I have a complicated relationship with luck.
On the one hand, I believe a man controls his own luck. That with enough preparation and skill, the effects of chance are well accounted for. But then again, as I continue to work in this field I find there are just some things you can never really control. Frustrating as that is for the obsessive-compulsive perfectionist, sometimes you have to let loose and roll with the punches. The more you tense up and try to fight it, the more damage it ends up doing.
Christmas Day in Long Island for a Chinese restaurant might as well be defending the storming of Omaha Beach. In an area so heavily populated with Jewish people, you as the Chinese restaurant owner, being the only place open for miles is going to make things crazy.
So what kind of preparation do we do for this epic day?
Well the kitchen is doing prep all week, of course. The tables, linens, glassware, and waiters are optimized for maximum efficiency. And other than setting a floor plan, and timing the tables throughout the night ... that's about all you can hope for.
But oh wait, your busboy doesn't show up. That means bringing tea and noodles, filling water glasses, cleaning utensils, clearing tables, keeping the bar stocked with ice, and a plethora of other jobs are now on everyone else's shoulders. Most notably, mine. He was fired once before for drinking on the job, and my best assumption is that he is in an alcohol induced coma somewhere. Time to soldier up.
I mean, what else do you do? Hunker down in the corner and cry? The waiters' quality of service is now affected across the board. On such a busy night, every extra action is going to have magnified effects down the line. They need me more than ever tonight, illness be damned.
So service carries on. The waiters are under noticeable stress from the extra workload, and though I'm pretty fast, I still have other jobs to do. Dorothy is slammed on the phones, people are calling constantly, seeking tables and/or modifying their reservations. Not to mention there are a whole bunch of people wanting take out and delivery, and the kitchen has reached its threshold. Chinese food is fast, we have some damned good cooks, but there is a limit for every restaurant. We have just hit ours.
See, the maddening pace of a Saturday night is great when it's in control. You only got three hours of sleep, and you're coming off a drinking binge? It's all good, the adrenaline will push you through the night.
But a Saturday night that is out of control, and beyond your restaurant's abilities ... that's not good. It saps your will to work, it stresses you out, it makes time slow down and every ticket that comes through the printer makes your heart sink. When will this onslaught end?
True, there are ways to prepare for this. Don't overbook, make sure your staff and supplies are prepared. But as you can see, some unforeseen events can occur.
So I'm going through this night thinking it's a disaster. We overbooked, there are VIPs coming in ON Christmas Day without a reservation, and we have to accommodate them. And the kitchen is taxed. They've been rocking nonstop since noon and they're showing signs of fatigue. Even Xiao Di, our most tireless and consistent cook is faltering. Plates are getting messy, timing is off, and dishes just aren't coming out fast enough. The waiters fire dishes a few minutes later, because they have to spend extra time doing what the busboy would normally do, and every step of a dinner is pushed back an extra few minutes. That means our 4:00 seating which was expected to get up at around 5:30, is now looking more like 6:00. That in turn pushes all over reservations back even further, and the crowd is gathering in the front. We don't really have a lounge for customers to wait comfortably in, we have a bar and a front desk. As the crowd gets squeezed closer together, and waiters are navigating their way through the mass to get drinks, the overbearing feeling of impatience and frustration is infecting the dining room. Not to mention, the new waiter, Ken, is fucking up everything.
This is about as bad as bad nights get. Every time I go to the front to help expedite a take out, I am pulled aside by an annoyed customer to tell me how much I suck, how I should have warned them that take out was going to take longer than an hour. Okay, true, it's more like an hour and a half. I miscalculated. I'm sorry. I didn't see this shit coming. But what the fuck do you want me to do about it now? I'm trying my best, and as you can see, you're not the only person who wants Chinese food tonight. Do you go to Rockefeller Center on Christmas Eve and wonder "Why the fuck are there so many people here?"
But you can't show weakness. As primitive as it sounds, it's an animal-dominance kind of game. Once you show that you're stressed beyond your capabilities, or that you no longer have control of the situation ... you are fucked. They lose all faith in your establishment, they get nervous that it's never going to turn out right, and they start freaking as a result.
You have to stay calm. You have to assure them that everything is going to be all right.
I roam the floor filling water glasses, taking orders, answering questions and doing some menial fetch tasks. Oh she needs a tea cup, oh her wine glass is dirty (lipstick is the bane of all dishwashers ... especially that bright red, waterproof bullshit that makes you look like a clown whore), oh I need an extra napkin, etc. Things that would really throw an extra wrench in an already hampered waiter's life, force them to make an extra trip to the kitchen, I will do. And really ... I'm looking for as many smiling faces as I can .. because my morale is pretty low.
It's a dangerous balance. You need to overbook a little bit because there are always inevitable cancellations. And plus you want to make money. I mean at the end of the day, that's why we're here. This is our livelihood. We want to max out our restaurant as much as possible.
But yes, we did push it a little too far this time. We're not accustomed to this level of volume, so we haven't quite mastered this art of overbooking. It's something that Daniel Boulud once called his curmudgeonly maitre'd, Bruno Jamais, a master of ... getting just the right amount of reservations over the tipping point. (Does that count as ending with a preposition? I'm going to say no.)
It's a fine line between calculated chaos and just pure mayhem. Busy restaurants toe that line a lot in the pursuit of money and customers. Every customer is a long term investment in my opinion. If someone is unhappy with their appetizer, the short-term loss of sending them something else, no questions asked, is greatly outweighed by the long-term gain of a loyal customer. So what, you lose $7.00 profit on a botched set of dumplings. If you make a fuss about it, that's all that customer is going to remember. If you graciously send them something else, apologize and ensure they get something they will really enjoy... well, then you have a customer who will return every few months, maybe every few weeks until they move or die.
