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Served: The Pleasure and Horror of Brunch

Posted by Hannah Howard, March 31, 2009 at 9:00 AM

I blog by day and wait tables in a New York City restaurant by night. I'm excited to bring you Served, dispatches from the front of the house. Enjoy!

Brunch is such a wonderful thing. It’s a very New York thing. Who doesn’t want to start the day as late as possible, and then with eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast, all smothered in silky hollandaise? Who doesn’t want a continuous supply of lattes and mimosas, a caffeine-booze buzz to heal last night’s hangover? Who doesn’t want to luxuriate in weekend indulgence and languor?

I sure do. So when my friend Nic invited me to Sunday brunch at Bondi Road, I was in.

“I need to fax them a reservation form. And my credit card number. So I need a definite yes,” he told me. He took this brunch business seriously.

“Definite yes!” I assured him.

My week was full of inhumane amounts of work, and Sunday was my only day off. I wanted to pack as much fun as possible into that day, and a boozy brunch was the ideal start.

The six of us showed up right on time for our two o’clock reservation that had been made via fax and confirmed five times. The restaurant called to confirm a sixth time while we were en route to the Lower East Side. “We’re on our way,” Nic told them.

Brunch: The Place to Be

It was cold and drizzly outside, and still a line snaked around the door. I get it: 18 bucks for all you can drink mimosas, bloody marys, screwdrivers, greyhounds, and a burger or an omelet. It’s a deal I can get behind, as could the hordes of hungry hipsters who filled up the place.

After a few minutes, we piled into a booth, ordered six mimosas and toasted to the weekend. Nic ran across the street to get cash; Bondi Road only takes cash.

Our waiter arrived, pen in hand, to take our food order. “I know you’re busy,” I said, “Our friend just went to get money, he’ll be back in a second.”

“OK, but I can take your orders now,” he insisted.

“Can we wait for him? He’ll only be a minute.”

“Listen,” the waiter leaned in, as if passing on an insider’s secret. “This is not a fine dining restaurant. It’s all-you-can-drink brunch. This is what we have to do.”

“Fair enough,” I said, feeling the waiter’s pain. The place was, after all, a zoo. “I’ll have the eggs benedict. And another mimosa, please.”

(Working) Brunch Sucks

Waiters are usually working when everyone else is playing. During brunch, this is more explicit, more painful. Who wants to be hustling on a Sunday morning, watching everyone else chill, unwind, and catch up while you bus armloads of plates of half-eaten banana pancakes?

When my place first opened, we had weekend brunch. We made mimosas with quality orange juice and prosecco, and the chef’s rosemary Parmesan popovers were incredibly airy and good. She created a few other brunch dishes: eggs poached over wilted greens and a cheddary biscuit, homemade granola with macerated summer fruit and Icelandic yogurt. Other then that, we kept our same dinner menu: small plates I would happily eat for brunch. Mac and cheese with caramelized onions and lardons. Goose breast rubin with lots of horseradish

I decorated a chalkboard sign that we propped up outside. It was sunny and summery and a few people trickled in. I was the only waiter, and I clumsily made their cappuccinos and cheese plates, took their orders and refilled their coffees, as fast as I could.

“You don’t have scrambled eggs?” a customer asked me, disappointed. “You don’t have toast?” someone else chimed in. No pancakes, no two eggs any style, what kind of brunch joint was this?

That was our single summer of brunch. The owners—and everyone else involved—decided that the tiny trickle of guests, and the even tinier trickle of money, wasn’t worth the trouble. I made $7 one Sunday, $11 another. At least I got to chat with the chef, listen to my music, read food magazines, and drink endless coffee. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Back at Bondi

All-you-can-drink seems like a cruel state of affairs for servers. Usually, the more food and drink—especially drink—you sell, the more money you make in the form of tips. The whole formula is messed up when customers are encouraged to drink but not charged for round seven. Your only hope is that you can get your table out in a flash and the next one in. Knock 'em out. Turn those tables.

Which was why Nic briefed us on strategy. It was war. Us versus Bondi. They would try to snag our plates the moment we were pretty much finished. Our tactic: Eat very slowly, leave a bit of food on our plates, order another round of drinks.

For good service, which a brunch with unlimited drinks is clearly not about, the situation must be one in which all parties can be happy. The people giving and receiving service should win. But with our waiter clear that he intended get us up and out of his table ASAP, and us wanting to enjoy a leisurely afternoon meal, someone was destined to lose.

Maybe paying for your drinks is not the worst idea in the world. I'd rather shell out more cash and get to hang out, take my time, and savor my Sunday morning. I'd also rather not watch my waiter work his ass off for sorely limited return.

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Tags: brunch, Served