Open Letter 4

Dear Clean Plate Club,

            Bless your heart, you’re trying to help me. You’ve finished your meal, and now you’re saddled with those ugly, dirty plates and silverware, sitting in front of you like the hooker you bought on shore leave who now won’t leave herself, and insists on talking to you in that voice that didn’t seem to bother you before, but now is burrowing under your skin like a tropical insect. I can understand your desire to get rid of the evidence of your shame and gluttony as quickly as possible, so when I approach the table it is no surprise when you lift up your plate and thrust it at me.

            I’m certain this is done in a selfless manner, and I shouldn’t mark it as the coarse and very rude gesture that it appears to be, and so I apologize for my brief hesitation in taking it from your hands. And for the record, I only glanced over at your wife to admire the necklace she wore for the important occasion of dining out, not to take note that her fork was hanging in air mid-bite as she watched you declare your meal over before hers, a look of exasperation on her face indicating that she is accustomed to this behavior in the bedroom as well.

            But I am happy to whisk away your placesetting and bring you that cup of coffee you desperately need as a digestif and that aides you in the unpleasant task of having to watch your spouse eat, something that is the cause of more divorces than infidelity and boredom combined. I know you wonder why it takes her so long to finish a damn plate of food, and while I don’t have the answer to that question, I do have that desert menu you asked for, coming right up.

            Your cousin and his family were in here last week. I could identify them as your relations by the way they all, in unison, snatched up and thrust their plates at me as I approached the table. Not to bore you with facts, but the careful stacking of plates is an art as old as the plate itself, and so prized in Japan that they put forth a motion to have it included as an exhibition sport in the Winter Olympic Games of 1972 held in Sapporo, but the motion did not pass. Regardless, I have studied plate stacking with a Japanese master, and would prefer to follow my sensei’s techniques rather than have you hand them to me all higgledy-piggledy.

            I’m sorry, I have been self-absorbed and long winded and now your wife is ready to have her dishes cleared away. I’ll be right back with those desert menus.

Warm regards,

            Your Waiter

Open Letter 3

Dear Cavalier Flatware User,

                       

First off, I would like to thank you for being the sort of customer who arrives at a restaurant with an appetite that requires more than one course of food to sate. Kudos on that. By deciding to have an appetizer, soup or salad, you have made a choice that helps you as much as it helps me or the restaurant. Sure, you spend a little more money on that, and therefore end up leaving a larger tip, but your meal is not only a more complete experience, it will run more smoothly. By ordering a starting dish that is constructed and designed by the Chef with an eye to quick preparation and execution, you have ensured that your meal will get underway expediently, and that you will have something to nibble on as you chat with your friends and loved ones. If they are anything like my friends and loved ones, chat alone will not sustain you.

            You have also saved yourself the irritation of having to flag down your waiter, or any passerby who looks as if they work here, and query them as to when you might expect your dish to arrive, since it was, by your watch, half-past forever since you placed your order. No, you are not that type, the sort of mouthbreather that demands fresh handmade plates then expects them to be delivered with McSpeed to your table. You understand that the appetizer page is not designed solely to nickel and dime you out of your hard earned credit, but to provide you and your appetite something to focus on while the 20-40 minutes pass as your entrée is prepared.

            Yet I am perplexed by your need to return to me, immediately after use, any piece of flatware that has made contact with a foodstuff of any kind. Perhaps I am unsubtle in palate, and cannot taste the spoilage left on a fork that is capable of causing the ruination of any subsequent dish. Maybe it is because my mouth is able to provide saliva, nature’s solvent, which has such a cleansing effect on the fork that I don’t feel the need to receive a newly washed one with every plate. Or perhaps it is because I realize that in today’s Green World, unnecessary and frivolous washing is a waste of water, nevermind the variety of cleaning products used that end up in the watershed.

            I am looking at you, person who dirtied a knife and fork to eat a single bite amuse bouche off of the perfectly usable and stylish spoon that it was served to you on. Hint: if something is delivered to you on a utensil normally used as a vehicle to transfer food from the table to your mouth, you are free to (and likely meant to) use that utensil to eat it. I am looking at you too, person who used a knife and fork in addition to a spoon to eat a soup that was a puree with one lone scallop sitting in it. A scallop so tender, it could be cut with the edge of a spoon, the first and most versatile eating utensil developed by man. And you, person who orders a seven course tasting menu and generates over 20 pieces of dirty cutlery that not only must be replaced at the table, but cleaned (see above, re: Green World) and polished as well. Your table alone is responsible for an entire load of silver that will need to be sent through the wash. Feel free to go ahead and add that to your carbon footprint.

            Perhaps it is because your common sense is clouded by the power drunk realization that for once, you don’t have to do the dishes, so waste be damned! It could be a vengeful move made after 24 years of having to clean up after an ungrateful family. Or maybe you have trouble with the real world application of the Green ideals that you espouse.

            Whatever the reason, myself, my staff, and the entire planet would appreciate it if you would take a moment to consider tossing away perfectly usable flatware between courses before you do it. Use some common sense.

