Service Included

by Phoebe Damrosch

  By the time table three reached the end of their meal, they were the only ones left in the dining room. Though I had spilled nothing and managed to keep their bread plates and water glasses full, I hardly felt victorious. Mr. Bruni would be back. And next time, I would be required to speak.

  “Second best meal of his life,” Michael called out with his usual bravado as he brought the last dessert plates past the anxious pastry department into the dish room.

  “Second only to his last meal at Per Se,” Corey retorted, knowing perfectly well that Michael had meant the French Laundry.

  I observed this exchange with jealousy. Corey and I never had such a lighthearted conversation. In fact, every time we tried to speak to each other it seemed to go awry within seconds. I showed up in the kitchen at the wrong times, asked too many questions during service, and gave too many details about guests’ requests. But the more sarcastic and short he was with me, the harder I tried to find my way to his good side, if there was one. And the harder I tried, the more I got under his skin. It was Mr. Wilson meets Pollyanna, and it wasn’t pretty. One day after service, hoping to discover the after-hours, softer side of Corey, I poked my head into his office to say good night. He didn’t look up.

  “Corey, why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you,” he said with disdain, still not looking up.

  “Because I have never had such a hard time communicating with anyone in my life,” I said. Corey put down his pen and swiveled around in his chair.

  “Are you one of those people who has to have everyone like you all the time?”

  “Umm, I guess….” I wasn’t sure there was a right answer to this question.

  “Because I am not one of those people.” He swiveled back in his chair and picked up his pen again.

  “Clearly,” I said to his back and walked down the hall toward the exit. As always I was torn between being stung by his comment and amused that someone could be so blunt. I resolved, as I always did after one of our awkward exchanges, not to let him get to me. But I knew that I would still try to win his favor.

  André, Frank, and now Corey.

  * * *

  • A TIP •

  In more formal restaurants, let someone know when you are getting up to smoke or to make a phone call. Even better, let them know one course ahead, so the chef doesn’t start your dish until you return.

  * * *

  • no bones about it •

  aREN’T RESTAURANTS PRETTY much about cocaine and sex?” my cousin interrupted. I don’t recall the topic on which I was pontificating, but it was probably something fascinating like the varied structure of salt crystals or why the women’s uniform shirts had no collar stays. I answered that while there were surely plenty of restaurants out there for which this might be true, my colleagues and I preferred to hold our own wine tastings for recreation. At this point, he shot me a look I hadn’t seen since seventh grade.

  He was on to something, though. The job lends itself to late nights and revelry. Some abuse whiskey; others turn to bacon cheeseburgers. At the end of a tough shift, a waiter has been “on” for at least eight hours, sprinting around the dining room, catering to the whims of the guests and the chef, with little to no time for a water break or trip to the restroom. He is exhausted, starving, irritable, and wide awake. Lucky for him, all of his coworkers suffer as well, so they take their cash (or the promise of cash) and go out. Per Se was no exception.

  Our restaurant fostered a sense of camaraderie in a number of ways besides sharing the same nickname of “chef.” Initially, we bonded during training. Once we opened, we worked in teams each night, meaning that we not only knew our colleagues well, we depended on them. Most important, we all had “family meal” together every night, just like President Bush recommended to all families so their children would have good values and grow up to be gun-toting, pro-life, pro-death, gas-guzzling, warmongering, monolingual, homophobic, wiretapped, Bible-thumping, genetically engineered, stem cell–harboring, abstinent creationists. Oops, I think I just lost all of my red state readers. To make up for it, I’ll let you lose my ballot. Per Se family meal didn’t have this exact effect, but we did get to know one another better.

  Family meal, called staff meal in some restaurants, is a reliably unreliable source of free food. It is common knowledge in most restaurants that when fish is past its prime, when the baker burned the bread, when the entremets boiled instead of parboiled the risotto, it goes to family meal. If there is duck breast on the menu, you can bet there will be duck legs for family meal. But no matter how much everyone complains and threatens to bring their own food the next day, they pile their plastic plates high.

