by Ruth Reichl
“Guess what I’ve got for you for lunch,” he said.
“Peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches?”
He feigned a hurt look. “How did you know?”
“Because that’s what everybody always brings for kids,” she said. “Mama says it’s cheap and tricious.”
“Nutritious,” Mrs. Forest corrected her. “And don’t be givin’ away all our secrets. We don’t eat peanut butter every day.”
“Yes we do,” said Crystal.
“Don’t you sass me, young lady,” said Mrs. Forest in the sternest tone she’d used all day. Crystal subsided instantly.
“Well, I ate peanut butter every day of my childhood,” said Mac. “And that’s what made me so big and strong.”
Both girls giggled; Mac looked like a pretty puny specimen. We got off the ferry and Mac herded us all toward a big Checker cab. “We’re takin’ a taxi?” asked Janisse. “Us?”
“My treat,” said Mac opening the door and pulling up the two little jump seats for the girls.
“A taxi,” breathed Crystal. “We’re ridin’ in a taxi!” I knew how she felt; in our household taking a taxi was the sort of thing you’d do only if it was so late that the buses weren’t running or if you were deathly ill. A taxi in the middle of the day felt slightly sinful. Even one as crowded as this.
We tumbled out at Washington Square Park and went to sit by the fountain. We ate our sandwiches and talked and listened to one of the musicians strumming his guitar. The girls, admonished not to get wet by Mrs. Forest, immediately waded into the fountain. It was clear that this was not a day for whippings.
But then Janisse had to go to the bathroom, and the restroom in the park was closed. “They always are,” said Mrs. Forest with resignation.
“My house is just three blocks away,” I said impulsively. “We could go use the bathroom there.”
By the time we got there Janisse was hopping up and down in the bathroom dance and I was so busy praying she wouldn’t pee before we reached the apartment that I didn’t notice the elevator man’s sour look.
“Friendly guy,” said Mac when we got off. The sarcasm was lost on me; I was fitting first one key into the lock and then another, jiggling the three locks. Then I was leading Janisse to the bathroom, and sighing a huge sigh of relief.
One by one we paraded to the bathroom. And then we left. If Mrs. Forest thought anything about the strange art or the dead tree she didn’t say. The girls giggled at the abstract painting in the hall but stopped when Mrs. Forest frowned.
We walked down Tenth Street to Sixth Avenue, and down Sixth to the subway. Mac left us there, saying he was going to check out a class at the University of the Streets. “Nice meetin’ you,” said Mrs. Forest. And that was that.
“’Bye,” chorused Crystal and Janisse. Mrs. Forest bantered with the girls all the way back to the Bronx and when we got out at Tremont Avenue she was as cheerful as she had been when we got on.
“Where you girls think we’re goin’ next?” she asked. “Maybe Ruth’s going to take us to the moon.”
“To the moon, to the moon,” the girls said, trying to match her cheer.
“To the moon,” I said as I waved them up the stairs, thinking that our next journey would be to the Planetarium. “Wait until you see how much you weigh there!”
I went back to the office to write up my report, leaving out Mac and the part about taking the girls home to pee. And then I went down into the subway and back to Manhattan.
The elevator man was his usual dour self, but I didn’t think much about it. “No company?” he asked.
“All alone!” I said cheerfully, fishing my keys out of my purse. I could hear the phone ringing as I stepped into the hall.
“Hi, Pussycat,” said my mother’s voice when I picked it up. I was instantly wary.
“Hi?” I said. “Is something wrong?”
“Just a little thing,” she said cheerfully.
“Mmm?”
“I just got a call from the superintendant. He wanted to know who was using the apartment.”
“So?”
“I told him that you and your roommate were staying there for the summer. But he said that you had a Negro man staying there as well.”
“Mac’s here for a few days,” I said. She sighed.
“He also said that today you took a Negro couple with three children upstairs.”
“So?” I said. “What business is it of his who I have in the apartment?”
