That Second Chance

"Listen," I sighed, frustrated. "He drinks Michter's on the rocks and always keeps his back to the dining room. If you don't get a chance to get a look at him at the table," I continued, pushing bland shredded lettuce around on my plate, "Try to take a moment when you're at the computer to look over and make sure it's him. What happened last week crosses my mind every day," I added, and looking up at the owner as I said this, our gazes met. He understood. The missed opportunity to shine last Tuesday really troubled us both.

Maybe you're thinking, C'mon. Isn't this a bit much? Yeah, it is. To the restaurant it means so so much. Our success is largely determined by what he writes next week. On a personal level, it's always important to me to do my best at whatever I approach, so last Tuesday was a disappointment to me. I felt off my game before he came in and then was caught completely off guard once we realized the situation.

"I wish I'd known these things about him before I waited on him," I muttered, taking a bite of hotdog stew (not joking).

It was a week later, this past Tuesday in fact. We were having our daily preservice meeting around the bar, which includes taking note of the featured items on the menu that night, addressing any changes on the menu, announcing 86d items, and talking about service etiquette. Of course he was brought up again because we expected his last visit any time now.

Finishing eating, I racked my dishes and took a couple minutes to primp in the bathroom before heading upstairs to adjust the lights in the dining room. I had my section and it was shaping up to be a smooth Tuesday night. The hostess approached me, telling me to expect a six and a seven top, right behind the other. Awesome. The night will go quickly and I should make some decent money.

About twenty minutes into service, the owner caught me walking to the bar to pick up drinks. "_____ _______ is here, at table 16," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "He's all yours if you want him." I just looked up, grinning from ear to ear. "Oh yeah--I got this," I told him excitedly. I couldn't believe my luck-- he came in again on my shift! Now, he was in another girl's section. "I'll have your new six-top covered so you can give him all your attention," the owner told me, and we were both smiling.

Grabbing a pitcher of water I headed right over, cool and confident, reciting the specials rapidly in my head. I greeted the table, noticing yet again that he faced the window so that I had to address his back while featuring the specials. I thought he would order his usual glass of bourbon, but sold him on one of our new, specially made cocktails. Cool! After taking the drink order I headed straight for the bar and called on another owner/food and alcohol expert to concoct this drink that he, himself, invented. (Side note: he creates most of our specialty cocktails and people love them. It makes me feel proud to work at a place where we have someone in-house creating original, delicious libations!)

In an instant I'd assumed a completely assertive, take-charge attitude. I directed someone to prepare chips and dip for the table ("No broken pieces"), had my cocktails in the works, and ran downstairs to confer with the food runner about position numbers. "And I want to help run the food," I called back to him as I rounded the corner, taking the chips and dip from my coworker. I was able to give orders plainly; we all understood the gravity of the situation and worked together as efficiently as possible. The table received their drinks and I took their order, carefully punching it into the computer and adding his name at the end. Meanwhile, I tended to my other tables, replacing glasses of wine, peppering soup, and leveling out a wobbly two-top.

His table received their appetizers and entrees without incident, seemingly enjoying everything and occasionally beckoning me over for more drinks. At one point he decided to switch to beer, so I asked him if he preferred a 12 or 20 oz, to which he playfully asked, "Are you challenging me?" "A 20 oz it is," I returned, and we both laughed. Yay! That was an unexpected and successful exchange, I thought. Aside from me delivering beers and vodka martinis to the table when asked, I stayed away, careful to be invisible though in the periphery so that I could be available when needed. This by the way, is a tricky art I'm forever trying to perfect: that of being around and not being around all at once.

Dessert time came around and the four of them shared the three desserts featured. Everything went seamlessly in my opinion. Everything hit the table promptly, I tended to all of their needs, speaking clearly and confidently, the food was beautiful. Downstairs I was able to talk to one of the owners for a minute. "So who recognized him?" "Everyone did," he responded, grinning. "The hostess noticed him right away, ______ saw him walk through, about five people recognized him before he reached his table." Awesome. We bumped fists in victory, and he added that he would "take care of me" for having lost half of my section. Cool.

