Serious Eats
Served: Welcome to the Restaurant World
I blog by day and wait tables by night. I'm excited to bring you Served, dispatches from the front of the house. Enjoy!
A Prayer
P.'s left hand is swinging a bottle of wine; her right, setting down a big handful of glasses.
"Guys, stop for a second," P. orders, gesturing with her wine bottle as if it were a weapon. It is after midnight, and we are still running around in full-fledged frantic mode. "Let's hold a moment of silence."
J., P., and I grasp hands and summon a focused, deliberate prayer: "Please, please, no crazy restaurant rush."
It's not that we don't love our restaurant guests. We do love them, inordinately. Some of them are good friends; all of them are ideal customers. They always have a great time, appreciate what we do, and spend lots of money. They tip really well—they work in the business, they get it.
But Tonight Was One of Those Nights
Seven hours earlier, I walked in to work to find my station already full. I barely slid my coat off my shoulders before a dude was barking for more bread, a woman wanting to taste a list of wines to see if her friend would like them (um, OK?), and a man berating me for refusing to sit his incomplete party. The exchange:
"You mean to tell me that we can't sit down at that table now?" he points to his table of choice.
"When everyone gets here," I tell him, "you are more than welcome to sit at whatever table we have available. Until then, why don't you have a seat at the bar?"
"You're saying we can't have that table now?" he repeats, his face actually getting red, all cartoonlike.
"Exactly," I smile. Sometimes, it's easy to maintain niceness in the face of impertinence. It makes the attacker seem silly. But this guy's anger is ballooning.
"If I go get a homeless person off the street, we'll have four people. Then you'll seat us?"
I give him my best "are you serious" look? I think he is, after a second, appropriately embarrassed.
Good thing I didn't usher him to that table he was lusting after. Minutes later, every single chair was occupied. Half an hour later, there was a wait. And that's how we stayed all night—very busy and very full.
We close at 2 a.m. Or that's the official stance. A few minutes after 2, we stop letting people come in. Not too long after that, the kitchen gets packed up. But on a busy night, the place is still rocking as it approaches 3 o'clock.
The restaurant crowd—and what a boisterous crowd it is—usually comes in at about quarter till 2. They order many glasses and bottles of wine and give our cook and our fromager an end-of-night workout. They have just come from work themselves. They are hungry. And they need a drink.
I feel that. Waiting tables can be physically and emotionally draining. I'm usually more inclined to pass out early than stay up all night, but after a marathon night at work I am usually ready to sit down, have a drink, hang out, and unwind. Even if it's closer to the time my alarm usually goes off in the morning than it is to my typical bedtime.
The Restaurant World Has Its Own Clock
We're hard at work when the rest of the world is playing. Weekends, nights, and holidays are crunch time.
When we opened last year, our plan was to be a spot where people who worked at restaurants could come for some wine and cheese after they finished their night. Or for some mac and cheese and beer. Or a piece of chocolate cake.
And they do. At first, we had nights with not a single table after midnight. Hence Mad Libs, magazines, stories, drinks, and even movies to pass the time. Those days are ancient history, relegated to mythic status. Now midnight means, most likely, a rush is on our heels.
Tonight we had a big bunch from the front of the house where I had my first New York restaurant gig. They were there just as late. They made an impressive showing, knocking back wine and bresaola like nobody's business.
After I put in their ambitious order and poured them glasses of prosecco, I pulled up a chair and we chatted.
"Do you know those guys?" B., my boss, asked.
"No! But they work where I used to work. It's crazy; all of the people I knew there are gone. It's only been three years."
"Welcome to the restaurant world!" B. said, laughing.
Though we might occasionally complain to ourselves, of course it is our pleasure to serve guests no matter how late. At 2 a.m., pouring wine and laughing with people, I know I have the coolest job in the world.
Still Wide Awake
"I'm usually up for a drink after work," J. says, and I know she means it.
Some of my best nights of all time have been after work with J. and others—late into the very wee hours of night. J.'s bartender friends let us stay till after their place closes. When even they need to lock up and go home, we head to our favorite crappy and wonderful diner for gyros or milkshakes.
You know it's a late night when you're going home on a subway full of people making their morning commute, equipped with coffees and briefcases.
"But tonight I'm going straight home. And not to drink and watch movies either." It was straight to bed for J.
And for me, too. I was already fantasizing about horizontality.