  At Per Se, each station in the kitchen took responsibility for one family meal dish. Garde manger made the salad, the fish station made the fish, meat cooked meat, and so on. Occasionally, the kitchen pulled out the stops and created some sort of culinary extravaganza, like the Mexican-themed family meal where someone made a watermelon salsa that put the tomato to shame. I recall Indian food one day, complete with a huge vat of lassi for us to ladle into plastic deli containers. A sous chef with a gift for southern cuisine once made fried chicken, pulled pork, and cornbread so good, the family meal line actually applauded. Every week we had sandwich day, usually on Friday, and pizza day, usually on Saturday. Other than that, for better or for worse, the kitchen surprised us.

  Family meal hit the pass at 4:20 on the dot and front-of the-house staff, who had already ironed the tablecloths, decrumbed the chairs, and polished the water pitchers, made a plate for each of the cooks who were still frantically finishing their mise en place for the night’s service. Although in the following hours, the cooks would snack on the ends of the lamb saddle and taste-test sauces as they went, front-of-the-house staff would not eat again for at least eight hours. Furthermore, depending on how late she was out the night before, a waiter may have downed a cup of coffee or a bagel before she stumbled into work, but family meal would most likely be her first real meal of the day. When the shift ended, anywhere from midnight to 2:00 A.M., she needed to sit down, she needed a beer, and she needed accessible protein.

  “How do you stay thin eating food like this?” Guests used to ask, licking the caviar from their mother-of-pearl spoons. How they thought the restaurant would stay in business feeding 150 employees foie gras and Scottish langoustines was beyond me.

  If it weren’t such an obvious gift horse, I might have asked why they chose 4:20 P.M. as Per Se mealtime. Not only was it odd not to have rounded it to 4:15 or 4:30, but in some circles, 4:20 has a special significance. In Burlington, Vermont, where I went to high school, “420” was code for marijuana. “420, dude” could mean anything from “Would you like to join me in the woods behind the school?” to “I just got back from the woods behind the school—do my eyes look red?” Needless to say, there were mumbled jokes in the family meal line and in the breezeway where we ate dinner, perched on wooden stools, but those of us in the know chose to keep this little fact to ourselves. When it came to buying by the ounce, I suspect that most of us would have sprung for caviar before weed.

  Save for two Muslim coffee servers and a few perpetually harassed vegetarians on the staff, most of us ate everything, the stranger the better. As we set up the dining room before family meal, the most common conversation was where we ate on our last day off or where we should go on our next. We shared tips on where to get the best tripe and cockscombs, commiserated about picky spouses, and sometimes argued heatedly. One day, while reporting about Landmarc, a new late-night place with a remarkably inexpensive wine list, one of the backservers mentioned the bone marrow dish.

  “There is no way it could be better than Blue Ribbon,” Patrick countered.

  “I am afraid it might be.” Brows furrowed, buffing rags paused midpolish, and a hush fell over the dining room. Patrick’s face flushed as he tried to respond.

  “Please tell me how that is possible,” he finally said with forced
calm.

  From here a serious argument began. It even traveled to the kitchen, where cooks chimed in with technical critiques about the importance of the acid in the marmalade and how the bone is cut. Clearly, we needed to settle this and there was only one way: a bone marrow tasting.

  When management posted the next week’s schedule, Patrick and I were excited to see that he had Wednesday, my school day, off. I also enlisted Gabriel, one of the maître d’s, and tried, to no avail, to convince Corey.

  “Have you tried the bone marrow at Per Se restaurant?” he asked after lying about having to work.

  “No, I must have missed it at family meal,” I responded sarcastically, realizing too late that I had just set myself up for a rocky night.

  Patrick and Gabriel invited their neglected spouses. Patrick’s girlfriend, Mandy, reluctantly agreed to come, but Gabriel’s fiancée deemed it gross and set a curfew. André was working, but even if he hadn’t been, we tried to avoid social activities with people from Per Se.

  After unscientifically polling our coworkers, we determined that there were three places in the running. We would begin at Landmarc, the aforementioned newcomer, because their wine list was outstanding and, more important, cheap, and we could drink there while waiting to convene. From there, we would head to Blue Ribbon, and end up at Crispo, an Italian place on Fourteenth Street, whose marrow I had suggested and secretly hoped would triumph.