Once his table left, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. I skipped downstairs and found Chef to let him know that his dinner was over. We were all happy with how the experience went.

Later that night I was sitting around with a couple of friends who'd visited me at the restaurant. While into my second beer I got two texts: one from the owner and the other from the front-of-house manager, who hadn't even worked that night. Terrific job tonight. We are lucky to have you _______. Have a good night. My manager wrote, Hey, heard you f*cking killed it tonight. Good job. You should be proud. The messages were such a nice surprise. It made the rest of my night.

The next night I was very handsomely compensated for the loss of half of my section. Now we just hold our breaths for the review...

Loafcicle

Snowed In

Caught Unawares

It was last Tuesday night, the day after a decent snowfall that left the streets muddy, slippery, challenging to navigate. With only forty on the books, we all expected a slow night and accordingly, one of us was cut from the start.

It took awhile for anyone to get a table. Bored, Andy and I picked at the leftovers of family meal sitting on the chest freezer downstairs. "I feel like I'm snacking at the buffet table on a movie set between takes," I joked with him. After a couple of minutes of ruminative chewing and stacking plates into the dish rack, I brushed the crumbs from my hands and moseyed up the steps to the dining area.

A few tables trickled in and I took care of them. It was such a casual night. Because many people do not go out during bad weather I was able to give my couple of tables some extra attention, even bringing two different bottles of wine to a two-top so they could carefully sample before they decided on a white. But I think we all agree that when it's slow, it throws our game off. I know it does mine. I prefer the restaurant busy, not only because it makes time fly but also because it forces me to really concentrate; I make few if any mistakes when we're slammed. But this night was slow to start, and I wasn't as sharp and precise as I usually am. I was actually getting sleepy from the lack of activity. So of course, of all the nights he chooses to walk in and eat, it's this one. Sigh. Dammit.

He's one of the most important food critics in the city, if not the most important. We've been expecting him. He's already come in once, this is his second time, and then he'll dine one more time with us before writing his review. So I'm working my tables, doing my thing, and we actually get pretty busy for three servers. Cool, I think. It's gonna be a good night for us after all.

At the moment I have a four-top, a three-top, and two two-tops. In the throes of my three-top's entrees, the owner subtly beckons me over. "That's ______ ________ at forty-five," he whispers, referring to my three-top. I just look back at him, stunned, my face suddenly very hot. "I can't believe we missed him," he adds, shaking his head. Immediately my mind begins to race as I try to recall every minute of my interaction with them. Apps went out okay, entrees were timely, dishes went to the correct position numbers. I start to calm down a bit. Ooh-- I made a small mistake reciting the oysters but corrected myself at the table. They got their drinks. Everything went normally like it does at all of my tables. Of course they got the right drinks, and the steak and burger were cooked medium-rare, and he got his po' boy. Of course the food was timely; I fired the entrees right when I should have.

So the rest of the night, we all keep looking over at the table, kicking ourselves endlessly for not recognizing him. But damn him if he wasn't sneaky. He sat facing the wall (apparently just like he did the first time he came in) and barely looked at me the whole time I interacted with his table, opting instead to incline his head in my direction and look down at the table, assuming an attitude of concentration as I spoke. When I cleared their plates, what was left and what was consumed was of intense interest to the kitchen and the owners. I presented the plates for their inspection before racking them and was now being prompted and coached every time I was away from the table. We were all a little stressed out, Chef and I in particular, I thought.

When dessert time came around, I was told to feature a special digestif along with our sweets. They were impressed with the ingredients of the cocktail, but declined to partake, instead settling on two of our desserts. I punched in the order, dumbly messaging his name along with it, as we do with all V.I.P.s, as if that would matter now. And, as with the entrees, I was directed to show chef the remnants of the dessert plates for his professional scrutiny.

He paid. I was anxious for this moment. Maybe we were just wrong, we mistook him for someone else and we would all laugh at one other, relieved at the mistake."Look at the card," I whispered to the owner hopefully, for indeed, their was a different name on it.