“Well, darling, the thing is …” Mom hesitated.
“Yes?”
“They’d like your Negro friends to use the service elevator.”
“Are you crazy?” I said. “This is 1967. This isn’t the South, it’s New York! And not some snooty Park Avenue address. This is the Village!”
“I know, dear, but some people don’t like it.”
I took a deep breath. And then I said, in the most dignified voice I could muster, “I’m going to forget we’ve ever had this conversation. And I will certainly not tell Serafina, or Mac, or anyone I know that it has taken place. I don’t care what you tell the superintendent.”
I don’t know what my mother did. I never spoke about it with anyone again. Mac came back from the University of the Streets and Serafina came home from the bar. And we went down in the front elevator and out to dinner.
THE PHILOSOPHER OF THE TABLE
I went to work at L’Escargot because of Alan Jones. I stayed because of everybody else.
He was a skinny intellectual who went around saying things like “You will have to overcome your bourgeois dependence on comfort.” When we met at an antiwar rally it was, for me, love at first sight. When he told me he had gotten a job as a waiter at the fancy new French restaurant I did not ask how he was going to reconcile that with his conscience; I merely asked where I went to be hired myself. I knew nothing about waiting on tables but I imagined the two of us getting off work late at night and strolling home together in the moonlight. Who knew what might happen?
“Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?” asked the owner when I presented myself. He was a thin, fey man with dark hair and good clothes. I was shocked to notice that his face was covered with pancake makeup. This did not prevent him from looking me up and down appraisingly. I shook my head and mumbled something about being a quick learner and a hard worker. “Well,” he said, “we do need someone. Go try on a uniform and let’s see how you look.”
The uniform was a clever cross between a French peasant costume and a Playboy bunny outfit; the skirt was short and full and the vest laced so tightly it made my breasts pop alarmingly out of the low-cut white blouse. Black tights and high heels completed the ensemble. “Good, good,” said Maurice when he looked at me. “You’ll do. Let me show you the restaurant.”
He strolled possessively through the space, pointing out landmarks as if he were the guardian of an important historical site. Stopping beneath a fixture in the entryway he pointed upward. “See that chandelier?” he said. “That used to hang in the bedroom of the Duke of Wales.” He peered at my face and added, “No, really. I bought it at an estate sale in England.” He led me into the main dining room and proudly showed off the mahogany sideboard and the long red velvet drapes. Dangling from the middle of the ceiling was another magnificent chandelier. He looked admiringly up and said, “Beautiful isn’t it? I bought that in France.”
Showing me the chairs (carved oak), the plates (Limoges) and the glasses (crystal), he said, “Nothing but the best! People say that Ann Arbor is not ready for real class, but I will prove they are wrong. I have put my life savings into this restaurant.” Then he took me into the kitchen to meet the chef.
He was a fat, ancient Frenchman wearing a toque twice the size of his head. “I hired him away from the Four Seasons in New York,” Maurice boasted. The sous chef, Rolf, he said was also from the Four Seasons. “And this,” he said, “is Lincoln. He came from the London Chop House in Detroit. He’s the best grill man in Michigan.” Lincoln gri
nned, his teeth very white in his dark face, and held out his hand. The chef looked at me as if I were dirt and Rolf said, “Ah, Maurice, you are finally getting smart. You have brought me a little cherry to decorate the kitchen.” He had a strong German accent. I blushed deeply.
Rolf chucked me under the chin and said, “Your job, my pigeon, will be to bring me cold beer and keep me happy. Be nice and you will never have to wait for your orders.”
Maurice crossed his arms around his chest and hugged himself as if the air in the kitchen had turned chilly. He rubbed his shoulders as he moved toward the door. “Now I will introduce you to Henry,” he said. “He will show you what to do.” Still huddled inside his own arms he led me out of the hot, brightly lit kitchen.
Maurice dropped his arms as the door to the dining room swung shut. He sighed as he walked onto the carpet, as if returning from a perilous journey. Walking possessively across the room, he smoothed each tablecloth he passed, running his hands lovingly across the surface. I wondered what the house he lived in looked like.