But there isn't much time for theorizing, always tons of shit to do. I spend a lot of my night sorting through the dirty utensils. Dirty forks/knives/etc. are thrown in to a bucket with bleach and soap. They are then dumped on to a tray, organized and washed. The organizing part is a pain in the ass. It takes at least five to seven minutes to put dinner forks, appetizer forks, teaspoons, soup spoons, tongs, serving spoons, dinner knives and steak knives in to their appropriate slots. That may not sound like a lot, and it's even manageable on a busy Saturday night. But being that there is no bus boy, the waiters can't afford to take that time. Five minutes away from the dining room on this kind of night is a goddamned eternity. So roll up your sleeves, young man. Time to get dirty.
Tonight, we could make a killing just on volume, but it's really about getting the word out. Loyal customers are bringing family members, friends who are now isolated to our Chinese restaurant. Maybe they usually go to some place a bit closer to them, but now they've been put on man defense with us. It's up to us to knock it out of the park so next time they say "FUCK that cheap take-out hash job, I'm going to Pearl. It's fucking worth it." (Note: I realize most people don't get amped up about food the way most men get amped up about football so I just used my voice there out of convenience)
So that's also why I'm so nervous and stressed. In the past, at the end of the day, Va Pensiero and Blu/Futami were not my restaurants. Sure, I always try to work with the attitude "Treat it like it's yours and one day it will be" (Except Blu ... fuck that place. A lot.), but this restaurant actually is mine. I have no plans on it, and certainly don't desire it, but there is a very real possibility I would have to take the reins on this beast one day. My mother's success depends on my capabilities. I'm invested, I care, hence I'm nervous. If we pushed it too far today, if we overstretched our capacities and fucked up... how much lost business is that?
Moment of truth, the slow and steady progression of customers out the door. It will start at a slow trickle around 8:30, but most everyone will be rushing out by 10:00 to get home and decompress.
First customers we have time to really talk to and show out the door are pissed. See, unhappy customers are very quick to get pissy at me, or Joanne or any of the waiters. But when they talk to my mom they usually aren't so quick to anger. They show the respect, and my mother is trying to fix everything anyway. I don't know what they're upset about, something about special treatment and their waiter, but they won't tell us who their waiter was (though we narrowed it down to two) and they won't exactly say what they're pissed about. They're rambling, being unintelligible and vague. Very constructive criticism. All we can assume is that they're ticked the table next to them got free ice cream. Well, free ice cream is for VIPs, and that couple next to you is our bartender's parents. Yes, they get special treatment. Most restaurants aren't egalitarian when they dole out favors like that, that's the breaks. Anyway, my mom wants to make it up to her, tells her next time she comes in she'll take care of her personally. But this woman won't hear it and her husband is dragging her out the door.
"I drive 150 miles to come eat here, and I come all the time, I can't believe you would treat me this way. I don't want to argue with you, I'm just not coming back. Merry Christmas."
You can imagine the tone with which "Merry Christmas" was said. It wasn't the kind of tone benevolent grandparents use when spoiling their grandchildren with gifts. It's the kind of tone you get from your ex-wife when she takes your dog and house on Christmas Eve, leaving you with just enough Tylenol to off yourself, and just enough cash to get drunk and not be a pussy about it.
Fuck.
That's bad. First seriously PO'ed customer is making me really upset. Was it that bad tonight?
So I take a breather by the front desk and await a couple large parties exiting. They are drunk. Like, you-shouldn't-be-this-sloppy-at-your-age-drunk-but-hey-fuck-it-it's-Christmas-drunk. They are all laughs. I'm not sure if this is a good gauge of our performance tonight. They're so sloshed that their already poor ability to distinguish between Asians is now rendering them capable of only seeing big, yellow blurs. They sure are merry though.
The thank you's are exchanged, the "I'm bringing all my friends!" are exclaimed, and the hugs and coats are doled out. Okay, maybe not the best litmus test but I'll take it. Like I said, I need some morale here... I'm fading, and the nasty cold I've gotten from post-traumatic-drinking-disorder has really made this night difficult.
The night goes on, the rhythm is smooth, I actually have time to catch a few glimpses of the Nuggets-Thunder game (I bus tables for three straight hours and this is what you do for me, Kobe? What the fuck!?) and more customers peddle out.
Well, they're not as sloshed as the previous group but they sure as hell are happy. Can this be? Did we pull this shit off actually? I have to observe more, this could be a fluke...
Nearly every customer that rolls out has a smile on their face, thanks us profusely despite having had to wait longer and suffer through less-than-stellar service, and graciously tips for coat check. I apologize to the customers I know a bit better about tonight being crazy, and a lot of them shake my hand and say "To be honest, I thought it was going to be busier."
You mean, you don't hate us for trying to pack this bitch up? It doesn't seem like we're just trying to maximize our profit? Because we're not, we're just trying to make everyone happy. You mean you really like us?
Damn, I really love the Jewish people. Now if y'all just weren't so exclusive about who you date, maybe we could talk a bit more. I mean I don't blame you, there are decades of bias in American media against the Asian male, and you simply aren't exposed to our culture because we are at every turn made as exotic and threatening as possible, and...
Sorry, off-topic. That's for a whole 'nother blog.
So the customers seem pretty happy! But there's only one way to be sure...
I start closing out tickets. Whenever you pay with a credit card and add tip to the credit card, someone has to manually input that in to a computer. On a night like this where we've served over 450 customers (not including lunch), this means a lot of fucking dinners charged. But it's good because tips are indicative of a lot of things, not the least of which is quality of service.