He studied it quickly and handed it back to me. "He's using an alias," he answered with the quiet, self-disappointment of a detective who knows he's let his guy slip right through his fingers. The owner asked me to repeat his name back to him when I handed the card back, which I did. "Thank you very much, Mr. _______. Ladies, have a great night," I added.

The three of them were pleasant with me, a very nice and easy table. But I agonized about it for hours later. Was it better that I hadn't known? In a way it was. If I had known, I probably would've second guessed myself a lot and may have appeared stiff and nervous at the table. But most of the time I'm so busy that I don't have time to act weird with special guests.

One of the hostesses' jobs is to hand us little slips of papers, called chits. They have information on them explaining why they are V.I.P.s. But I'm always so busy that I can only scan them, stuff them in my apron pocket and try to remember to message V.I.P. to the kitchen so that they're aware. I don't treat them differently really. Often a manager or Chef will send something special to the table, but I always just try to be very cheery, knowledgeable, and prepared. A table should lack for nothing. Everyone's V.I.P. we try to keep in mind, and really, you never, never know who you're serving. Food bloggers and critics regularly dine with us, as well as countless people who read food blogs.

I had a table a couple weeks ago, a six-top, who proceeded to sit down and all pull from their purses a print out of an amateur review of our restaurant, probably something from Menu Pages or Yelp. And it doesn't matter that these people reviewing us aren't professional food critics. It doesn't matter that they think they're describing a consomme online, when in fact they have no idea of the actual definition of a consomme. Or that they're commenting on how much mayonnaise is in our dip or that the clams were too salty (our dip doesn't contain mayonnaise, nor is a pinch of salt added to our steamed clams). Amateurs and professionals alike are regularly critiquing restaurants and people read it like it's the truth.

So dinner went pretty smoothly with the critic that night, but I think I wish I had known. I would've made sure his experience was perfect. We're expecting his review to come out in a month from now, and I, like most of Manhattan, read his reviews regularly. I chose the restaurant for Valentine's Day dinner based on his review. I'm scared now to read what he'll write about us. He's coming in one more time. Can't I just have one more crack at him? I hope he's seated in my section again. I want one more chance.

Restaurant Lingo

You've probably heard of some of these before:

1. 86

When something is "86'd" it means that food item is not available. When it is discovered that something is gone, everyone quickly spreads the word so it is not mistakenly ordered by an unknowing server: "86 meatloaf!" we whisper to one another on the floor. Many restaurants have an "86 list" that must be checked before service so the server can let the guests know right away before they try and order it. Sometimes an item can be temporarily 86'd until that one ingredient is procured or until a cook makes a new batch of something. But more often than not it's because we've sold out of that bottle of wine or special fish that night.

2. B.O.H.

B.O.H. is short for "Back of House," which is simply the kitchen and its staff.

3. F.O.H.

F.O.H. is short for "Front of House," which refers to the dining area and its staff (servers, bartenders, bussers and front of house manager). 

4. All Day

"I got six specials all day!" may be called out to one of the servers, who, once she gets out to the dining room, makes front of house aware, "Chef has six striped bass all day." It means that's how many orders we have of something until it's 86'd.

5. S.O.S.

When I stepped down those couple of cement steps into the kitschy, wood-planked basement of C 'N C, I had to fill out a paper with basic questions pertaining to restaurants. I didn't know what 86 meant at the time, so I had to leave it blank. I couldn't name three rums or four different types of red wine. And when I came to the question that asked "What does S.O.S mean?" I was a little confused. What does the term S.O.S. have to do with restaurants? But I answered it to the best of my ability: "S.O.S. means Save Our Ship; it's a distress call." I was so embarrassed at the time but I love to tell that story to other servers now. S.O.S. means Sauce on the Side. 