“This is Henry,” he said, leading me up to a gray-haired black man who was methodically plucking the glasses from a table and removing invisible specks of dust. “He is the best waiter I ever met.” Henry set the glass down with deliberation and moved it over an eighth of an inch as if there were a diagram on the cloth that only he could see. He inclined his head and held out his hand. Then he picked up the next glass and held it critically up to the light. Without looking at me he asked, “She know anything?”
Maurice shook his head.
“Okay, boss,” said Henry, “we’ll take it from the top.” He set the glass down with the same precision as the last one, motioned me to the table, and pulled out a chair. The lesson was about to begin.
“Do you know what a restaurant is?” he asked.
“A place where people pay to eat?”
“A war zone,” he replied. “Never forget that. They,” he pointed to the kitchen door, “are on one side. These people,” sweeping the dining room with his arms, “are on the other.” He paused, stared straight at me and said, “Us? We’re nothing but go-betweens. The kitchen never forgets the enemy, but you do your job right and the customer gets out the door without even knowing he’s been at war.”
Henry showed me how to set up and how to serve. He told me to tip the bartender and be generous to busboys (“they can cut your tips in half if they decide not to like you,” he cautioned). He showed me how to sauté steak Diane and make crêpes suzette.
“Pure gold if you play your cards right,” he said, melting butter in the copper pan. “And not just because they charge $2.95 for a couple of emaciated pancakes.” He added lemon juice and curaçao, lit a match, and watched the blaze.
But he saved Caesar salad for last. “This is your best chance to develop a personality for the customers,” he said. “It’s like acting.”
According to Henry it was our responsibility to invent a good story for the customers; it enhanced their dining experience. His own line, refined over many years, was that he had been born into a dancing family deeply disappointed by his lack of rhythm. “All toes,” he would say mournfully as he moved the crêpes around the copper pan.
“That’s not true?” I asked.
“The truth,” he replied, “is distinctly overrated. The only thing my family ever did with their feet was plant them in a row of cotton and then head them north. But who wants to hear that? I give the people something to tell their friends when they get home. It’s more interesting than talking about the steak they ate at the most expensive restaurant in the Midwest.”
Under Henry’s tutelage I soon developed a fine French accent and a pathetic story: I was an exchange student whose family had underestimated the amount of money required for life in America. I embroidered a little more each night, adding details about the farm on the Île d’Oléron where I had grown up. Nobody seemed to mind except Marielle, the older French waitress. She never said anything, but she looked at me with such hatred that I could hardly talk when she was in earshot.
“Don’t mind her,” said Henry one night as we stood at the side of the room, watching our tables. “You’re doing the customers a favor. The people appreciate it.”
SHOW-OFF SALAD
2 cloves garlic
½ cup olive oil
1 cup cubed stale French bread
1 organically grown egg
1 small head romaine lettuce
½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
½ teaspoon salt
Pepper
½ large juicy lemon
4 filets anchovies, cut in quarters
¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Make croutons: crush one clove of garlic and heat gently in 2 tablespoons of the olive oil. Add bread cubes and sauté over medium heat, stirring constantly, until croutons are crisp and golden on all sides. Drain on paper towel and set aside.
Coddle egg by cooking, in the shell, 1 minute in boiling water. Set aside. (It is important to use tested eggs from a reputable producer, as the egg is not sufficiently cooked to kill any bacteria such as salmonella that the raw egg might contain.)
Wash and dry lettuce well, and tear into bite-sized pieces. Wrap in a dish towel and refrigerate until ready to use.
Assemble all ingredients on a tray at the table.
In front of your guests, peel the remaining clove of garlic, cut it in half and crush the half in the bottom of a salad bowl. Add romaine lettuce leaves and remaining olive oil and toss thoroughly and dramatically until every leaf is coated. Add Worcestershire sauce and salt and pepper to taste.
