The Crack in the Pasta

     Our kitchen does use addictive substances of a dubious nature in our pastas. As Anthony Bourdain once famously said, the secret to ridiculously tasty restaurant food is copious amounts of shallots and butter. In an Italian restaurant, add white flour, cream and salt to that list of ingredients. I watch ordinarily level-headed people drool over our cream-laden, carb-filled dishes, a crust of sourdough bread sparing them from having to lick their plates.

     I often feel like an animal fat "pusher." Someday, I should cut out the middle man (the kitchen) and strap on one of those old-timey cigarette girl trays and start handing out garlic bread, bacon, and tiramisu wedges. I'd make a ton of tips, and my customers would be replete, slouched in their chairs, greasy fantasies satisfied.

     While I can laugh at our customers for their comfort food obsessions, I know that serving staffs are usually far worse when it comes to gluttony. "Foodieism" is endemic to the industry. Solid food knowledge, curiosity and lots of cash can lead to some expensive city outings, ones involving necessities such as cheese plates, artisan pizzas, braised pork belly and silly amounts of Italian wine. I always thought this was the norm for restaurant staffs, or at least ones living near a culinary epicenter.

     Then I met the Ascetics- This group of servers, who I worked with for a time at my second job, defy the stereotype of party-hard, money-burning restaurant folk. During family meal, they would ignore the kitchen-sink pasta, fried chicken or rice stir fry offerings put up on the line, and break out their Tupperwares from home; These would include such rabbit favorites as raw veggies and hummus, salads and fresh fruit. Only in California was my first thought. There was talk of gym routines, 10-mile daily runs and the Paleolithic diet.

     Is there such a thing as good peer pressure? I think so, because I found these months at this restaurant's communal table to be therapeutic. I've always had the health-nut gene‒half my family works in the fitness industry‒but it's hard to have a sense of "health reality" surrounded by people obsessed with bone marrow, bacon and brie. The Ascetics helped adjust my perspective: just because I work in a restaurant doesn't mean I have to be a smoking, drinking, walking ball of cheese and pasta. So lately I've been attempting to kick bad carbs out of my diet and eat more simply (more about this here, if you like to laugh at masochists). It's a little Paleo (the diet where you gnaw on meat all day and eat tons of veggies) but with a small amount of quinoa, oats and brown rice left in for good measure.

     Working under-carbed, constantly surround by everything that is decadent and extreme about American eating habits, isn't the easiest thing. Yesterday I had an apple, oatmeal and two eggs before work. Such blah food made all the rich dishes appear to be in Technicolor. I was transfixed by the desserts in particular, their details magnified: on the tiramisu, I stared at the cratered texture on its fluffy side, and the pencil thin line on the top where the cocoa powder melded with the cheese; in a bowl of gelato, I noticed the vanilla flecks popping out from the gleaming surface and the placid pool forming where the edge of the scoop met the bowl. TWICE the cold prep guy put out some pieces of extra chocolate tort and lemon tart for the staff to try, which was just too much to bear (I had a taste of the genache).

     I'm experiencing some serious cashhhh money savings, however. Previously my average food bill, between trips to local organic grocery store and eating out adventures, could have paid the monthly expenses of two to three families in Guatemala. The feeling of saving money (and thus having to work less, or worry when Sprite is seating me) helps me withstand the tiramisu torture.

     Anyone else influenced by an unusual (or unusually excessive) serving staff culture?

"Special"

     I like giving specials to tables.

     Of course, by the 20th iteration of these babies, I'm a bit glazed over, glancing forlornly out the window at the darkened street, the sound of my voice in my own ears a muffled "wah, wah, wa, wa, wah," ala adult-speak in a Peanuts cartoon. I may, at this point, receive similarly disinterested looks by late-night guests, who are planning to order soup and salad anyways, but I am not deterred. Specials form an important part of my arsenal as a server:

     1) By convincing a table they may wither into frail agedness if they do not choose the healthy wild salmon option, at 27 dollars, vs. the butter-drenched noodles at 16 bucks, I can drastically raise my check averages

     2) I get to "do" something at my table, make eye contact with my guests, and establish myself as a friendly presence: "Hi, here I am," arms gesticulating. "I'm telling you about sexy food! Like me!" This amounts to better tip percentages, plus if the kitchen decides to do something silly like, say, lose their order, my table is much more likely to be gracious about it

     3) I liberally use foo-foo foodie lingo in describing glazes and preparations, and show off second-language skills by correctly pronouncing non-English terms. Again, my table won't as easily think I'm a total idiot and blame me for any hiccup in their dining experience

     Occasionally a guest will manage to derail me from my mission to grace their ears with talk of gremolata and braises. I'll approach a deuce‒it's almost always a two-top who does this‒ and begin to introduce myself.

