The Abu Dhabi Restaurant Worker

by Nikos Akritas (June 2025)

Mukesh, let’s call him Mukesh, works in a chain of restaurants with a good reputation for affordable, quality food in the UAE. Always professional, courteous and patient. A fine example to the newbies constantly arriving as more experienced staff get moved on, not by choice, to more remote locations.

Mukesh always seems to be there. No matter what time or day I visit, and I visit often. Weekday evenings, weekends, early and late, sometimes in the morning. No matter what time, he’s there. I often check the receipt because mistakes are common out here with billing. I’m not an easy customer but Mukesh is always patient, explaining what ingredients dishes contain and putting my mind at rest regarding any discrepancies with the bill—he’s always correct, I’ve only ever been right once.

The food is pretty tasty for a café-type restaurant, ensuring its popularity and I love to sit outside dining al-fresco, even when others find the heat too stifling and opt for the less desirable internal, but air conditioned, deco. Not only does Mukesh explain ingredients but he always remembers how I like things—less spicy, a large piece of fish in the mango or kadai curry, no sugar in my fruit juice, only a little ice. But Mukesh is typical of the guys that work here. They’re all just as attentive and knowledgeable.

A few months back I noticed Mukesh red-eyed at the cash register; being a long-serving member of staff he has the responsibility of handling the cash. I assumed he was tired or wasn’t feeling quite 100%. A couple of days later, the same. I asked if he was feeling okay.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“Late night?”

“A little tired sir, always a late night.”

“What time do you finish?”

“2am sir”

“That is a late night. What time do you start?”

“2pm sir”

“Twelve hours?”

“Yes. Always like this.”

“When is your day off?”

Mukesh lets out a quiet chuckle of amusement.

“There is no day off, sir.”

And so, like the taxi drivers of Abu Dhabi, those working in the café and restaurant trade also work twelve hours a day, seven days a week. The law states workers are not to work more than forty-eight hours per week and must receive a break of at least an hour each day. It means nothing in such areas of employment. Challenge it and see how long your employment lasts. It’s not just a question of losing your job, or not having your contract extended/renewed, it’s also a question of losing your work visa and that means no right to stay in the country. Back home to waiting family and poverty you go. These workers must be grateful for the opportunity to be abused.

If doing the morning shift, which starts at 5am (the place opens at 7am), Mukesh helps with the deliveries, checks stock, and makes sure all is clean before opening up for the breakfast trade. His shift will finish at 5pm, a three hour overlap with the afternoon/evening shift. When doing the latter shift, which he mostly does, customers can stay right up to closing time (2am), which means he has to get all the prep done and cash up either just before the end of his shift or just after the last customer has left. No wonder his eyes are red, it’s a wonder they are open at all.

Luckily, he only needs to go upstairs to get that much-needed sleep. All the workers are, very thoughtfully, housed above the restaurant so they don’t need to go through the hassle and stress of commuting to work and back, allowing them to focus more of their time and energy on work. Or, as Mukesh explains, “Only work. Shift finish, upstairs. Sleep. Wake up, downstairs. Shift start. Every day like this.”

As for holidays:

“But you get holidays, right?”

“Yes, sir, if I want, I can take holidays, up to one month.”

“Paid?”

Chuckling once more, “No, sir, this is my choice.”

Unfortunately, for Mukesh and his colleagues, not everyone is appreciative of their hard work—certainly not the employers. In the West, we have a tendency to say “please” and “thank you” to those in the service industry, even though what they are doing is part of the job. It’s only civilized, adding a little humanity to the otherwise hard slog of serving others. But this is not the case in many other societies. In these cultures, to serve others in such establishments is considered menial, unworthy of respect. Spoken to quite rudely on a regular basis, these guys have the patience of saints, or the patience of those in desperate conditions. I would very much like to see some of these customers try ordering food in the UK; they’d be lucky to leave in one piece, let alone get food.

Mukesh and his colleagues are very accommodating. Even when completely ignorant of what is acceptable, they handle things with a sense of grace those believing themselves more sophisticated, or refined, are incapable of. The place needs to be kept clean and this involves washing down work surfaces and floors with bleach. Often the bleach is not diluted enough, the smell overpowering, but being pushed for time the less experienced begin to wipe down surfaces when customers are still eating—this is an example of innocent ignorance and learning through mistakes. Customers, astounded, shout and complain. They are right to protest but does it require so much energy? Diplomacy really is an art when you are the subservient party.

Mukesh takes everything in his stride. He keeps the place ticking over in a manner that appears effortless. But it isn’t. And even with an eighty-four hour week, week after week, with the statutory one hour break not adhered to either, he manages to smile. And this is probably the only thing he has in common with the owner of the place. The one counting his money, getting so much more out of his workers than humanly justifiable, the other because he has a measure of humanity greater than most. I don’t know how he does it. But this is how Abu Dhabi does it—abuse close to slave labour, with all its oil wealth to boot. Out here, equality and human rights are a dirty word and a dirty concept. If it weren’t a sackable offence, letting them eat cake would be too kind—unless it’s taken out of their wages.

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Nikos Akritas has worked as a teacher in the Middle East, Central Asia and the UK.

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