I found out Greg, the sushi chef at Futami, was secretly judging all of us by our tips. He let it slip once when we were having a cigarette that, let's call him Frank, had shitty tips, was a shitty waiter. And I quickly asked, "Oh, so you know how we do on tips now? What do you think?" He brushed me off with a "Yeah, yeah, yeah you doing good."
Anyhow, tips can say a lot. On a bill over $200.00 getting 16-18% means you were fucking phenomenal. On a bill less than $40.00, getting 16-18% usually means they're a little on the cheap side. For the most part, bills in between should be very close to 20%, or you're doing it wrong.
Here we go, moment of truth...
Hey! These tips are good! Okay, we're getting around 6:00 PM. This is where shit hit the fan for us. Okay, they dip a little bit, but nothing atrocious or indicative of a grievous failure on our part. Seven PM, nine PM, big parties, deuces, fast-dining couples and lingering parties... everyone is pretty fucking happy!
You don't tip well unless the whole experience was pretty good. Even if your service was phenomenal, if the food sucked, usually the tip takes a little hit. So considering the situation, this is good news for us.
That's why I like stats. They're clean, objective, free of context. Sure, a QB may have two interceptions that weren't his fault, tipped throws, but the fact remains he had two interceptions and that means something. (And no, Jenga, stats didn't work so well for you... just because you had 20/15 assists/goals throughout a tournament doesn't mean what you think it does because NUT didn't have the manpower to record all your turnovers ... if this were ESPN, your efficiency rating would be highly suspect ... ahem).
So everything went better than expected. I guess that's the nature of life. I can't help but have a sentimental/philosophical moment. It's Christmas night, one of the most harrowing Christmases I've ever had, and there's a distinct feeling of relief as the restaurant empties out. We tried to control all radicals, but there's always an element of chance. You can sway luck to your side a little but ... just a little. We may have made some missteps tonight, but there were big families here and they chose to celebrate with us. There's something warming about that. And even though this is not how most people spend their Christmases, I am nonetheless with my mother. This is our family, this is our life, what choice do we have? We work, and through work are fulfilled.
So you have to let go a little bit. All that stressing and freaking was probably necessary to try and do a good job. It's indicative of the fact that we care. But it usually goes at least a little rewarded, if your heart is in to it. Yet another fine thing I will have to learn to balance. Preparing for the unexpected, but reacting to it when it finally comes with calm and poise, rather than panic.
Here we are. Christmas. Life lessons doled out at an emotionally charged, and mystical time of year.
There will always be major speed bumps in life. I never expected to lose my father overnight. I never thought that two of my high school classmates wouldn't make it to twenty-four. I never thought I would drop the cello to become a cook. I don't know what's coming for me, even with culinary school looming on the horizon. I just hug my grandmother every day, because you just never know.
If things turn out really shitty, don't be too hard on yourself. Then again, if things turn out great ... don't be too proud of yourself either. Keep your head down, stay healthy, hug your loved ones, and have a Happy New Year.
EP6
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Run the Point
I have done something which reminds me why I have come home.
I ran a restaurant. By myself. On a weekend.
See, while I've been home working the front at nights it was always under my mother's wing. She points out the VIP customers, I meet and greet, and I fill in where necessary. Busboys are slammed? I clear and set tables. Waiters can't keep up? I take a few orders, crumb and clear a few tables. Phones are relentless? I take take-outs and deliveries. It's that simple. I'm auxiliary help.
It's a wide but comprehensive education, and while I am not mastering anything very quickly, I am getting a feel for the unexpected mishaps a restaurant constantly suffers from. I think the rest of the staff appreciates that they have someone on the bench who can come in when shit goes fugazi, and can respond with some adequacy.
But running the restaurant by myself? That's a different ball game.
My mother performs two indispensable functions. She makes dinners for VIP customers, and she watches nearly every dish come out of the kitchen. She knows her own menu, and her cook's capabilities ice cold. The slightest error is caught and the kitchen's potential is maximized in her presence. She knows how to read people and figure out what they like to eat, and how to develop a menu both unique and deeply satisfying.
I can't really do that. Yet. I don't know Chinese food all that well, and if Thanksgiving was any indicator, I still cook Italian food a helluva lot better than Chinese.
But here I was, Friday night, and my mother calls in sick, which is an incredibly rare occurrence. She's been feeling off for the past two months, and the various cocktails of medications the doctors prescribe her give her unpredictable side effects. I have had to fill in on a few weekday nights, but weekends are a whole 'nother creature. We live for, and thrive on them, and they are caged beasts ready to spring and wreak havoc on any unprepared manager's head.
"You sure you can handle it?," my mother questions.
"Shit yeah, homie! Let's DO this" I reply.
(So it might have went more like "Uhh.. yes.. ?")
I show up to the restaurant, and the other two managers are there but they have very specific roles. One host and does the seating, the other takes the phones and manages the register. The rest of it is on my mother's shoulders, and now mine.
The waiter captain, William (only the front of house staff have American names) asks, "Ni mama zai na li?" (Where's your mom?)
"Ta jin tian wan shang bu lai. Ta bu tai shu fu." (She's not coming tonight. She doesn't feel very well.)
"Hao. Ni xian zai shi lao ban." (Okay. Now you're the boss.)
In other words, run the point.
I write it out in Chinese because "lao ban" is the title reserved for the boss, a title that has never been bestowed upon me. Some of them jokingly call me "xiao ye," which means "little master," but "lao ban" is a very serious word to address the person in command. It is a bit disorienting to be called that. I don't know if I have earned their respect by helping them out over the past few months, but suddenly all eyes are on me.
