Service Included

by Phoebe Damrosch

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said, waving dismissively toward the stack of red clay tapas dishes in the sink.

  I washed, Big A dried. He stopped trying to be funny, I stopped pretending to have it together.

  “You working on any other books?” he teased.

  “In fact I am,” I responded. “I’m writing a children’s book.”

  “Pickled baby seals and actual Eskimo pies?”

  “No, it’s called Where’s Daddy?”

  The group let that one be.

  “Did she hate me?” I whined on the bus ride home.

  “How could she hate you?” André reassured me. “She said you were cooler than she thought you would be.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment to either of us.”

  We stared silently out the window for a while, watching our previous route rewind. Then André took my hand and kissed the center of my palm in the way that I love.

  “Chef? I think your book concepts need a little work.”

  “JUST YOU TONIGHT?”

  “For now,” I responded, trying to sound like I didn’t mind either way. My waiter looked at me carefully and nodded. As my favorite of the diner dwarfs, he had been spared a derogatory name. He moved quickly, despite the limp in his right leg, which caused it to drag behind him as if he had a small child attached to it that he was determined to ignore. Late at night he worked alone and performed the same routine at every new table.

  “Hello!” he said casually to his victim as he sidled up. “Coffee?” At that moment, in swooped the (empty) cup and saucer, which he had been holding just out of the guests’ line of sight until this moment. He fumbled and faked panic, pretending to overturn the cup (firmly secured by his ring finger through the handle).

  “Oops!” he cried as they all shrieked and threw up their hands. Tonight a bunch of rowdy tourists threatened to sue. One woman fanned herself with her menu for a good five minutes afterward. He winked at me.

  I ordered some coffee and was spared the comedy act. Some of it sloshed into the saucer en route, meaning that I either risked staining by drip (or neck injury from trying to dodge the drip) or I would have to use my one allocated napkin to soak it up. I ordered some toast. It arrived looking perfectly plastic, accompanied by ice cold butter in those silly little plastic tubs with the bendable tab that slices under your thumb-nail. I looked mournfully down at the grape jelly and realized that I was going to have to start bringing my own jam. Come to think of it, I might as well bring a whole van of everything I might need to exist in the land of no stars: maple syrup, jam, extra napkins, a decent staff. Hell, why not go ahead and bring a pepper grinder? I was beginning to get nice and bothered when I heard a tapping on the window. André grinned and waved.

  “You need a menu?” a voice called from across the room once he had settled into the chair across from me.

  “No. No, I don’t.” He ordered his usual egg, cheese, sausage, and bacon on a roll and the waiter limped over to the kitchen window to call in the order. André leaned in close, his face triumphant.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hmmm,” I responded, trying to decide whether the western omelet deserved a chance. “Aren’t you going to ask what the hamburger patty is?”

  “No. I don’t think I need to anymore. After all, we’re regulars now.”

  Now that was a milestone I didn’t see coming.

  * * *

  • A TIP •

  Tip 20 percent or more. Two extra dollars mean very little to you, but they are a compliment to your server.

  * * *

  • service included •

  oN OUR SUMMER road trip there were no vibrating beds, ice cream socials, or rodeos, and the closest thing we had to food-on-a-stick was a turkey leg in Memphis—and still, we had a blast. But when we returned to work after the vacation, Chef Keller had a surprise for us. Beginning in September, the restaurant would institute a 20 percent service charge on every check and pay the staff a negotiated hourly salary. No sooner had he uttered the news than it had been heralded from gossip pages, foodie Web sites, CNN, the New Yorker, and newspapers from L.A. to New York.

  Very few of us had worked in such a system, although it is common in Europe, and used in a handful of American restaurants such as Chez Panisse in Berkeley, Charlie Trotter in Chicago, and, before it closed, the Quilted Giraffe in New York. Chef Keller sold the new policy to the staff as a means of equalizing a fairly dramatic income discrepancy between the cooks and the waiters. There’s hardly a restaurant in the city for which this discrepancy isn’t the case and, in most restaurants, it creates an undercurrent of resentment between the front and back of the house. A line cook working sixty hours a week might have gone to culinary school and have tens of thousands of dollars in student loans while some actor with no pertinent schooling works half the hours and makes twice as much.

  It was easy to feel compassion for the cooks, but when those of us at the top end of the pay scale realized we stood to lose about a quarter of our income, the tone changed. Some of the captains and backservers bemoaned the pricey vacations they had just taken. Others worried about tuition for their children for which they had already budgeted. In an effort at damage control, the management informed the staff that if a guest left extra gratuity, half of that sum would go to the captain and half would be split among the rest of the dining room staff. This sounded dangerously like a handshake to me, which had never worked in my favor.

  There was much grumbling. If the managers had a problem with how much the cooks were being paid, some of the dining room staff said under their breath, then they should pay them more. One of the captains questioned where the money was really going. We had been told that some of it would be reserved for raises and year-end gifts.

  “Keep the Christmas cookbook,” he suggested sarcastically. “I’ll take the cash.”

