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