Okay, first things first, organize your command post.
The books are not loaded, only about 100 before walk ins and it's only 5:15. Lots of deuces, so we'll have to save the banquette where the tables for two are lined up. I note a few VIP names and save them respective tables. Otherwise I am expecting about 160 before this night is over. To be honest, I don't like the reservation system. It creates inequalities. Some customers get special treatment, and some don't. It's a fact of life, and it creates situations where you piss off potential new customers who are walk ins, and you could piss off loyal customers who are now expecting special treatment every visit. The experiences can be scarring, and in the future, for any restaurant I may own I plan to do it much the way Momofuku does. It doesn't matter who you are, you walk in and wait just like everybody else, no reservations, no exceptions. Not to be a poser, but I like their system. It's cleanly egalitarian. David Chang's mother famously had to wait a year before she landed a table at Momofuku Ko.
Okay, so the seating should go fairly smooth, the clusterfuck doesn't begin until we have 150-160 on the books and are expecting 70-80 walk ins. Let's look at the phones.
You can get a feel for what the take-out/delivery situation will be like from lunch. If it's shitty weather, people are huddling inside with their families to eat Chinese food and watch movies. Tonight is one of the first bitterly cold nights of the year, after an unusually warm November. Lunch take-out was already pretty busy, I'm guessing dinner will be much the same because people are not wanting to go out. Dorothy will be manning the phones by herself for the most part, but I don't expect a sudden rush just because that's not really how Friday works. The sudden rush is a Sunday thing, where families eat together more regularly, around 5:30-6:30 PM. Friday is more relaxed, people tend to be doing other things like watching their kids' basketball games, chilling at home, or maybe even having some marital coitus while their kids are at sleepovers (Dry land is a myth!).
So all in all I am expecting a fairly smooth night with the traffic coming in increments.
Now step number two, scratching all your expectations and preparing for the inevitable unexpected. Cliche, yes, but true.
First wrench in the plan, a deuce whom I don't recognize shows up for their reservation twenty minutes late.
Of course we want to honor your reservation, but you're making things hard on us if you show up late. The best route is to call. That way we know you're en route and not a cancellation. But if you just show up at 6:50 for your 6:30 reservation, then the other 6:30s and 6:45s get to sit first because we're not leaving an empty table there for the other diners to wonder about. Especially if we don't know you. Sorry, that's the breaks.
But we do have a plan, and tables should be freeing up incrementally starting around 7:00 PM. It's a time difference of a few minutes. When they do get in, there's a table eating dessert, so in about ten minutes they'll have a table. I'll have to forget the later reservations I planned for for now and get these two seated immediately. Then the body language starts...
First there's the crossed arms and resentful sit-down. I can tell this woman is high maintenance. Her husband is the shy, quiet type who gets slapped around by his wife and is obediently standing there hoping for the storm to clear. She's huffing and puffing, arms and legs crossed with her foot bouncing up and down while she impatiently scans the dining room, and tries to lock eye contact with me or the hostess. I'm not an idiot, I know you're annoyed, okay? I'm working on it.
The table eating dessert is lingering longer than I would have predicted, and what was once a ten minute wait is now becoming fifteen to twenty minutes. It's nearing 7:00 PM, and if this is a first date table I'm in big trouble because they'll be flirting well in to the night. Thankfully, these guys look like a couple that has regressed in to not having anymore sex, so I can only assume they are a middle-aged couple who got married too soon and are avoiding the kids. Those tend to move along pretty quickly.
Then I make the mistake of making eye contact with Pissed Off Customer #1.
"You know this is rude and ridiculous. I come here all the time and spend a lot of money here. I have low blood sugar, and I need to eat at a certain time!"
Alright, first off, I know being hypoglycemic is a real thing, but there is no statement you could make that would further confirm you are a little bitch than saying "I have low blood sugar."
You want a chocolate? They're free and they're sitting right in front of you. If you come here all the time, then it hasn't been in the past three months or I'd at least recognize your annoying face. So you're not that good of a customer. Secondly, if you know anything about us you know that we are busy as fuck on weekends. Make an earlier reservation, or better yet, SHOW UP ON TIME for the one you made.
But I have to stifle my anger. I'm being a classic obstinate and indignant young male. This is part of the business. Dealing with all sorts of people, including the ones seemingly set out on making your life harder. That's the problem with this restaurant-diner relationship, the diner often doesn't understand where you're coming from.
We finally get her seated and dinner goes underway. I make sure to keep an eye on her to pick up any distress or dissatisfaction. I think eating something has calmed her down. I ask her how dinner is and she is relatively satisfied now that she is full on Crispy Honey Chicken with Three Nuts (the whitest dish on our menu).
Thankfully, that is my only speed bump for the night. The rest goes rather smoothly. A few regulars come in who are accustomed to having my mother order dinner for them. That duty is now upon me, and I admit, something that is extremely important I learn. Reading people's tastes, capacities for food, and budget limits without asking is a rather difficult thing to do. I try my best.
Esther is an old family friend. She took me out to BLT Market just after I had gotten my cast off my then-broken ankle. I had just decided I wanted to make a career as a cook, and BLT Market was the first time I had fine dining with my eyes open. It was fantastic. But other than the food, the most memorable thing from that night is that her husband eats... nothing. I mean takes no enjoyment from the consumption of food, whatsoever. He ordered a dry aged filet mignon that was rested on a baguette crouton soaked in beef jus, garnished with a deconstructed bearnaise sauce and served with crisp arugula. He asked ONLY for the beef and bread. He didn't want anything else. I, and the wait staff, were thoroughly flabbergasted.