  Having management involved in the distribution of gratuity itself would take getting used to. In almost every other restaurant in the city, the staff divided earnings themselves. Now, we would be turning that responsibility over without full understanding of how it would be distributed. But, because of the way the news had been spun, to voice our objection made us seem greedy and unwilling to share with the debt-ridden, malnourished, practically homeless chefs in the kitchen.

  Once the sticker shock wore off, we began to think about how this might affect the service standards in the restaurant. If it took the same effort to open a thirty-dollar bottle of wine as it did to open a three-thousand-dollar bottle, didn’t they worry about sales incentives? What if they cut back the staff to save money? Would we now have larger stations and more covers with no more compensation? How would our relationship with the guests change? Would they be resentful of being told how much to tip? How would they feel about 20 percent being added to the price of their wine? Would it change our relationship as a staff? Would people start to fight over the extra tippers?

  I was torn. I supported increasing the chefs’ incomes, and the idea of being compensated like any other industry was certainly appealing. Being paid like a professional eased that sneaking feeling of servitude. I would still make enough to live comfortably in New York. Even after the pay cut, my salary was three times that at which most people started in publishing. But I began to ask myself: if it weren’t for the money, would I stay? A year ago, the answer would have been, without hesitation, yes.

  One day in August, after I had been pondering this question for a few weeks, I walked through the kitchen and spotted one of Chef Keller’s many signs. It was affixed to the wall by a tidy border of green tape (tape at Per Se was cut, not torn). The sign read: WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU KNEW YOU COULD NOT FAIL? When I had looked up at that sign in the past, I always thought of Per Se as a whole. We had achieved four stars already and in the coming year, we would achieve five Mobil stars and three Michelin stars as well. We didn’t fail because we met our own standards and, thankfully, our standards aligned with those of ou
r critics. Someone asked me recently what I thought set Per Se apart. Accountability, I answered. My coworkers never let sloppiness or carelessness slide. God help the runner who dropped food to the wrong positions, the bartender who took too long making his homemade tonic water, the backserver who let a table go without water, a captain whose table asked for their check. Chances are, his coworkers would say something before management had a chance to be diplomatic.

  This time, when I looked up at the sign, the question felt much more personal.

  On my break between shifts, I sat by the fountain in front of the Time Warner Center and made a list of reasons to stay and reasons to quit. Stay: income, writing material, time with André. Quit: time, freedom, new haircut.

  “Is this irresponsible?” I asked André after work when I had all but made my decision. “Am I being too impulsive? It’s entirely possible that I’ll never make this kind of money again. What if I use up all my savings and have to live on canned dog food and sleep in a box in the park?”

  “I’m sure you could get a job at TGI Friday’s before it got that bad.”

  “What if we don’t have anything to talk about anymore?”

  “Well, we should probably find that out sooner rather than later.”

  After I put in my notice, a friend who had just broken off her engagement asked if she could stay at my apartment in Brooklyn while she looked for her own place. Her crushing devastation could not have come at a better time. She moved into my place and I officially moved into André’s.

  I was glad to pack only a few things at first. There was hardly room in his apartment for the two of us, let alone my books and furniture. The gradual move-in would allow me to slowly wean myself from my little haven in Brooklyn, where I had once closed the door and been perfectly alone. After I packed one small bag, I settled into my couch corner for a moment. Across the room stood the old wooden desk that I had convinced my ex to carry on the subway from a Chelsea thrift shop. This reminded me of how I had begged him, not long after that, to haul a worn, white bureau from the stoop sale down the street, up the four flights of stairs. It wanted a coat of paint, but instead I replaced its drawer handles with bright, mismatched porcelain knobs, a look reminiscent of an eccentric old woman in costume jewelry. Next to the desk was an old velvet chair of robin’s-egg blue that I kept safe for a friend now living in New Orleans. By my feet sat the wooden chest I had claimed from my parents’ house. For some reason, I thought of the morning I woke up to bird’s wings, a sound e. e. cummings had likened to clouds whispering. I had left the window open the night before when I crawled in from the fire escape. More memories haunted my solitude and by the time I closed the door to my apartment, I was sobbing.

  The few pairs of jeans I had packed barely fit into André’s little corner cupboard, and I had to displace a few nonessentials to fit my minimal cosmetics into the pea green bathroom. I crammed a sweater into the suitcase where he kept his, the one that sat on the stacked milk crates housing his wine collection. I squeezed a few skirts and nice pants to the right of his suits and dress shirts, and hung two belts, a brown and a black, from a nail in his closet. My Le Creuset Dutch oven took up residence on the stovetop. Now that I had proven key-worthy, it was time to master the meals drawn in the margins of the diner menu, the ones your mother was supposed to make.

  My landlord agreed to let me out of my lease in January, a month ahead of schedule, which meant that we had four months of sardine living ahead of us while we planned our next move. Strangely enough, now that I had arrived, I couldn’t have been happier at the prospect.

  “I think it might be time for a dachshund,” I casually mentioned one night.

  “French bulldog.”

  “Whatever.”

  • a few more tips •

  Don’t try to bribe the host. If there’s no table, there’s no table.

  •

  “Do you know who I am?” is a very unattractive question.

