Special (Jobs 15, 16 and 17)

Where I grew up, there weren't many restaurants serving more than steak and potatoes. I never recall a time when my father asked to speak to the sommelier, or complained that his martini didn't have enough vermouth. All we had were pizzerias and delis. So, when I moved to my cousin’s area and walked into the newly renovated luxurious Outhouse Restaurant, I didn't quite know how to proceed. For one, there were tablecloths and starched white folded napkins placed in front of  Bordeaux glasses, instead of the usual paper napkin and weathered plastic tumbler. The menu didn’t list “samplers” or towers of jalapeño poppers. Instead, there were oyster bars and bib lettuce salads. It was a whole other ball game and the prices were the first thing that made me want, so desperately, to get the job. The owner was a jolly type of fellow, named Nick, who seemed to love my energy.  "You don't have enough experience, but we can teach you everything you need to know." Not long after, he confided in me that within the next three years he was going to be financially independent (years later, in New York , this same man wrote a bad personal check for his modeling agency’s dinner).  He also told me that he wanted to buy up the entire street so that he can turn it into a type of Neverland for the children. Popcorn and cotton candy. I believed him. I also believed that he was a feminine womanizer, until he asked me to stay late one night and serve him and his flirtatious man-friend rounds of Johnny Walker Blue by the fireplace. "He's not gay. Men have drinks too." This was an entirely new world to me. I was very naive and completely out of my element. On my first day, I proudly displayed my crisp dress shirt and sharply creased khakis. No more stripes and buttons or birthday singing – I was moving up in the world. I rushed around with a short-haired British woman who was able to handle a five table section, sustain a perfect smile and still mutter insults at the pompous customers as she turned away. I trained within a week, showed everyone on the staff that I was completely capable of handling myself and even enjoyed a couple of drinks afterwards with everyone at the local wine bar. "Wine bar! Can you believe this?” I said to my mother on the phone.   "Yeah. I like wine too, Chestah," my mother revealed in her thick Bronx accent. "Your fathah sometimes brings home that big bottle of pino greggo." "Grigio", I corrected. "It's Pino Grigio, Ma, and it's a nice light-bodied wine that has mineral hints of limestone and grass." It was a bumpy start, but I learned everything – the way to present the wine, fold a guest’s napkin when they got up from the table.  I mean, wasn't that what it was all about? Learning? This is why I had no problems when my very first table showed me how to open up their very expensive bottle of red wine. "You're doin' it all wrong kid, here just give me the thing." When I explained what “venetian” was to a table, a woman graciously corrected me and explained that the right pronunciation was “venison…ven-i-son.”  There was even a helpful old Jewish man that spoke to his wife about me as if I weren't even standing there. "No darling, the waiter doesn't know what he's talking about, just order the brisket." It wasn't until a customer reprimanded me for reading my specials off of a pad that I noticed things began to feel...well, a little difficult. "We spend enough money in this place, we should get the proper service," he says. "Huh?" I muttered. "You should have those specials memorized," he complained. At this point, I noticed the owner's beet-red face. He was disappointment in my performance. He quickly sent his Mexican assistant, Pedro, to the kitchen to get the table a plate of home made cookies for their distress. “Memorize?” I thought. “That's kind of silly. Why would I memorize something that's already written down for me?” Nick and I had a little powwow. He told me to get with the program: "I can't afford to look unprofessional, Chester , this is my business." I decided to learn the specials and try to step up my game so that the Outhouse could get a good review. "You never know when they're going to come in, Chester . You need to be on point", he constantly reminded me. On one particular night, the same night I noticed that the Executive Chef would describe the specials as if he were tasting them on the spot (closed eyes and wet lips – a typical air taster), we had monk fish. There I was, giving out my perfect sales pitch. Selling the special and making tables happy. Nick looked over at me and thought to himself, "Boy, you've come a long way."  He couldn't have been prouder of his prodigy or gayer in the pink colored shirt he claimed was, "Salmon. Not pink. Salmon." But nothing – and I do mean nothing – can compare to the pressure that I felt as I stood in front of a table of eight doctors that stopped me midway into my well-oiled special speech, and asked, "What did you just say? Did you say hand roasted?" A little caught off guard, I looked down at my "only in an emergency" pad, to see the exact word that the chef had told us. "Yeah, that's what it says. Hand roasted", I replied.  "You mean pan roasted", he said. See, this is the point where my rationale went a little haywire. First of all, I'd been saying hand roasted all night and people never questioned me. In fact they loved it. And just because they were doctors didn't mean that they knew everything. But, on the other hand, I never did stop to ask myself what that meant. So, being the proud person that I am, I told him, "No sir, tonight the Chef is doing it hand roasted." The entire restaurant seemed to have stopped. Like when MJ entered a bar. The owner stood there sweating. I was used to this by now, and so was Pedro (already standing there with a cookie plate). "Well what the hell does that mean?" asked the man. "What does that mean?" I said nice and slowly, hoping to buy myself a little bit of scramble time. "It means...that...the Chef takes the little...fish patty and sort of massages it with some chilies and salt and herbs", I said. "That can't be hygienic." "No it is", I said. "See, cause he uh…he uh...”  What the fuck was I saying?  What the hell is a hand roasted monk fish?  It must mean something.  "You know what? Let me go back and check." Nick's pursed lips and bugged-out eyes told me that I was in some seriously deep shit. So, I nervously approached the air-tasting chef, "Hey, Taylor ?" "Yeah?" "It's a hand roasted monk fish, right?" I ask. "Yeah" he replies, "A pan roasted monk fish." How was this going to get fixed? How could I tell them that all of what I said meant nothing but babble from a newbie that didn't know what the hell he was talking about. "Is everything alright?" Nick asks. "I got it under control" I said, as he motioned for Pedro to go back into the kitchen with the cookies. And I did. I marched right back up to that table and with a look on my face as if this was all going to be something we could laugh about in days to come, I said, "You know what? You were right sir. It is a pan roasted monk fish, but the chef told me to tell you, that if you'd like he can cook it on his hand." Silence is an understatement. Revulsion is more like it. Every one of those doctors looked at my stupid little joke as if I had insulted their doctoral intelligence. I looked back and remember thinking how fast Pedro retrieved that plate of cookies. I got no laughs, no sympathy and zero respect. Needless to say, I wasn't at the Outhouse for long and neither was anybody else. It closed a year later. However, I did get another job, at an even ritzier place, not long after. Talk about money? I was officially working at a New York City steakhouse. And not only was it a steakhouse, but it was Donna's (one of the best in the city). The money and level of professionalism was practically triple compared to the Outhouse. High rolling executives came flooding in with their corporate cards. Bottles of wine for over six hundred dollars were poured like Pellegrino. The owner was never around, and the chef was a scrawny little chain smoker that loved to make me drink with him, just so he'd get the opportunity to tell me, "You know what Chester ? You're an asshole.”  His smile couldn't have been wider, I’d nervously laugh, and he'd always repeat it to convince me, "No I'm serious! You're a fuckin' asshole." Everyone liked me and life was great. However, right when you think you've got things under control, a table walks in and pops you with a question that...well, that you don't know the answer to. "What's a chanterelle?" this woman asked. I knew if I went back to the chef he would look at me with utter disgust, not to mention the backlash I’d get during our after shift drink, so I did what every other waiter learns to do. I lied.  Made it up on the spot.  I thought to myself, "Just say what it sounds like." "Sorry, I just don't know what that is", the woman confessed. "No worries, miss, that's what I'm here for", I said. "No, a chanterelle is an herb. It's a plant...very leafy and green. It's just got the most wonderful flavor", I said. She smiled, was sold on my bullshit and ordered the special. But when the dish actually arrived and I could barely see her face from the steaming heap of mushrooms on her plate, I knew I was in trouble. She waved me over and I quickly stepped to. "Now, where is the chanterelle on here?” she asked. One of the uptight floor managers looked to see how I'd handle the situation. "They're probably on the bottom" I said. "Would you mind bringing me an extra side of it, so I can get a taste?" she asked. "Honey" her boyfriend chimed in, "He said they're on the bottom." "No, I know," she said. I thought to quickly defuse the situation by “yesing” her to death.  "No, it's not a problem. I'll get that right out to you," I offered as I swiftly made my way back into the kitchen to invent a seasoning that never existed. "You told her a chanterelle was an herb!" my co-worker says. "It's a mushroom, moron." "I know that now," I replied, "but I have to just play along and figure something out." "What's up with that table?" asked the manager. "Oh, she just wants a side of herbs and stuff." "And stuff?" he asked. "Yeah...you know, like just a side of them." "Which ones." "Oh, don't worry about it," I told him. "I'll take care of it." He walked away without completely being convinced that I knew what I was doing. So there I was, back near the dishwasher, ripping off leaves from any sort of green that I could stuff down my apron from the walk-in fridge. In fact, I didn't even know which ones I grabbed. I was trying to do it as fast as I could, so the maniac chef wouldn't catch on and, at the same time, I was trying to think of a flavor profile so that it didn't taste like anything she'd had before. It had a minty scent that I killed with some lemon. I quickly seasoned it while softly coaching myself, "And a little-bit-of-salt…" I made it look appetizing, put it on a plate, and served it. She, gratefully, thanked me, covered her forty dollar steak with my nasty concoction that I wouldn't have fed to a dog and piled it into her face. "It's wonderful" she said. I slowly bowed my head, smiled and walked away, but not without giving her the old, "Let me know if there's anything else I can get for you." One of the last restaurants I ever worked at was full of verbal landmines that could easily trip up even the most seasoned of servers. It was called the Nocturne Room, a seafood restaurant that was full of itself. Every shift, they would cook and serve over one hundred dollars worth of menu items for the wait staff. Managers would go around the room and ask us what was in "that dish or this dessert" and made you feel ashamed for saying anything out of order. Nobody wanted to hear your opinion of something – they simply wanted you to sell it. The owner’s name was Jacob, and he was a spoiled child that came from a disturbingly rich family. His mother, I was convinced, should already have been dead, but had enough money to stop the process. She had a wing in the Museum of Natural History and tipped like shit.  His father was a talented prick. One of those guys that would enjoy watching you run around because his salmon was undercooked even though he ordered it from the raw bar. He was a lawyer and a classic piece of shit. I often felt that Jacob was riding my back with a whip, telling me how to stand, walk and trying to practically control my mind through telepathy. I despised going into this job. It was the worst of the worst.  If it wasn't mothers with strollers streaming through the doors in droves, like zombies, creeping out of the Hudson at sunrise for Sunday brunch, it was a decrepit old woman that wanted her fish boiled…. or, a table of six couples sitting outside, appalled that a huge pigeon came and shit across their food.  Saturdays sucked if you were in the front section. The owner stood there with his hip outfit and fake hospitality as he pummeled you with table after table, expecting nothing but perfection. If you needed help, it concerned him. It was table twelve that did it to me.  Two couples that were looking for a wonderful night of fine dining. They weren't from the city, so they had a tinge more manners than the average Upper West side patron. The special was a South African Black Toothfish, or better known as rockfish – the ugliest food I'd ever seen to date. I was sure that this was, at some point, mistaken for the Loch Ness Monster. In order to remember confusing details of a special, I would make up easy references.  For the rockfish, I thought of Chris Rock. The reason being was that the fish had huge bucked teeth that stuck out and...well, so did Chris Rock.  So, it was completely understandable, at least from my point of view, that I didn’t call it the correct title of a South African Black Toothfish but, instead, a “Black African Toothfish” (remember the Chris Rock thing was in my head). It was a mistake that Jacob, so kindly, brought to my attention by wiggling his index finger at me, from across the room. The problem wasn't the slipup; the problem was that my four guests were black.  If they were offended, it would have been news to me since I never heard a complaint. But I knew Jacob wasn't impressed. Though I never got fired, my theory of specials is this: Why have them?  If you do, let the fucking server read them and stop making everything so complicated. Write it on a chalkboard for Christ's sake and nobody will be offended, misinformed or overlooked. It would all be there for everyone to see. Besides, most career waiters that I knew would nod “yes” to the chef, go back to their section, never sell the kitchen's little overpriced inventions and, still, they made the majority of people happy.