So, though I am happy to see Esther (especially since she likes to tell me how handsome I am... heehee), I am a bit concerned to see her husband again. What the fuck is he gonna eat?
Her sister, her brother-in-law and mother are also in tow. They say they eat anything, and from the looks of Esther's husband sulking in the corner, I know he is ready to eat nothing. I order "te bie dian xin," which translates to "special" dim sum. My mentor, Luo Shi-fu, makes some incredibly beautiful and delicate dumplings with assorted ingredients. They're a good starter because they are eye-catching, there's a lot of variety, and they're not too filling. I also order four crispy rice paper shrimp rolls. Those are pretty much impossible to dislike. Crispy, lightly fried shrimp wrapped in rice paper, sauced with a sweet Grand Marnier mayonnaise. It's always a crowd pleaser.
Now, this fucking guy, Arthur, the man who doesn't like to eat. I suggest an egg roll and a Japanese ginger salad, i.e. more Americanized food. To my surprise he agrees. Here goes nothin'...
William serves beautifully. The swan dumplings (note: shrimp dumplings shaped like swans, not dumplings filled with swan... I hear swan has a terrible taste and texture) are arranged on a rocky, white bridge, carved out of a turnip. The bridge has a green "river" flowing under it made from gelatin, and is adorned with river stones. The expected "oooh's" and "ahhh's" and camera phones are produced. Then the plates are composed and served; a swan dumpling, a scallop dumpling garnished with red bell pepper, a roast duck and snow cabbage purse, and a crispy shrimp roll just lightly glazed with a bit of the Grand Marnier sauce.
And for Arthur, an egg roll and a salad. His sad plate matches his sad face.
I make a well-timed return to check on their progress. The key is to catch a customer not in conversation, and just as they're finishing their bite, so as to not interrupt, or to force them to hurry and swallow their food to talk to you. I think "How is everything?" is a very empty question because Danny Meyer told me so. So I always ask something more specific like "What do you think of the dim sum?"
They agree it is delicious. There are "mmmm's" and thumbs up's, and then I turn to Arthur. He is neutrally munching on his egg roll, and determinedly stabbing at his salad with a dinner fork. He gives a nod, and I take that as a huge success.
I order entrees for them; a large Cantonese-style lobster (Ah Gau's specialty, he has truly mastered this dish), braised snow pea leaves, Ginger-Scallion Barbecued Shrimp, Filet Mignon with Black Pepper Sauce, a Yang Chow Fried Rice and, you guessed it, Crispy Honey Chicken with Three Nuts for Arthur. They are again very satisfied.
I am riding high.
I am buzzing, I am digging this.
The restaurant and all its employees feel like an extension of my body. When something goes wrong, I step in to focus and make it right. I watch some plates go out of the window. Xiao Di is an excellent cook and I never have to worry about his seasoning, but his plating can get sloppy when he's rushed. I wipe a few plates for him, and make sure they don't die in the window and are sent out post-haste.
Suddenly, I'm being asked questions. "What should I do for these customers?" They waited a very long time for their appetizers (the app station is very tricky because there are so many different kinds of apps... Michael is good, but things can jam up here and there). Send them some ice cream on the house. That's our panacea for wronged customers.
"We have a table of eight coming, last minute call-in, what should we do?"
Gotta always know what your tables look like. F6 is finishing entrees, it'll be about 20-30 minutes. We'll put F6 and F7 together. It'll be kind of an awkward shape, but round enough to promote good family conversation. Tell them 8:45, we can seat them.
"Xiao lao ban, A6 is cold, but A2 is hot, what now?" Turn on the mid room auxiliary heater, and I'll turn on the front room fan. Keep the tea pot full on A6, and keep the water glasses filled on A2. Go to the thermostat and pretend like you're changing it. It'll be normal for everyone in about 15 minutes.
Whoo! I don't know, but this feeling of control, this feeling of being at the helm is exhilarating!
Unfortunately, I'm not dressed for the job. I'm wearing a waiter's uniform, so people are a bit confused by this clearly-American, big Chinese dude wandering around asking questions. Some of them recognize the facial similarities between my mother and I, so they draw the obvious conclusion. This is generally my biggest problem; everybody knows who I am, because embarrassingly enough my mother talks about me all the time, but I don't know anyone.
I've come to learn at least 30-40 faces that show up regularly, but there are a few old Jewish women that are just part of a big blur to me. They don't come often enough and don't have any distinguishing features. And they come in the door and excitedly say, "Hello, Eric! How are you?" Cue hug and kiss on the cheek.
And I always have to give an evasive, "...Hiiii!! ... Good to see you!" until Joanne checks their reservation in the computer and I'm like, "OH, fucking ball sacks, it's Mrs. Chotan! Come on, Eric!"
I have a lovely chat with her and her seemingly mute husband (Is that what Jewish women do to Jewish men?), and she comments that the restaurant seems to be running smoothly. She writes a note to bring to my mother, wishing her to feel better, and she winks at me and says "I put in a good word about you."
The night ends and I close the restaurant myself. It's a strange feeling. Chef Grant Achatz talked about how he would take that time while he was alone in his own restaurant to reflect on all he had done, and where he would go, that it was an eerily soul reflecting moment. I have to agree.
The lights are off, I'm alone in the restaurant. My reflection dances off the smoked mirrors, and this place that has seen hundreds of thousands of people come through and eat is now completely silent, save for the hum of the bar refrigerators.
