More on service

Found this particularialy intriguing, and a good follow-up to the TGIF parody...


January 16, 2002

CRITIC'S NOTEBOOK
Waiter, Please Put a Lid on It
By WILLIAM GRIMES


Restaurants: An Imaginary Tour of the Mediterranean (January
16, 2002)




Join a Discussion on Dining Out




LONG ago, before anyone had heard of fish tartare, potato foam or the
foie gras martini, waiters performed a very basic function. They
stood and took your order. If there were specials, they recited
them. When the food came out of the kitchen, they delivered it to
the table. Everyone seemed happy with the setup.
It all seems hopelessly old-fashioned now. The demands of the
information age, and the American desire to turn all human
encounters into a form of therapy, have given rise to a new breed of
waiter. Just as the old rotary phone with only one function has
evolved into a cordless multitasking communication tool, bristling
with dozens of features, the old-time waiter with a notepad and
pencil stub is now an information center, a cheerleader, a
counselor, an investment adviser and a pal.
I remember my first visit to Danzón, and the eager look in my
waiter's eye when I told him I would be glad to hear what he had to
say about the cuisine of Veracruz, the restaurant's specialty. It
was like inviting an encyclopedia salesman into the living room. "It
all started with Cortés," he said, and, ignoring the looks of dismay
around the table, proceeded to work his way, slowly and
methodically, through five centuries of Mexican history. It was a
long trek to the first appetizer. By the time I signed the check, I
had earned at least one college credit.
This sort of encounter is becoming more common, and I should have
seen it coming. A few years ago, restaurant menus reached the limit
in text-heaviness. Every dish was explicated and annotated, with
commentary sometimes running to a full paragraph. Gradually, the
pendulum swung the other way, and chefs began identifying their
wares by a simple word or two. In extreme cases, the menu might
simply name the principal ingredient and the cooking method. Further
details would be offered, tersely, in very small type underneath.
"Roast cod" on a menu of this sort carried the implied message,
"Need we say more?" This abbreviated style reminded me of luxury
advertising, those word-stingy campaigns that simply name the
product and then, after a long pause indicated by space on the page,
ran a message like "Simply the best," or "Because you deserve it,"
or, even better, "Because."
But information is like a balloon. Squeeze one end and the air
rushes to the other. The words that disappeared from the menu went
straight into the waiter's mouth. Now, the amuse-bouche arrives, and
the first lecture begins as the waiter itemizes the ingredients in
each before-dinner morsel. This performance accomplishes several
things. First, it draws attention to the chef's cooking style.
Second, it makes the diner feel that he is getting quite a gift.
Third, it begins the important bonding process that, by meal's end,
should bring diner and waiter closer than most blood relatives. The
emotional outlet for this surge of good fellowship is called the
tip.
To this end, many waiters launch a preemptive strike, jumping in
just as the diners are beginning to read down the list of
appetizers. My waiter at TanDa was a strong believer in this
approach. No sooner did I get my hands on the menu that he began
telling me which dishes were his personal favorites, and why. I
began to feel that the menu was a treacherous document, full of
snags and pitfalls for the unwary. Like a Sherpa, my waiter guided
me, surefootedly and garrulously, until we came out the other side.
The wine list called for additional expert commentary, most of it
intended to steer me, again, toward his secret favorites. The idea
that I might have my own thoughts and opinions did not seem to be
part of the picture. By the time I signed the check, I was
exhausted.
There are lots of waiters like this, brimful of opinions and eager
to share. "Have you been to Tuscany?" the waiter at Osteria del
Circo asked my table on a recent visit. Four heads nodded, warily.
An awkward silence ensued. Slowly, we began to get the picture.
Tuscany was an opening gambit. Our role in the drama was to nod
enthusiastically, say yes! in delighted unison, and open the door to
an extended Tuscan love-fest. Undeterred, the waiter pressed on. He
was Florentine. He had many happy childhood memories, most of them
involving food. Some of the very dishes he enjoyed as a child were
on the menu. We heard all about it, all night.
Some waiters hold back until dessert. Then, when you least expect
it, a chirpy voice says "That's my favorite!" when you order the
molten fudge brownie colossus with double espresso mousse in
black-velvet Valhrona sin sauce.
It's now almost routine for waiters to endorse the diner's selection
by saying "Good choice," like the contestants on "Family Feud" who
clap and say "Good answer," even when the answer is irredeemably,
irretrievably, awe-inspiringly stupid. This little phrase can be
modulated in a thousand ways. It can convey pleased surprise, as
though you have correctly guessed the winning six-digit lottery
number, or it can be a discreet, Jeeves-like murmur of approbation.
The purpose, in this age of free-floating anxiety, is to prop up the
diner's sense of self-esteem, although even the most shameless
waiter now seems to think that "excellent choice" is pushing things
a little too far. I haven't heard that one for a while. I fantasize
about the day when a waiter looks me dead in the eye and says,
"Really dumb choice."
The "good choice" approach can simply be a matter of creating warm
feelings. Or it can dovetail nicely with an aggressive marketing
program. At the curiously named @SQC, a restaurant that surely must
be earning the hatred of directory-assistance operators, my waitress
inquired whether I had ever visited before. The answer was no,
whereupon she was off to the races, guiding me through what seemed
like a very simple, straightforward menu. She loved the lobster
salad. She went weak at the knees just thinking about the steak
frites. And on and on. I glanced downward and noticed a correlation
between her likes and the most expensive dishes. It was high ?- in
the neighborhood of 100 percent.
Some waiters understand the general concept, which is to deliver as
much information as the customer can absorb, and then deliver some
more, but stumble in the execution. At Lure, a new seafood
restaurant on the Upper East Side, my very affable waiter felt so
much rapport developing that, when dessert time came, he drove right
off the cliff, warning me off every dessert choice I was ready to
make. The grapefruit parfait? No good, he said, shaking his head
somberly. Perhaps the cardamom chocolate cake? "No matter how many
glasses of water you drink, you cannot get that taste of cardamom
out of your mouth," he said. "But I like the taste of cardamom," I
protested weakly. He looked at me sternly, as though to say, "It's
your funeral." It was quite a performance. In an instant he had made
the leap from waiter to bodyguard.
Every once in a while, hidden in some remote corner of an out-of-the
way restaurant, you can still find a waiter of the old school. He is
a quiet servitor with no opinions, almost Delphic in his
pronouncements. If you ask which is better, the hanger steak or the
filet with béarnaise sauce, he will say, "They are both very good."
Pressed to offer a sign, any sign, as to what dessert might be
particularly pleasing, he will counter with "It all depends on your
taste."
At Lentini, an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, I knew I
was in the hands of a master when I quizzed the waiter about three
wines I had narrowed my choices to after much study. "What can I
say?" he said. "You shook the tree, and you got three plums."
I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell it was not going to be the
beginning of a beautiful friendship.


Who have been your waiters from hell