  AFTER CLASS ON Wednesday, I found Gabriel, Patrick, and Mandy waiting for me at the bar. Behind them, an open hearth glowed behind a row of charred and sizzling hanger steaks. Landmarc has the signature look of its Tribeca neighborhood: lofty ceilings, exposed brick, and a sort of industrial elegance. In the summer months, they set three or four small tables out front so diners could enjoy the exhaust fumes of West Broadway and a view of the sports bar across the street that throbbed with stale rock and roll. The crew was well into a few cocktails and had run into two sommelier friends from other restaurants who appeared to be intrigued by our quest.

  “Let us know when the tripe tasting happens,” they called to us as we relocated to a table.

  We promised the host that she would have the table back in less than an hour. We decided on two orders of marrow, fries, and the foie gras dish, which none of us had yet tasted. Fat, fat, and more fat. I suggested that to be fair, we should drink the same wine at each place, but Patrick disagreed, arguing that the accompaniments to the dish should determine our wine selection. He ordered premier cru Chassagne Montrachet and I decided to leave control grouping to more serious scientists.

  After we placed our order with the perplexed waitress, we set up the criteria by which we would judge. First and foremost were the bones themselves. The marrow needed to be in good condition, easily accessible, and well-seasoned. Good condition meant that it had the consistency of underdone Jell-O and would melt in the mouth without much encouragement like any fat, from butter to foie gras. We decreed that the bread, marmalade, and other chosen accompaniments should complement the dish, but were to be assessed individually.

  The order came with three bones, each about three inches high. They were cut so that the marrow was accessible from the top, and were served with a small wooden fork with which to scoop it out. We assembled our first bites in silence, spreading the translucent marrow on the bread and topping it with the marmalade, which was a tangy onion and port concoction. Coarse salt, to be sprinkled either on the marrow or atop the marmalade, arrived in a cast-iron skillet, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. A nice touch.

  “Okay, I have something to say,” said Gabriel as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses authoritatively and cleared his throat. He had not, until this point, been taking this whole experience as seriously as some of us, but this seemed about to change. “This bread is killing my marrow.”

  Gabriel’s delivery of this assessment reminded me of a news briefing. In fact, everything about Gabriel gave the impression that he had a very important message to deliver. He did not simply walk; he strode with his head high and his back as straight as the part of his hair. During the preshift meeting, when something either amused or angered him, his pale skin flushed slightly, as if it had just been vigorously scrubbed.

  He was right, as usual. The bread was overcharred, lending a burned flavor to the easily overpowered flavor of the marrow. This is not to say that we didn’t finish all six bones, the foie gras, and a whole basket of fries (mentally noting to ask for them extra crispy next time).

  Our hour was almost up when we poured out the rest of the wine and then hurried outside to hail a cab. Within minutes, we climbed out of the cab into Spring Street. Compared to Tribeca, with its wide streets lined with converted factories and warehouses, the Village feels like an old-world dollhouse. The streets are narrow, the buildings small, and each trendy boutique seems flanked by yet another café.

  The word cozy is overused in New York—usually for painfully small apartments—but whenever I hear it, I imagine Blue Ribbon. The floors are slanted and creaky and the tables so close, that when you squeeze a lemon wedge over your fried calamari, you are just as likely to hit your neighbor as you are your date. Tiered stands of chilled shrimp, oysters, cockles, and the odd lobster claws dangling off an edge, towered over many of the parties. We convinced the host to give us the one empty table that was being held for another party.

  “We’ll be out of here in no time,” Patrick assured the waiter who appeared after we had been seated. He ordered his usual selection, Calera Pinot Noir, which he believed did justice to the oxtail marmalade. He had been hyping this marmalade for the duration of the cab ride. A “manly” marmalade, he proclaimed. I told him not to prejudice the jury.

  “Let the record show that it is 8:40 and we are sitting in Blue Ribbon,” Patrick proclaimed with mock gravity after he had ordered the wine.