     "Hello, may I-"

     "We are ready to order."

     OK.

     I have a few different options at this fork in the road. With seven or so tables behind me waiting, I can stop what I'm doing, give specials, and put myself behind with all the other things I have to do now. I've discovered that 99% of time these "Impatients," as I like to call them, do not order specials, as they are looking for a quick bite on a way to a movie, so I'm wasting my breath. My second option is to kindly let them know that I have other tables who have been waiting to order, but I could get them started with a beverage and be right back. "Control your tables, don't let them control you," is server knowledge 101.

     Or, the easiest option, and one I'll take if I'm far too busy, is order-follow-robot,  which is to say "OK" and take their order quickly, no questions asked, and no specials given; I get their order in ahead of the more relaxed diners and I don't have to deal with their pants being in a wedge later on when movie time approaches.

     Unfortunately, this short-cut method backfired on me recently. The moment of embarrassment came at the end of the meal, when I approached a couple of Impatients and presented dessert menus.

     "Do you have anything special?" the woman asked.

     "Well everything we have tonight is listed on the menu, but we make all of our desserts in house‒"

     "No, I mean your dinner specials. We heard someone talking about the specials at another table."

     I stared, unable to talk because the first five explanations that came to mind were not polite.

     "I'm sorry," I offered. Cutters. I got quadruple sat; you were last to sit down, yet you snuck your order in first.

     "Haha, busted," the guy actually said.

     "Can we hear them?"

     "Excuse me?" I said.

     "Yes, we'd like to hear them."

     I've been a server long enough that the angrier I get, the more stone-faced I become. A homeless person could have been taking a dump in the bushes outside the window in front of me at that moment and my face wouldn't have flinched. I had an incredibly busy station behind me, with tables that needed real things, not just something to fuck with me; Thinking they were cute and clever to mess with the server. I had no recourse, because I couldn't even put into words what had led them to be special-less that evening without further offending them.

     I stretched my face into something that may have resembled a cheerful look and gave them the damn specials. An over-the-top rendition, with no ingredient left out, a full account of how the chef was preparing and plating each dish. If I had to waste my life in this exercise they would have to suffer through it.

     Once this detailed account was finished, I dropped the dessert menus in front of each of them without another word. I barely said anything else beyond "thank you" when dropping off their check, as there was nothing to say. They tipped ten percent and surely left feeling that they'd shown their idiot server a thing or two.

     This uncomfortable incident stayed in my thoughts, leaving me to question my methodology. I mean, it is kind of fucked up that I categorize people so quickly, always looking for the fastest way between point A and B. Every table is unique, and I should be taking more time to get to know them. But, oh wait‒ My station size ranges from 6-8 tables inside, with additional tables on the patio when it's warm, and we almost always run a wait list on weekends. If I treated every stingy deuce as though they were extra "special," I'd be screwing myself, and the restaurant, ultimately.

     Nevertheless...the next day at work I didn't just sell specials‒ I practically humped the side of tabletops in my enthusiasm. "You want sexy food? I'll give you sexy food." I sure made a lot of customers happy that night.

Hot Pasta

     His menu is down. He looks relaxed, chatting with his friend. He has done this many times before and does not feel the need to rush. Every course and step is allowed to unfold naturally, every moment relished. For this is not a McDonald's– No tray of paper-wrapped mystery meat will be shoved under his face by some careless teenager. He is paying good money for artfully prepared food to be served in a thoughtful manner, to dine.

     He makes eye contact, as I approach. My body language is soft, shoulders back, head cocked to the side, my hello gentle. I ask how they are doing, but don't really care about the response, as that is not the aim of my question. I am acknowledging your presence immediately so that I gain your trust for the course of the evening.

     He nods in return. Thank you. Your friendly presence has put me at ease. I'm looking forward to a good meal.

     "May I start you with a cocktail?" It's been a long day hasn't it? Let me fix that.

     "Yes, I'll take a vodka martini with," pauses, "an olive and an onion." Yes it has been a long day, I shouldn't have to compromise with my beverage.

