Knife's Edge - Restaurant Rants & Raves

The Human Touch

"Hi, can you accommodate a party of thirteen tonight?"

"Yes, but I can't seat you all at one table. The tables will be in the same area but not touching each other."

"Let me call you back."

A few minutes later.

"I'd like to make that reservation for thirteen."

We set up the tables. A large round and two small squares. Eight at one, five at another.

When the people arrive I'm on the phone. I can see across the dining room an older man, pacing around, visibly upset at the arrangement. As I go to talk to him, he's crossing the room looking for me.

"Are you the boss?"

"Yes sir, how can I help you?"

"Our party is at two tables and we'd like to all be together."

"OK, let's see what we can do."

He tries to be conciliatory. "I think it's fine the way it is. It'll just make some of the kids happier."

"You old liar", I think.

The way these tables are placed, putting them together makes it very awkward for a waiter to serve, increasing the chance of a hot plate being dropped in grandma's lap. Plus, putting them together actually causes you to LOSE a seat, making the furtherest person even further away than under the original arrangement. The waiter wants to know what's going on.

"These people need to have the tables touching." I say with a bit of annoyance.

We push the tables together. I go to the front of the restaurant, then to the restroom. When I return one of the tables has been pushed away and there is water all over the floor. The helpful diners decided they didn't need both of the squares and spilled the glasses of water the busser had brought them. Our floor is the ceiling of a photo gallery. Our floor is also wood and the building was built in 1909. Occasionally when we have spills liquid travels to our downstairs neighbors. I'm even more irritated with these people.

I take a quick head count. Twelve people. I ask if their thirteenth will be arriving.

"I don't think he's coming."

"Well, if you're a party of 12 you can all fit on the one large round table."

"Oh, it's OK. It's all set up now."

I walk away, humming my song "I Hate People."

I realize I sound like Mr Crankypants Restaurant Owner but this was irritating on a number of levels. First, when you have a party of THIRTEEN, perhaps you should try to make arrangements more than an hour before you intend to dine. I really don't think a lot of people just dropped over and you all decided to go out to dinner. Plan ahead please.

Second, when you are told you will be seated at different tables and you agree to that, let the people in your party know.

Third, if you don't like the arrangements, don't move the tables yourself. Let the employees do that. You don't get up from your seat to carry the food from the pick-up window, nor do you bus your table. Yes, in some restaurants, like Vik's you do, but in a place with waiters and bussers you don't.

Fourth, if you make a reservation for thirteen people, show up with thirteen people.

So what is it gentle reader about the tables touching that strikes such a chord with us as diners? Is this some vestige of a medieval court table table? Is this some fear of being seated at a "lesser" table? Let me guarantee you something. The person at seat 1 of a long thirteen-top will not be able to converse with the person at seat 7 (the other end of the table) any better than if they were seated at separate tables.

Also, what is it about large parties that makes people lose their ability to do arithmetic? When we opened we were adamant about not putting a service charge on large parties, because we wanted to be friendly, welcoming and different from other restaurants. After close to a year, our waiters were begging us to institute a service charge because they were consistently getting stiffed, on a number of occasions not even coming up with enough money to cover the bill, much less a tip. Now, we've got 17% on parties of 6 or larger, which causes some people to say, "You just screwed yourself, because I always tip (insert larger percentage) percent." So, leave a couple more bucks big spender. It's not a limit on the upper end, just a minimum guarantee.

Above all keep in mind, we restaurant folk want you to be happy. We depend on you being happy and returning to us. Nearly everything we do is for one reason. To take care of you. Please let us do our job.

Mother's Day

was a mother that's for sure. Since it is usually a big brunch day we're typically slow for dinner (we don't do brunch, so no worries there). We revived a promotion we did a few years ago. Mom eats for free. Bring mom out to dinner and her meal is on us, the only hitch; one paying customer per mom. It worked. A little too well.

I look around a full dining room at 6 pm and wonder where our male busser might be. He's usually a few minutes early. At 6:05 I call the number we have for him and it's not his phone. I call the GM, but her phone is doing strange things (although I don't know this at the time). I call another busser to see if she has his number, her grandma answers and says she's not home. I'm getting a little panicky. Things are starting to get rocky.

The one busser we have on the floor is a painfully thin, doe-eyed young woman who is not going to be up to doing this alone. She's constantly got an upset stomach (think bulimia) and doesn't have much in the initiative department. Why is she with us you ask? Well, you don't know people until you hire them and after we hire, we try to address the problems they bring. Some people work through their baggage, some don't. We're going to lay out the program for her today.

The busser whose grandma answered, the truth challenged one, called back and said she was just getting ready to go swimming but she'd come down. Thank god. However, the kitchen is getting backed up. I've only got three guys on the line. My mistake in scheduling. I have this naive idea that these cooks should be organized and prepared enough to handle a busy night. I'm certainly paying them enough to be organized.