6. Mark

To "mark a table" means to prepare it for the next course or the next bottle of wine with the necessary accoutrements. When I put in an order for ice cream for a table, it's essential for me to mark the table immediately with the proper number of spoons, or mark a table with coffee cups for coffee, etc. before those things make it to the table. It's not good when a runner brings a bowl of soup to a table and the table hasn't been marked with a soup spoon, for example.

7. Fire

To "fire" an order sends a message to the kitchen, letting them know that you're ready for the next course. When you put in an order, you select your appetizers, put in a course line, then select your entrees. Appetizers obviously do not need to be fired; those are made automatically. But the moment the entrees arrive at a table is timed by the server, who is watching the progress of that table carefully. If I observe that the guests at a table are taking their time with their first course, enjoying their wine and good conversation, I'll wait to fire the entrees. There's no need to hurry them along; they're having a good time and no one is waiting for the table. But if guests seem impatient or were waiting to get a table for a long time or are just looking around, not speaking, obviously not interested in anything but receiving their food, then I'll fire it more quickly. I must also take into account how busy I perceive the kitchen is that night. Usually when I fire, it takes about twelve to fifteen minutes for the entrees to hit the table after the fire. But if I anticipate the kitchen being very busy, like it is on a Saturday for example, I'll fire a table sooner than later, knowing it's going to take longer than the usual twelve to fifteen minutes for the food to come out. You can also say things like "table 43 is on fire," or verbalize to the kitchen "fire 10," meaning fire table ten. But it's safest to fire in the computer rather than verbalizing.

8. The Weeds

This is probably my favorite expression, as long as it is not describing my situation. "Being in the weeds" or "being weeded" means a server or chef or barista or bartender is so busy that he is having difficulty keeping up with the demand or cannot keep up at all. You'll hear a server tell another server, "That new girl, Kim, was totally in the weeds last night. She was asking other servers to get her stuff all night and I had to take a couple of her tables. I don't know if she's gonna make it, man." It is no fun being weeded. 

9. Covers

A "cover" is a single guest. When we ask the hostess how many covers we're looking at tonight and she says thirty (she's counting those who've made reservations, not walk-ins) we know we're gonna have a slow night. It's the same as asking how many people are "on the books."

10. Cut

When someone's cut it means they're done working for the night.

11. D.O.H.

The Department of Health

12. Turning Tables

"Turning tables" refers to filling a table, clearing it of guests and getting new guests in there. You can get an idea of how your night is going by how often or fast you're able to turn tables. Often when it's busy, a server is told by the manager that he needs to turn the tables or turn a particular table quickly because it's needed for new guests. If you're able to turn your whole section, that's a generally a good night.

13. Position Numbers

At nicer restaurants, there are position numbers at every table. Each guest is assigned a number at the table, which you put into the computer along with their order. This way the food runner knows exactly where to drop each plate, though he's not been working with the table at all that night and has never seen these guests. We never want to do what is called "auctioning off food," which is when people bring plates to the table and address the table in general with "Steak? Hamburger, no onions?" and wait for guests to begin raising their hands and claiming their plates of food.

A Typical Shift

So I go from a diner in Union Square to a nice, neighborhood restaurant/cafe in Inwood to a more formal, fine dining experience right in the middle of the very busy village. The ascent has been steady and gradual and I feel prepared for this new place, what I would consider a typical, sorta swank, fast-moving Manhattan restaurant. If it had not been for the other two restaurant jobs, this one would eat me alive. The following is a description of a usual night. 

3:15 pm: I jump off the 1 train and walk the short block to work. Although it's a forty minute commute again, I'm thankful that I don't have to transfer trains at all. Once we all clock in we begin "side work," which refers to all preparation before (or after) service. Every restaurant has its side work, and we're still experimenting with how much to do the night before and what needs to be done at 3:30 pm so that we're able to establish an efficient routine. For now, we five servers set to work folding napkins, preparing candles, polishing silverware (BTW: I've never had to polish at either job previously, so to me this feels "real fancy like"), polishing glasses, cutting paper for the wood-top tables, preparing our mise en places (small platters with silverware), and finally, setting the tables. Maybe it doesn't sound like much, but it takes all of us two hours working nonstop in order to be ready at 5:30 pm, which is when we begin receiving guests. We have found that it's so important to "back up our backup"-- meaning, even when all our silverware and napkins and glasses are prepared on the floor, we must have two backups of all the items listed downstairs, because nothing feels worse than desperately trying to find forks in the middle of service and having to run downstairs and furiously polish what we can find. 