Break the egg over the lettuce and toss until leaves glisten. Stick a fork into the half lemon and squeeze the juice over the lettuce. Toss until the dressing has a creamy look. Toss in anchovies and mix some more.
Now taste it. Perhaps you’d like some more lemon? Add it! A bit more pepper? Add that too. You might want to ask your guests to taste the salad as well. When it is seasoned to your satisfaction, toss in the cheese and croutons, mix again and serve.
Serves 4.
Everybody at L’Escargot understood that the restaurant was doomed. Except me. And Maurice.
“You don’t know anything,” said Henry, “and Maurice, as he calls himself, is a fool. But there is one thing I like about the man: he has the courage to dream.”
Henry didn’t have to dream: he loved his work. Watching him bent over a customer murmuring softly that the asparagus hollandaise was really very fine tonight, I was reminded of my father running his hands down the pages of a book as if the type were speaking to him. He too was a man who loved his work.
Henry knew everything about restaurants and he was generous with his knowledge. The first night he showed me how to balance cocktails on a tray, and in which order to remove them to avoid disaster. The next night he told me how to handle the kitchen when a customer returned a dish.
“The kitchen’s not at war with you,” he explained, “so you have to take the blame. Say the customer complains the steak is overdone. Rolf’s going to say it’s not; he’s got to defend his honor. But if you say the man asked for medium but you wrote down well done, that’s a different story because the mistake is yours. Rolf will yell at you. He’ll call you an idiot. But he’ll give you a new steak.”
The third night I forgot a customer’s shrimp cocktail and Henry told Maurice to send the man a bottle of complimentary champagne. When I thanked Maurice, Henry murmured that it wasn’t necessary. “It’s in his interest,” he explained. “Maurice doesn’t want unhappy customers. And you know what? The richer the customer, the more they like free things.”
On the fourth night I told him about my new recurring nightmare. “There’s this table and they keep shouting, ‘Miss, oh Miss,’ and waving their hands at me. I keep saying, ‘I’ll be right there.’ But I never get to them.”
“I remember that one,” he said reassuringly. “It will pass.” Suddenly an odd look crossed his face. I watched
it move, like a wave ruffling calm water.
“Your boyfriend over there just used too much curaçao,” he said. And he was gone. In the next instant Alan Jones lit a match, held it to the pan, and the flames flared up and licked at the red velvet curtains. Henry had the fire out before the customers knew what happened.
“Thanks, man,” said Alan, looking sheepish.
Henry strolled back to where I was standing. “How’d you do that?” I asked.
“Smothered it,” he said casually, folding up a piece of oilcloth and tucking it back into his vest pocket.
But there were three problems Henry couldn’t help me with: Alan Jones, Rolf, and Marielle.
Alan Jones did walk me home from work most nights, but he didn’t hold my hand. After he had changed out of his tuxedo and shrugged into his olive-green surplus army jacket he began to lecture me about my materialistic tendencies, telling me about his readings in Gurdjieff and his latest interest, macrobiotics. I thought he was wonderful; I was in despair.
Rolf, unfortunately, had all the passion Alan Jones lacked. As each evening wore on and the temperature in the kitchen climbed to 120° his requests for beer became more frequent. The drunker he got, the more lewd he became.
“One coq au vin,” I’d say.
“What?”
“One coq au vin,” I’d repeat.
“Louder.”
“One coq au vin.”
“You heard her, she wants some cock,” he’d say and the entire kitchen would erupt in laughter as I turned bright red.
One night he followed me into the alley where we went to smoke cigarettes. “I have something for you,” he said, going to the garbage can and rummaging inside it.
“Garbage?” I said.
“Wait,” he said. “You’ll see.” His head was inside the garbage can and he was throwing cracked eggshells and used paper towels in the air. Finally he emerged holding a long package wrapped in silver foil. “Feel this,” he said, throwing it to me. It was surprisingly heavy. “A whole tenderloin,” he said. “Treat me right and it’s yours.”