What a strange feeling. My mother must get this at least once in a while. This place is just a pretty exoskeleton until it is filled with her passion and her customers. The fancy wall paper, and carefully sought-after antiques are just exactly that ... ornamental. This place is mine, and I make it what it is, and it feeds my family and the people I love, she must think to herself. I mean at least occasionally. It's a powerful feeling.
It's powerful. It's deep. Hopefully not waxing too existential, but you get my point.
Just more reasons to love the business.
But I can't be impatient. Too many chefs, convinced of their own greatness, jump the gun on opening their own restaurant. They are tired of working for others, they want to make their own name, and be their own boss.
For those who make it, and really succeed ... those are the supremely talented and lucky ones. Michael Symon fears sometimes he opened Lola too early, that he should have worked at The French Laundry while it was in its Keller Prime. But here he is running a ground breaking, city-revitalizing restaurant.
There are so disappointingly few of the Michael Symon's though. The more common story is the young man driven in to the dirt, unprepared for the onslaught that is the modern restaurant. I love watching Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares and figuring out how many of those places are still open after he's done his work. The point is, Gordon can't save your restaurant. It's a gimmick for him to scream at people more and make the everyman laugh about it. The path to bankruptcy and boarding up the windows is a sharply inclined one. Once going downhill, it is very difficult to stop that momentum, and to climb back up.
So though this feeling is exhilarating, I must learn to tame it. Savor it, but do not desire it yet. I have a long way to go before opening up my own restaurant. Sure, it's fun to think of my future restaurant's name, its decor, its opening menu. But those must remain fantasies until I am ready. When that is, I can't say, I just know it isn't anytime soon.
Slow and steady wins the race.
There is no axiom more appropriate for our way of life.
EP6
I ran a restaurant. By myself. On a weekend.
See, while I've been home working the front at nights it was always under my mother's wing. She points out the VIP customers, I meet and greet, and I fill in where necessary. Busboys are slammed? I clear and set tables. Waiters can't keep up? I take a few orders, crumb and clear a few tables. Phones are relentless? I take take-outs and deliveries. It's that simple. I'm auxiliary help.
It's a wide but comprehensive education, and while I am not mastering anything very quickly, I am getting a feel for the unexpected mishaps a restaurant constantly suffers from. I think the rest of the staff appreciates that they have someone on the bench who can come in when shit goes fugazi, and can respond with some adequacy.
But running the restaurant by myself? That's a different ball game.
My mother performs two indispensable functions. She makes dinners for VIP customers, and she watches nearly every dish come out of the kitchen. She knows her own menu, and her cook's capabilities ice cold. The slightest error is caught and the kitchen's potential is maximized in her presence. She knows how to read people and figure out what they like to eat, and how to develop a menu both unique and deeply satisfying.
I can't really do that. Yet. I don't know Chinese food all that well, and if Thanksgiving was any indicator, I still cook Italian food a helluva lot better than Chinese.
But here I was, Friday night, and my mother calls in sick, which is an incredibly rare occurrence. She's been feeling off for the past two months, and the various cocktails of medications the doctors prescribe her give her unpredictable side effects. I have had to fill in on a few weekday nights, but weekends are a whole 'nother creature. We live for, and thrive on them, and they are caged beasts ready to spring and wreak havoc on any unprepared manager's head.
"You sure you can handle it?," my mother questions.
"Shit yeah, homie! Let's DO this" I reply.
(So it might have went more like "Uhh.. yes.. ?")
I show up to the restaurant, and the other two managers are there but they have very specific roles. One host and does the seating, the other takes the phones and manages the register. The rest of it is on my mother's shoulders, and now mine.
The waiter captain, William (only the front of house staff have American names) asks, "Ni mama zai na li?" (Where's your mom?)
"Ta jin tian wan shang bu lai. Ta bu tai shu fu." (She's not coming tonight. She doesn't feel very well.)
"Hao. Ni xian zai shi lao ban." (Okay. Now you're the boss.)
In other words, run the point.
I write it out in Chinese because "lao ban" is the title reserved for the boss, a title that has never been bestowed upon me. Some of them jokingly call me "xiao ye," which means "little master," but "lao ban" is a very serious word to address the person in command. It is a bit disorienting to be called that. I don't know if I have earned their respect by helping them out over the past few months, but suddenly all eyes are on me.
Okay, first things first, organize your command post.
The books are not loaded, only about 100 before walk ins and it's only 5:15. Lots of deuces, so we'll have to save the banquette where the tables for two are lined up. I note a few VIP names and save them respective tables. Otherwise I am expecting about 160 before this night is over. To be honest, I don't like the reservation system. It creates inequalities. Some customers get special treatment, and some don't. It's a fact of life, and it creates situations where you piss off potential new customers who are walk ins, and you could piss off loyal customers who are now expecting special treatment every visit. The experiences can be scarring, and in the future, for any restaurant I may own I plan to do it much the way Momofuku does. It doesn't matter who you are, you walk in and wait just like everybody else, no reservations, no exceptions. Not to be a poser, but I like their system. It's cleanly egalitarian. David Chang's mother famously had to wait a year before she landed a table at Momofuku Ko.
Okay, so the seating should go fairly smooth, the clusterfuck doesn't begin until we have 150-160 on the books and are expecting 70-80 walk ins. Let's look at the phones.
You can get a feel for what the take-out/delivery situation will be like from lunch. If it's shitty weather, people are huddling inside with their families to eat Chinese food and watch movies. Tonight is one of the first bitterly cold nights of the year, after an unusually warm November. Lunch take-out was already pretty busy, I'm guessing dinner will be much the same because people are not wanting to go out. Dorothy will be manning the phones by herself for the most part, but I don't expect a sudden rush just because that's not really how Friday works. The sudden rush is a Sunday thing, where families eat together more regularly, around 5:30-6:30 PM. Friday is more relaxed, people tend to be doing other things like watching their kids' basketball games, chilling at home, or maybe even having some marital coitus while their kids are at sleepovers (Dry land is a myth!).
