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Served: Our Two Year Anniversary, a Cause for Celebration

Posted by Hannah Howard, May 26, 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!

Last year, we barely paused to commemorate our restaurant’s one year anniversary. We were collectively too exhausted to celebrate. It was like we just pulled an epic string of all-nighters. The test was over, our cramming had paid off, but we were more inclined to fall into bed than paint the town.

Our relief overshadowed our pride. In the early days, I had arrived a few times at work to find we were without a cook for the night. “Call anyone you know,” T., the fromager would plead. I'd look through my phone for friends who could cook. The owner spent a few nights in chef's whites and a baseball hat plating endive salads and bruleéing blue cheese. Brian, the assistant fromager's husband, would come over when our dishwasher failed to show up and wash dishes.

“No food in the sink!” he'd chant, joyfully, dancing when a catchy tune came on.

One Year Later

These days, we have a talented and wonderful staff that show up for work. We still have moments of panic and disasters that strike when we're slammed with a line out the door, but such is the restaurant biz. By the time we hit the two year mark a few weeks ago, it was clear we had something to celebrate. We were busy almost every night. We had a loyal following who loved what we do. We were, officially, a success. And we had plenty of friends and family who wanted to celebrate with us.

So the plan was to throw a party and rejoice in our hard work and the wonderful place we had to show for it. The event was advertised on our menus for a week or so before. Free food, free wine! So it was no surprise that by the time I made my way to my restaurant a few minutes after midnight on party night, I could barely open the door and squeeze in.

One of the reasons I love my job is that my nights at work are populated by many people I consider friends, people I genuinely love. I expected this cast of characters to be in attendance at the party. But only a handful of faces looked at all familiar. I wedged my way to the back of the room and gave hugs to the staff. I got a beer.

Friends, Family, and Strangers

“This is crazy! Who are these people?”

“Randos,” someone said. “It’s what you get when you advertise free drinks.”

L. walked about three steps with a plate of mini grilled cheese before they were devoured. She returned the empty plate. I wish I had eaten before.

L.'s husband came in after work and gave me a big hug. “I'm wasted,” he whispered in my ear. We talked about his restaurant, and lunch service, and California.

“Oh my God,” it was M., who I had last seen nearly two years ago. M. is a rockstar. We had waited tables together when the restaurant first opened. M. went to NYU for film, worked in movies for a while, and then discovered cooking. When we were slow, he would tell me stories about the kitchen of the Great New York restaurant where he had cooked for several years. He would pull out a pen and a sheet of paper and draw elaborate sketches: this is where the expeditor stands, this is where the meat station is; this is where the meat dishes get garnished.

He left to open Famous Hamburger Place on the Upper West Side. The place is a big hit. He's working on more locations, more projects, and big plans.

The crowd started to thin out. I started to see more people I knew: Meredith, the chef at a great Upper West Side restaurant, a few guys who sold us wine, some friends of the staff. There was Mr. Trapeze Artist, who I had gone out with once. A few months later, he had brought a date to my restaurant. He flirted with me for a while, and I made an exit to get some more wine and get away from him.

“Mr. Trapeze Artist went home with Drunk Cute Girl,” I heard someone say. “They got in a cab together!” I didn’t know Drunk Cute Girl, but I was glad I was not her.

Family Photo

By now, our prep guy had plummeted into a drunken stupor. He mumbled loudly and incoherently and grabbed everyone's arms for balance. The owner put him in a cab, and gave the driver fifty bucks and directions to get him home safe. A few minutes later, he was back at the restaurant. My cook friend K. and the owner took turns taking care of him. I went outside to get some air. There he was with K.’s arm around him, peeing onto the street.

Back inside, a few friends and staff were all who remained. It was almost 4 a.m. We finished the open bottles of wine.

“Staff photo!” someone cried out, waving their camera determinedly. The “staff photo” was an assemblage of maybe half of the staff, some former staff, and whoever was still at the party. Real friends with a lot to be happy about, drinking together late into the night.

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