  For many restaurant workers, Blue Ribbon serves as a second home. It is always busy, the food is consistently fine, and they serve until four in the morning. I had been there many times, with André and with other friends from Per Se, but could not recall ever having set foot in the West Village hangout before midnight. We unfurled our napkins and tore into the warm loaf of bread that sat, round and dusted with flour, on a board in the center of the table. All of us had the menu memorized, but tonight there was no need to choose; we were there for one thing and one thing alone.

  I often have a hard time admitting to being wrong, but in this case, it was clear. There would be no way to improve upon the perfection that is Blue Ribbon’s bone marrow. First of all, the bones themselves are cut on both ends, meaning that, as Gabriel demonstrated with practiced ease, one could slide the little wooden fork around the marrow, loosen it, and simply lift the bone away. Left on the plate is a perfect cylinder of gently wobbling marrow waiting to be spread generously onto the thick, sweet, golden brown triangles of fresh brioche. And I would argue that the luxuriously rich oxtail marmalade, with its brunoise of carrot and onion, is not only manly, but the truly memorable part of the dish.

  We were sluggish and sated as we labored toward the door.

  “How were the bones?” our waiter asked. I loved him for that question alone.

  Mandy, who until this point had been a cheerful companion, swore she could not stand another ounce of fat. “Can we order at least one thing green?” she begged as we all slid low in the back of the cab, patting our bellies apologetically.

  “Yes, but we must power on!” I said in an effort to rally the troops. “Crispo is the dark horse.” Patrick grumbled and seemed to revive a little at the challenge. Gabriel looked at his watch.

  In truth, I knew the verdict already and wasn’t surprised when the marrow at Crispo not only lagged in comparison to Blue Ribbon, but came in a distant third to Landmarc. The bones, although cut crossways and quite accessible, were topped with a sort of breadcrumb concoction that tasted bizarrely fishy, as if they were soaked in sardine fat. “Which would be fine if that was supposed to be part of the d
ish,” said Mandy, who was happily munching on a prosciutto and apple salad from which she had carefully removed all the prosciutto. “But I get the feeling that it was inadvertent.”

  At this point, Gabriel’s phone rang and he headed home obediently to his fiancée, who would have little sympathy for his aching belly. That left Mandy, Patrick, and me at our table in the courtyard with a terrible bottle of Rosso de Montalcino, a heap of prosciutto, and a barely touched mass of marrow before us.

  “You’re on your own for that tripe tasting,” Patrick informed me.

  “BRUNI’S ON TABLE six!” Patrick proclaimed cheerfully one evening soon after our tasting, with the usual twinkle in his eye and wry smile. He had already done his tour of Bruni duty and was happy to pass on the responsibility.

  “No, Patrick, I believe he’s in your station this evening,” I responded, rolling my eyes. I was getting tired of this joke.

  “No really, Phoebe, Mr. Bruni’s on table six.” He was serious, and I was seriously going to throw up. At that moment, I had Food & Wine doing a VIP menu on table three, the Zagats doing their usual abbreviated, high-maintenance menu on table four, and was trying to turn table five for some guy who had just written a biography of some restaurateur (I had been too busy to pay attention when the maître d’ gave me the details only moments before).

  I peered around the corner into the dining room. Sure enough, there was Frank. Food & Wine faded in my mind; someone else could coddle the Zagats. This was the moment we had been waiting for. Technically, this could be his last visit, as most reviewers visit a restaurant three times or so.

  André poured champagne and I explained the menus to the guests, positioning myself directly opposite so I could make easy eye contact with Mr. Bruni. He was much more relaxed this evening, and I began to have fun as well. He and the other gentleman at the table ordered the vegetable menu, while the two ladies had the chef’s tasting menu with the foie gras torchon, a reversal of the norm. The evening was fairly uneventful (in the best of senses) until the cheese course. I had just served the cheese and was describing the Tarentaise cheese from Vermont when one of the women at the table enthusiastically exclaimed, “Oh, Tarentaise, we wrote about this cheese!” and then, realizing that I would most likely have seen the huge wheel of Tarentaise on the cover of the New York Times food section the week before, clapped her hand over her mouth.