So all in all I am expecting a fairly smooth night with the traffic coming in increments.
Now step number two, scratching all your expectations and preparing for the inevitable unexpected. Cliche, yes, but true.
First wrench in the plan, a deuce whom I don't recognize shows up for their reservation twenty minutes late.
Of course we want to honor your reservation, but you're making things hard on us if you show up late. The best route is to call. That way we know you're en route and not a cancellation. But if you just show up at 6:50 for your 6:30 reservation, then the other 6:30s and 6:45s get to sit first because we're not leaving an empty table there for the other diners to wonder about. Especially if we don't know you. Sorry, that's the breaks.
But we do have a plan, and tables should be freeing up incrementally starting around 7:00 PM. It's a time difference of a few minutes. When they do get in, there's a table eating dessert, so in about ten minutes they'll have a table. I'll have to forget the later reservations I planned for for now and get these two seated immediately. Then the body language starts...
First there's the crossed arms and resentful sit-down. I can tell this woman is high maintenance. Her husband is the shy, quiet type who gets slapped around by his wife and is obediently standing there hoping for the storm to clear. She's huffing and puffing, arms and legs crossed with her foot bouncing up and down while she impatiently scans the dining room, and tries to lock eye contact with me or the hostess. I'm not an idiot, I know you're annoyed, okay? I'm working on it.
The table eating dessert is lingering longer than I would have predicted, and what was once a ten minute wait is now becoming fifteen to twenty minutes. It's nearing 7:00 PM, and if this is a first date table I'm in big trouble because they'll be flirting well in to the night. Thankfully, these guys look like a couple that has regressed in to not having anymore sex, so I can only assume they are a middle-aged couple who got married too soon and are avoiding the kids. Those tend to move along pretty quickly.
Then I make the mistake of making eye contact with Pissed Off Customer #1.
"You know this is rude and ridiculous. I come here all the time and spend a lot of money here. I have low blood sugar, and I need to eat at a certain time!"
Alright, first off, I know being hypoglycemic is a real thing, but there is no statement you could make that would further confirm you are a little bitch than saying "I have low blood sugar."
You want a chocolate? They're free and they're sitting right in front of you. If you come here all the time, then it hasn't been in the past three months or I'd at least recognize your annoying face. So you're not that good of a customer. Secondly, if you know anything about us you know that we are busy as fuck on weekends. Make an earlier reservation, or better yet, SHOW UP ON TIME for the one you made.
But I have to stifle my anger. I'm being a classic obstinate and indignant young male. This is part of the business. Dealing with all sorts of people, including the ones seemingly set out on making your life harder. That's the problem with this restaurant-diner relationship, the diner often doesn't understand where you're coming from.
We finally get her seated and dinner goes underway. I make sure to keep an eye on her to pick up any distress or dissatisfaction. I think eating something has calmed her down. I ask her how dinner is and she is relatively satisfied now that she is full on Crispy Honey Chicken with Three Nuts (the whitest dish on our menu).
Thankfully, that is my only speed bump for the night. The rest goes rather smoothly. A few regulars come in who are accustomed to having my mother order dinner for them. That duty is now upon me, and I admit, something that is extremely important I learn. Reading people's tastes, capacities for food, and budget limits without asking is a rather difficult thing to do. I try my best.
Esther is an old family friend. She took me out to BLT Market just after I had gotten my cast off my then-broken ankle. I had just decided I wanted to make a career as a cook, and BLT Market was the first time I had fine dining with my eyes open. It was fantastic. But other than the food, the most memorable thing from that night is that her husband eats... nothing. I mean takes no enjoyment from the consumption of food, whatsoever. He ordered a dry aged filet mignon that was rested on a baguette crouton soaked in beef jus, garnished with a deconstructed bearnaise sauce and served with crisp arugula. He asked ONLY for the beef and bread. He didn't want anything else. I, and the wait staff, were thoroughly flabbergasted.
So, though I am happy to see Esther (especially since she likes to tell me how handsome I am... heehee), I am a bit concerned to see her husband again. What the fuck is he gonna eat?
Her sister, her brother-in-law and mother are also in tow. They say they eat anything, and from the looks of Esther's husband sulking in the corner, I know he is ready to eat nothing. I order "te bie dian xin," which translates to "special" dim sum. My mentor, Luo Shi-fu, makes some incredibly beautiful and delicate dumplings with assorted ingredients. They're a good starter because they are eye-catching, there's a lot of variety, and they're not too filling. I also order four crispy rice paper shrimp rolls. Those are pretty much impossible to dislike. Crispy, lightly fried shrimp wrapped in rice paper, sauced with a sweet Grand Marnier mayonnaise. It's always a crowd pleaser.
Now, this fucking guy, Arthur, the man who doesn't like to eat. I suggest an egg roll and a Japanese ginger salad, i.e. more Americanized food. To my surprise he agrees. Here goes nothin'...
William serves beautifully. The swan dumplings (note: shrimp dumplings shaped like swans, not dumplings filled with swan... I hear swan has a terrible taste and texture) are arranged on a rocky, white bridge, carved out of a turnip. The bridge has a green "river" flowing under it made from gelatin, and is adorned with river stones. The expected "oooh's" and "ahhh's" and camera phones are produced. Then the plates are composed and served; a swan dumpling, a scallop dumpling garnished with red bell pepper, a roast duck and snow cabbage purse, and a crispy shrimp roll just lightly glazed with a bit of the Grand Marnier sauce.