  •

  Consider storing your handbag under your chair where we won’t step on it.

  •

  Take a moment to listen to your waiter when she offers to tell you about the menu or take your water, cocktail, or food order. If you are in the middle of an important conversation, let her know and make eye contact when you are ready. No need to be rude.

  •

  You may have ordered your signature cocktail a million times, but we need time to write when you say “dirtybombaysapphiremartiniupextradryandverychillednoolives.”

  •

  See if everyone at the table is ready to order before you begin and that everyone is finished eating before you request to be cleared.

  •

  We are happy to split your check, but it helps when you tell us up front. You’d be surprised at how complicated it can be to make changes on some computers.

  •

  “Give me…” is a very unattractive way to begin a sentence.

  •

  When you don’t like something, don’t get mad at your waiter. He didn’t make it.

  Having said that, please give us your opinions about the restaurant, both negative and positive, so that we can tell the chef or the management.

  •

  Do not touch your waiter.

  •

  Adding people to your party is not in the Diner’s Bill of Rights.

  •

  Try to consolidate your requests.

  •

  When a waiter seems to be ignoring you, most likely it is because a fellow guest got to her first, not that she is incompetent, unkind, or unintelligent.

  •

  Do not pick up your glass when a waiter or sommelier is about to pour something for you. It makes you seem greedy and oblivious.

  •

  Your food is delivered to your table based on where you were sitting when we took the order. When you switch seats, it screws us all up.

  •

  Please don’t ask us for cigarettes.

  •

  Larger glasses appear less full than smaller glasses. This does not mean you are getting less wine.

  •

  Never get up and take something from a waiter’s station. That includes water pitchers, coffee pitchers, silverware, napkins, and pens. Please do not steal our pens. Usually we have to provide our own.

  •

  Do not put your napkin on your dirty plate.

  •

  Control your limbs.

  •

  Please don’t involve us in your monetary disputes. Do not shove cash in our pockets or aprons, or wrench credit cards from our hands.

  •

  Don’t hold your waiter responsible if someone else beat you to paying for dinner.

  •

  When he found newspaper, wrapping paper, or Kleenex on the table, a waiter friend in Brooklyn used to grumble, “Yo mama don’t live here.”

  • afterword: my dinner with andré •

  aNDRÉ AND I had dinner at Per Se a few months after I left. In the days leading up to our reservation, I thought often of possible menus, possible nonsuit wardrobe choices, and possible awkward moments. Everyone at the restaurant knew about André and me by now, but it would be the first time we made an official appearance together.

  We took our usual route from the apartment, down Central Park West. As we walked, we wondered aloud about what we knew would be an epic meal. Would we sit in the window or upstairs on a banquette? Would there be truffles? Hot or cold foie gras? About two blocks from the Trump Tower, André elbowed me.

  “Is that who I think it is?”

  It was the zaniest and most trying of regulars, a petit and very bald gentleman who went by only one name and always spoke about himself in the third person. For example, when accosted with the bill:——never pays for truffles. Or, when denied a table for the next night: There’s always a table for——! Upon spotting us, he said a quick hello and then accused us of avoiding him on the street in Williamsburg, an instance I had a
lmost forgotten about and assumed we had gotten away with. And then, in typical——fashion, he forgave us and offered us the wine he had left at Per Se a few months before. Apparently,——no longer paid for wine, either. It was a shock to be included in the Per Se posse of regulars, if only by association. We declined his offer and beat a hasty retreat.

  When we arrived at the restaurant, a host led us to one of the two banquettes that overlook the dining room, the park, and the lights from East Side high-rises. None of the formalities would be skipped during our meal, even though we could easily have found our way to table twenty-three and poured ourselves the champagne we knew would be chilling in the bucket. I couldn’t help marveling at it all—at the room, at my colleagues who glided through the room, at my intimacy with each detail of the service, at the fact that, despite this intimacy, I had completely forgotten to check whether the logo on the base of my champagne flute had been set at six o’clock.

  We sipped the champagne and ate our salmon cornets, in the recommended two to three bites. “Did you ever imagine…?”I started to ask André, before a stream of managers, maître d’s, captains, backservers, runners, and coffee servers stopped by to welcome us, to pour more champagne, and to inform us that the chef wanted to cook for us.

  Did we have any allergies? No.

  Any dislikes? None worth holding on to.

  Time constraints? Absolutely not.

  Some diners find the concept of an unknown menu to be frightening. I know this because I have seen the stricken look on their faces. But to me, a restaurant with no menu, headed by a chef I trusted, would be ideal. In such a utopia, guests could specify deathly allergies, hunger level, and time constraints, but then they would unfurl their napkin and surrender. Imagine a room full of real eaters, willing to try something they usually hate, at the mercy of a chef whose only limit is her imagination (and possibly red tide). It would be like the director or actor whose films you see, the author whose books you buy in hardcover as soon as they hit the shelves, or the musicians whose concert tickets you are willing to sleep on the sidewalk to buy. You might skim the reviews and take friends’ opinions into consideration, but you trust the director, author, artist, or chef far more.