4:15 pm: Family meal is ready. Almost done with our side work, we secure our aprons around our waists (they have to be tied a certain way, which can be a little frustrating to do well) and head downstairs to eat. Metal bins are filled with rice and stew and lettuce or some variety of those three every night. For some reason, I never have an appetite when it's time to eat family meal. But I load up my plate anyway with steak-cut potatoes, chicken and cheese surprise and chopped wedge because it's no fun to be hungry for seven hours as you're serving food. I especially consume a lot of carbs because I want to feel full throughout service. This place isn't like I.R.C., where I could just clock in, order something off the menu at my leisure, and eat on the floor among customers busily clicking away on their computers for hours and nursing a watered down iced coffee. 

Family meal is when each of us takes the time to silently munch our beef stew and meditate on the night ahead of us. Around this time, one of the owners takes a seat with us and begins to eat as well, talking about service, what we need to do to be prepared, and who we should anticipate coming in to dine that night. We serve a variety of people, but I think this owner summed it up perfectly when, one night, as my fellow server Andy and I were able to steal a moment to polish glasses during service, he walked passed and stopped briefly to observe that "We have a lot of attractive people here." "He's talking about us, right?" I joked with Andy. But we both knew exactly what he meant. We've all noticed it: the skinny, tall fashionistas escorted by their sharply-dressed, shaggy bearded, Ray Ban wearing in a dimly lit restaurant hipster boyfriends. This is par for the course and it's what I always thought was typical of a Manhattan restaurant.

So at 5:30 pm, the lights are dimmed, candles placed on tables, music cranked up, and we stand near our respective sections, arms folded behind our backs, pleasant expressions frozen on our faces. At first of course, it's slow going and we all try to find little things to do. Most head downstairs and prepare coffee for themselves. We leisurely sip our coffee, water the couple of tables that are occupied, arrange the silver perfectly on each table. And then--BOOM.

All of a sudden we're so busy with our tables, we don't know which end is up. 

Back Downtown and in the Sh*t

I've been so M.I.A. and not in a cool, Paper Planes way at all. During the holidays I began training and helping to open (in what limited capacity a server can) a new restaurant in the village. All of us brand new to this venture and figuring it out together has been really interesting and stressful and tiring, but I like not feeling like the new kid (because we're all new), and all my fellow servers are great, and the money's much better (so far) than at the last job. 

Now, I thought I.R.C. would be my last serving job, but in an attempt always to leave one dissatisfying server job I inevitably go searching for another, thus finding myself stuck in a vicious cycle of sorts. Though I'm a little disappointed in myself in this respect, I have vowed to hang up my apron by the time I'm thirty, and with this small though important resolution, I am mollified for the moment. 

So post-Christmas finds me working both jobs, putting in especially long hours at the new one. When I am certain I have the job and opening night is upon us, I give as much notice as I can to I.R.C. Suddenly and quietly I make my exit, not even having much time to reflect on how important that job was to me for many months. 

Indeed I have been so busy with the opening of the new restaurant that I've barely been home, have hardly cracked the refrigerator door. I work five days a week, from 3:30 pm to around 1 am. And I'm averaging two meals a day: family meal at 4:15 pm and the taco truck next to my train stop at 1:30 am. By the time I get home it's very late, and I'm exhausted not only by the late hour but by the physical exertion of running up and down a staircase for seven hours without stop. 

I usually pull myself out of bed at around noon and get ready for work, leaving the Heights by 2 pm for the forty minute train ride ahead of me. I only have time to get ready for work and feed and walk the poodle. 

All of that being said, it's been an amazing couple of weeks being open. This realm of the restaurant universe is completely new to me in many ways...