’s was a guy named Lou. He was a bit of an imposing owner, and to some he was a man that instilled a tiny bit of fear in how he carried himself. Maybe this was because he was not afraid to challenge a person if he got the sense that they were being unreasonable. He had no patience for bullshit. At the same time, however, I remember coming to the restaurant one morning to pick up my last paycheck before heading back to college in Dublin. He handed me my check, and then hesitated a few moments before reaching into his pocket and fishing out two fifty-dollar bills.

“Here,” he said, slapping the money down onto the turquoise countertop, “One night when you’re over there, take all of your friends out for a few drinks.” He was a generous man, but if you didn’t look closely (or if you weren’t interested in doing your job with some degree of competence), then this was easy to miss.

And so this weekend I smiled broadly when I found my muscle memory closing the donut takeout bag the McMenamy’s Way. There are so many lessons that I took away from that place, and in many ways the people who also worked there still feel like a special kind of dysfunctional family. It might not be interesting to anyone else that I still remember that PLU 146 is a chicken tender plate, or that drawn butter is actually something originating from a bottle labeled “Phase”, but I do guard all of these memories with a certain kind of pride.

One-of-a-Kind McMenamy’s is no more.

McMenamy’s on Davis Straits is no longer in operation, and last I checked the building sat empty with some new name on the side that renders the place largely unrecognizable to me. Lou, the bristly owner with a heart of gold, passed away about two years ago, and I still feel a twinge of sadness when I now roll by and record the changed landscape.

I always say that everyone should work in food service at least once in life, and I still very much believe this to be true. Fair customer service, quick thinking, treating fellow employees as you would want to be treated—and doing it all with a healthy dose of humor— are all incredibly important skills to master. At the same time, I now wonder if I need to amend that statement to account for what a simple bag folding reflex has done to me: everyone should aim to work in a food service establishment like McMenamy’s at least once in their lives. You’ll come away with so much more than just putting up with clueless tourists.

I also guarantee you’ll be converted into a seafood lover. I’d so kill for a fish sandwich right about now.