The second busser arrives. I look in the kitchen and see a stick figure drooling into the hand sink. I tell her to get out and start bussing tables.

"I just threw up in the sink".

"I don't have time for your bulimic crap right now, we need to reset tables."

And she had thrown up, big chunks in the hand sink. And was going to leave it there. I told her to go back and clean up the sink.

"I'm not bulimic."

"I believe you."

A bit later when things calmed down for a micro-second I said, "I'm sorry I yelled earlier. I'm sorry you're not feeling well. We do however, have work to do."

"I'm not bulimic."

"Ok. Look at it from my perspective though. I see a teen-aged girl whose legs are skinnier than my arms, who rarely eats a shift meal, when she does it's usually a dessert, who has constant problems with her stomach involving throwing up. What does that sound like to you?"

"I eat all the time, ask my parents. I'm not bulimic. I'm going to the doctor. It's not my fault I'm sick."

"No it's not. It's mine either."

Later.

"I just want you to know, I'm not bulimic. I'm a Christian, and the Bible says, respect your body."

"OK, case closed. You're not bulimic."

At home, I pull up the concordance to see what the Bible says about work. Because in addition to her stomach issues, she's been complained about by every waiter and busser. I have my doubts about her longevity.

Oh, and she's bulimic.

The Perfectionist

1

So, I know, I'm behind the times. The Perfectionist is old news. The book came out in 2005 and I'm just getting around to it now.

It depressed the hell out me, but oddly enough, energized me at the same time. The depressing part wasn't for the obvious reason though. Yes, suicide is tragic, but in the context of bi-polar disorder, more understandable.

While there are many differences between Bernard Loiseau and myself, there are also some strong similarities. We both took on gigs of responsibility sooner than we should have, rather than rounding out our experience for a few years. Both media whores. Both manically overwork. Both crushed when people have less than glowing reports. Both with restaurants in out of the way places.

It was the last one that was so depressing. Even after attaining 3 Michelin stars winters for Loiseau were bleak with dining rooms empty. This in a country where 3 Michelin stars means a significant increase in business. He even built 3 successively smaller dining rooms so that clients would feel comfortable when there were few of them to fill the room.

The summer season seems to last a little longer every year. Last year we even entertained notions that it wouldn't slow down too much this winter. I have this idea that like in the Great Gatsby, "tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further…And one fine morning...," trying to ignore the end of the quote "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

At least I did until I finished The Perfectionist. If someone who is a household name in France, a country where people take the words, "worth a special trip" for a meal seriously, can't fill a dining room in the off-season, how the hell would I?

Last night a friend from SF dined with us for the first time. He said, "You'd be a star if you were in the city." Years ago our linen guy said, "Do you know how busy you'd be if you were in the city?" Thank you both for the sentiments, but we are where we are, to paraphrase Popeye.

The energizing part was the liberation. Knowing that the dining room will be empty in the winter now seems somehow freeing. I don't like the prospect and check with me again in winter-time, but I don't feel like if we were just more well-known, or if we were somehow, in some way a little better...

I just know that we need to be the best, regardless of where we are, who we are, and who are customers are. And how many of them there are.

Ass-tronaut

Our lone male waiter is a handsome guy. Late twenties, well built, square jaw, close cropped hair. He surfs so he's tanner than most of us up here who don't see the sun so often. The other night he told me he was getting frustrated at people asking him what his aspirations were. He said "I'm going to tell them I want to be an astronaut." He's tried it out a few times. One lady said enthusiastically and confusedly, "You do that!"

On his first Friday night he got a table of woman in their mid forties, two of whom are waitresses at other establishments. When they left three of them had a devilish, egging her on look in their eyes and the fourth came up to the counter, where the budding Buzz Aldrin was waiting to pick up food, and grabbed a big handful of his ass. By the time any of us registered what happened the ladies were all downstairs and on their way out the door.

"Was that sexual harassment," I asked him?

"I think it was."

"Welcome to Friday night," I said. "That happens every Friday. No, actually that's a first."

"It's a first for me too," he replied, a bit shocked.

I told him they were putting the ass in astronaut.

As the staff talked about it we got into a little interesting gender examination. Certainly if there had been a table of mid-forties men, who did a similar maneuver on one of the young women who work for us, I would have been flying down the stairs to confront the people. If a customer did that to either one of the women at their restaurants, the fur would have been flying. So why did they think it ok, and why did we not pursue them in the way we would had genders been reversed?

"The funny part is, you know I'm going to see that lady again."

And it's true. In a small town you are guaranteed to run into people. Usually the person you cut off in your car, or that you've had to fire, or someone who grabbed your ass. I know this has made me more tolerant, and more willing to talk with people I would have never spoken to in a more populated area. I think on the whole small town life has made me a better person.

"Well, when you do, let's hope she's with her husband. Then things could get really interesting."

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It's official. The Sardine's first word is yogurt.