And for Arthur, an egg roll and a salad. His sad plate matches his sad face.
I make a well-timed return to check on their progress. The key is to catch a customer not in conversation, and just as they're finishing their bite, so as to not interrupt, or to force them to hurry and swallow their food to talk to you. I think "How is everything?" is a very empty question because Danny Meyer told me so. So I always ask something more specific like "What do you think of the dim sum?"
They agree it is delicious. There are "mmmm's" and thumbs up's, and then I turn to Arthur. He is neutrally munching on his egg roll, and determinedly stabbing at his salad with a dinner fork. He gives a nod, and I take that as a huge success.
I order entrees for them; a large Cantonese-style lobster (Ah Gau's specialty, he has truly mastered this dish), braised snow pea leaves, Ginger-Scallion Barbecued Shrimp, Filet Mignon with Black Pepper Sauce, a Yang Chow Fried Rice and, you guessed it, Crispy Honey Chicken with Three Nuts for Arthur. They are again very satisfied.
I am riding high.
I am buzzing, I am digging this.
The restaurant and all its employees feel like an extension of my body. When something goes wrong, I step in to focus and make it right. I watch some plates go out of the window. Xiao Di is an excellent cook and I never have to worry about his seasoning, but his plating can get sloppy when he's rushed. I wipe a few plates for him, and make sure they don't die in the window and are sent out post-haste.
Suddenly, I'm being asked questions. "What should I do for these customers?" They waited a very long time for their appetizers (the app station is very tricky because there are so many different kinds of apps... Michael is good, but things can jam up here and there). Send them some ice cream on the house. That's our panacea for wronged customers.
"We have a table of eight coming, last minute call-in, what should we do?"
Gotta always know what your tables look like. F6 is finishing entrees, it'll be about 20-30 minutes. We'll put F6 and F7 together. It'll be kind of an awkward shape, but round enough to promote good family conversation. Tell them 8:45, we can seat them.
"Xiao lao ban, A6 is cold, but A2 is hot, what now?" Turn on the mid room auxiliary heater, and I'll turn on the front room fan. Keep the tea pot full on A6, and keep the water glasses filled on A2. Go to the thermostat and pretend like you're changing it. It'll be normal for everyone in about 15 minutes.
Whoo! I don't know, but this feeling of control, this feeling of being at the helm is exhilarating!
Unfortunately, I'm not dressed for the job. I'm wearing a waiter's uniform, so people are a bit confused by this clearly-American, big Chinese dude wandering around asking questions. Some of them recognize the facial similarities between my mother and I, so they draw the obvious conclusion. This is generally my biggest problem; everybody knows who I am, because embarrassingly enough my mother talks about me all the time, but I don't know anyone.
I've come to learn at least 30-40 faces that show up regularly, but there are a few old Jewish women that are just part of a big blur to me. They don't come often enough and don't have any distinguishing features. And they come in the door and excitedly say, "Hello, Eric! How are you?" Cue hug and kiss on the cheek.
And I always have to give an evasive, "...Hiiii!! ... Good to see you!" until Joanne checks their reservation in the computer and I'm like, "OH, fucking ball sacks, it's Mrs. Chotan! Come on, Eric!"
I have a lovely chat with her and her seemingly mute husband (Is that what Jewish women do to Jewish men?), and she comments that the restaurant seems to be running smoothly. She writes a note to bring to my mother, wishing her to feel better, and she winks at me and says "I put in a good word about you."
The night ends and I close the restaurant myself. It's a strange feeling. Chef Grant Achatz talked about how he would take that time while he was alone in his own restaurant to reflect on all he had done, and where he would go, that it was an eerily soul reflecting moment. I have to agree.
The lights are off, I'm alone in the restaurant. My reflection dances off the smoked mirrors, and this place that has seen hundreds of thousands of people come through and eat is now completely silent, save for the hum of the bar refrigerators.
What a strange feeling. My mother must get this at least once in a while. This place is just a pretty exoskeleton until it is filled with her passion and her customers. The fancy wall paper, and carefully sought-after antiques are just exactly that ... ornamental. This place is mine, and I make it what it is, and it feeds my family and the people I love, she must think to herself. I mean at least occasionally. It's a powerful feeling.
It's powerful. It's deep. Hopefully not waxing too existential, but you get my point.
Just more reasons to love the business.
But I can't be impatient. Too many chefs, convinced of their own greatness, jump the gun on opening their own restaurant. They are tired of working for others, they want to make their own name, and be their own boss.
For those who make it, and really succeed ... those are the supremely talented and lucky ones. Michael Symon fears sometimes he opened Lola too early, that he should have worked at The French Laundry while it was in its Keller Prime. But here he is running a ground breaking, city-revitalizing restaurant.
There are so disappointingly few of the Michael Symon's though. The more common story is the young man driven in to the dirt, unprepared for the onslaught that is the modern restaurant. I love watching Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares and figuring out how many of those places are still open after he's done his work. The point is, Gordon can't save your restaurant. It's a gimmick for him to scream at people more and make the everyman laugh about it. The path to bankruptcy and boarding up the windows is a sharply inclined one. Once going downhill, it is very difficult to stop that momentum, and to climb back up.
So though this feeling is exhilarating, I must learn to tame it. Savor it, but do not desire it yet. I have a long way to go before opening up my own restaurant. Sure, it's fun to think of my future restaurant's name, its decor, its opening menu. But those must remain fantasies until I am ready. When that is, I can't say, I just know it isn't anytime soon.
Slow and steady wins the race.
There is no axiom more appropriate for our way of life.
EP6
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