Service Included: Four-Star Secrets of an Eavesdropping Waiter

241 Pages·2007·2.07 MB·English

by  Phoebe Damrosch

SER VICE • INCLUDED

Four-Star
Secrets
of an
Eavesdropping
Waiter
•

Phoebe Damrosch
For André, who is just right
• •

contents
a diner’s bill of rights v
introduction vii
the art of the day job 1
food porn 13
mosquitoes on toast 32
fire! 54
four-star mistress 74
being frank 89
no bones about it 104
the fault, dear bruni 129
not in the stars 146
underlings 156
i can hear you 170
city love 190
service included 211
iv • CONTENTS
a few more tips 216
afterword: my dinner with andré 220
per se menu 223
acknowledgments 227
about the author
credits
cover
copyright
about the publisher
• •

a diner’s bill of rights
1. The right to have your reservation honored
2. The right to water
3. The right to the food you ordered at
the temperature the chef intended
4. The right to a clean, working bathroom
5. The right to clean flatware, glassware,
china, linen, tables, and napkins
6. The right to enough light to read your menu
7. The right to hear your dining companions
when they speak
8. The right to be served until the restaurant’s
advertised closing time
9. The right to stay at your table as long as you like
10. The right to salt and pepper

• •

introduction
i
introductions and plunge right into the
USUALLY SKIP
first chapter. At the end, if I loved the book, I savor every-
thing to delay its inevitable close—even the history of the font.
I imagine that reading an introduction at the beginning is like
dunking a toe in to check the literary temperature. Your toe,
in this case, will experience: an ambiguous disclaimer about
fact and fi ction, a feeble attempt to summarize this book, an
explanation of the title, and a statement of prophylactic con-
trition.
As to the slippery subject of nonfiction, all I can say is that
this book contains the truth according to my memory, with the
following exceptions: consolidation of conversations, time,
and two characters. I altered a few names and incriminating
details and left a great deal out, mainly that which would have
embarrassed, angered, or hurt people unnecessarily.
While I worked on this project, well-meaning friends and
acquaintances asked what I was writing about, a question for
which I was always ill-prepared. At first I told outrageous lies
viii • INTRODUCTION
(see “City Love”). After lying backfired, I tried to be vague: “It’s
about restaurant culture. . . .” When pressed, I gave a laundry
list of topics: food, fine dining, love, jealousy, New York, late-
night grazing, guests, cookbooks, critics. Eyes glazed over. The
next approach was reverse psychology. This book is not a sepia -
toned portrait of my grandmother in the kitchen making
meatballs, samosas, congee, or empanadas. It is not a how-to;
you will find nary a recipe, nor will you learn to bone, butter-
fly, boil, or braise. It is not a history of great breadth; most of
the story occurs within an eighteen-month period.
After I left Per Se restaurant, the setting of this book, a for-
mer colleague passed along a story that the chef told the staff.
If you want to understand commitment, he explained, all you
have to do is look at the American breakfast of bacon and eggs.
The chicken was involved, but the pig was committed.
This is a story about commitment: to food, ser vice, love,
perfection, and to being the bacon.
Rated PG: May contain material offensive to Republicans, vegans, pharma-
ceutical lobbyists, and those on a low-sodium diet. Animals were harmed
during the writing of this book.
• •

the art of the day job
e
to accept that I wasn’t working in
VENTUALLY I HAD
restaurants to support my art like most of my cowork-
ers; I was posing as an artist to justify my work as a waiter.
The small café where I worked in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, em-
ployed artists as if there were quotas to be met: a drummer, a
filmmaker, an actor, a dancer, a photographer, a designer, and
myself—who at that point fancied herself a writer. Every so
often someone would go on tour, decide to move back to some
small town in some small state, or simply leave out of frustra-
tion with what he or she wasn’t getting to do. It’s a dangerous
combination, this dichotomy of artist/waiter, one that often
leads to listless ser vice and half-finished Margaritas forgotten
behind the computer.
I lived in a studio apartment upstairs from my high school
sweetheart in Williamsburg (recently rated the hippest neigh-
borhood in America—how scientific a study that was, I hardly