     The experienced diner. We speak the same language, he and I; He knows how to ask for what he wants, and I in turn can serve him flawlessly. Drinks, wine service, setting, clearing, resetting, it all becomes a seemingly effortless dance. I am allowed to feel, for short time, the frustrations of my job ebb away.

     But we in the service industry are not always charged with the care of so skilled a guest. I get all kinds, and they all want the same thing from me: a stiff drink and a hot plate of pasta. But the inexperienced guest is often flustered, anxious about how things will proceed. I do my best to weave my spell, to make them feel safe and satisfied.

     I approach my lost-looking fellow, calmly smiling. "How are–"

     "We're not ready yet!" He and his companion look frayed, pouring over the menu like they are deciphering an ancient manuscript.

     "I was just wondering if I could start you off with a couple beverages?" Now, now there.. (cooing noises) It's going to be all better once you have a little drinky-poo.

     "Do you have any house wine?" HELP I am scared of spending too much money here.

     I guide him to the wines by the glass list. "I don't recognize any of these names.. Ugh, that's fine I guess," he points to the cheapest glass.

     He begins asking questions about every other word of the menu, clearly unfamiliar with the terminology. I am terrified of ordering something I don't like. I don't understand any of this crap! Why does the menu have to be so complicated!

     I patiently explain the unfamiliar words, try to make the dishes seem appetizing. Trust me, our dishes are very popular, you will like them. Try something different.

     Mid-explanation he interrupts: "That's not what the menu says! What are you, NEW?" If I don't get something to eat soon I'm going to lose my shit.

     I take a deep, deep, long breath. The spell is dangerously close to being undone. "No." I firmly point to the menu and finish my description.

     I leave the table and look around wistfully. Some nights my section is full of these braying, incompetent diners. Where is he, my confident guest?  I'll wonder. Please come and save me from these fools...

Mid-winter dreams

I'm sure there are Frenchies out there who would die at the idea: a group of Californian foodies attempting a Provencal feast, in the middle of January.

This endeavor was inspired by the dream-inducing Provence episode of No Reservations. One that has a million quotables about the area's beauty from an unusually gushing Bourdain. "It's like a movie, only better," he says, describing the lavender and sunflower fields, how the tomatoes burst with color. He talks about the virtues of small town life, one of simple errands in local shops and long meals in gardens.

One problem with this dream, as his guide points out: "No one sweats." Over several lazy outdoor meals, the locals address the romanticized ideal of Provence. In the past, before tourism, times where tough. The countryside is hot, dry and doesn't farm well, and their famous vegetable-based cuisine is a result of poverty, basically. They gently make fun of tourists for standing out in the streets, with the wrong clothes on and walking in the sun in the heat of the day, instead of hugging the shadows of the buildings the way the locals do.

Tony is supposed to cook for friends later in the show, and he is bluntly told not to attempt the classics, such as aioli and ratatouille; it would be like "spitting at grandma," as he paraphrases.

Such admonishments serve to inspire rather than deter certain personalities, however, and this includes my friend. And, unlike Tony, my friend did not have the "royal family" of Provence cooking in attendance to criticize any small misstep, just a few adventurous mouths to feed. Additionally he is a good cook, and owns about every kitchen gadget known to man, thanks to his wedding gift registry.

Most important among the required gadgetry: a mortar and pestle to make aioli. In the Provencal feast scheme of things, aioli is the life of the party, the condiment that enlivens the simple vegetable preparations. It is painstakingly prepared by crushing garlic, adding egg yolk, and drizzling in olive oil. Apparently, after 45 minutes of this incorporation process, our friend's arm was screaming. Though he described watching a video of a woman who was "a million years old," by his estimation, patiently stirring together this concoction for close to two hours.

Whether it was "perfect" or not, it was garlicky, eggy, creamy and pretty much made me want to bathe in it. Fortunately there was a full spread of roast veggies, baguette, and pork loin to put the condiment to better use.

For vino, we had a few things on hand:
Franciacorta bubbles from Majolini, 1994. A bit past its prime but lively enough to handle the food.
Etna Rosato (rose of Nerello Mascalese) from Scilio. A dry, pretty Sicilian rose similar to what is consumed widely in Provence.
Chateauneuf-du-Pape from Andrieux et Fils. A Grenache-based southern French red, peppery, smooth, and medium bodied. The best pairing for the food and apparently also a WWTD (what would Tony drink). In the show Tony admits he doesn't know much about wine, but he loves his Rhone reds.

So whether Frenchies would take issue with our attempt to recreate Provence, in the end we were all too full and happy to care.