           

With warm regards,

            Your Waiter

Open Letter 2

Dear Indecisive Diner,

            I understand your woe. How is it possible to pick one, just one dish, when there are so many listed on the menu that look so good! What sort of devil created this particular bill of fare, so full of temptation and yet fraught with potential disappointment? What if you choose the wrong one? What? Do? You? Choose?

            Let me help you in the best way that I know how. While the Seared Tuna is delicious, and the Mahi Mahi is also good, in all my years of experience, neither is likely to be your last meal. In fact, this is more likely one of three meals (plus snacks) you will have today, one of 21 you will have this week, and one of 1100 you will have this year. To put it in perspective, it is one of 85,000 you will consume in your lifetime. It’s really not that important a decision. Laboring over it makes you appear indecisive, neurotic and weak, and makes me feel a little sorry for your spouse or friends.

You’ll probably only have to decide what to wear some 29,000 times in your life, and where to go to college or who to marry one or two times. Your important food decision is where to go out to eat, given that you make that choice only about 5,400 times, or 2,700 if you decide as part of a couple’s compromise. Looking at the numbers, it would seem wise to take your time picking a good spouse (I’m looking at you, person who married ‘Indecisive Diner’), a good school, and a good place to eat. Once you have that right, the rest becomes easier.

            Though I know you think deeply staring into my eyes when you ask if the broiled Cod is good will help you divine a real and honest answer, if you actually were half as perceptive as you think you are, the answer in my eyes would always be, “Just pick something, bitch.”

            Here’s a pointer for you newbie (or ignorant) diners out there. Think of the waiter as a taxi cab. Every time they are at the table, the meter is running. You are using their service and taking their time. Now here’s the tricky bit, so follow along at home if you can. A waiter’s time is not their own, but a time shared in executing the duties for all of the tables they are serving at once. So, if you monopolize the waiter at your table, you are not wasting their time per se, but the time they would spend with the other patrons. You are wasting the other customer’s time. You are making the food arrive at their tables a little bit colder; the wait for another drink a little longer; the overall experience less satisfying.

            So don’t use the waiter as someone who needs to be at your shoulder before you are able to make any sort of decision. If they ask you, “Are you ready to order?” they mean just that, not, “Are you ready to begin a long winded and unorganized open table discussion about what everyone else is going to have?” If you aren’t ready yet, tell your server you need a couple of extra minutes. Or just let them stand there while you hem and haw and be indecisive. Just be sure that when you’re finally able to place an order, have the courtesy to stand up and tell all the other patrons they can go fuck themselves, and that you don’t give a shit whether or not they have a good, expedient or even warm meal. Because that’s what your actions are saying anyway.

            Warm regards,

            Your Waiter

Open Letter 1

Dear Parent of a New Chef:

            Let me be the first to welcome you into the ultra-elite group known as ‘POKY,’ or ‘Parents of Kitchen Yutzes.’ As a new member, you have the inside track to special treatment in restaurants, just by mentioning that the product of your loins is now roasting loins for a living in some far flung town somewhere. Know ahead of time that when I do not register any recognition on my face when you tell me the name of the famous Chef your child is ‘helping’ to open a new restaurant, it is not because I have never heard of Chef Bob in Cincinnati, it is because I am intimidated and jealous that I am not working with someone of that caliber.

            With your membership, you are now free to enjoy a lifetime of listening to your offspring bitch and moan about the long hours, low pay, and lack of respect afforded him or her in their new, glamorous career choice. You can witness firsthand their slow, steady weight gain and growing bitterness as the industry they love crushes them with its stressful monotony and lack of reward.  You’ll have good seats front and center for the divorce, the drinking and drug problems, and with luck, the financial disaster they will call ‘their own restaurant.’ All of this is now yours to enjoy for the low, low cost of the brand new car you could have bought your child to cart them to work every day, where they would have gotten paid to learn the skills that they had you pay for them to muddle though.

            As your server, I will quickly recognize your obviously sophisticated palate, refined to the level of a highly paid food critic by the meals your talented young child has prepared for you with items you bought at Whole Foods during their triumphant visits home. After tasting so many of their plates, I’m certain you could not spot the flaws they saw in each one, that weren’t their fault, since your didn’t have the same pans that they use in school, or the proper brand of sea salt, or some olive oil that was worth a damn. These difficulties aside, it is apparent that you have tasted greatness, and now know it when you see it.

            Now that I know your pedigree, I will be glad to chat with you at length about all of your child’s successes in his or her career, and will patiently ignore the rest of my assigned tables to hear vivid descriptions of delicious meals you have now had the pleasure of having prepared just for you. It’s like having your own personal chef, isn’t it? Again, don’t you worry about me getting over to my other tables and serving them in a timely fashion—they aren’t a member of POKY.

            There are similar groups in other industries, such as MYCAM (My Cousin is an Auto Mechanic), IBAD (I Birthed a Doctor) and FART (Fathers of Apparel Retail Technicians). They too are greeted with awe and respect when they arrive to conduct business with total strangers and display the special handshake.

            Please keep in mind that parents of pastry chefs aren’t eligible for the same benefits as parents of regular chefs. You are instead welcome to complimentary bread and butter, with free refills.

            With all due respect,

            Your Waiter.