Service Included

  She arrives eventually, just as I imagined, in a salmon pink suit, handbag, and matching shoes, with jarringly lifted eyes that appear perpetually alarmed, and crispy hair the color of a winter dog run. What I did not predict was that she would request a third chair for her dog. This is not a toy poodle or shih tzu, nor is it a taxidermist’s resurrection; it is an actual stuffed doggish animal, although more reminiscent of Alf. The initial challenge is composure, followed by an attempt at graciousness. But in the end, it is all we can do to fend off free drinks sent to the dog from diners around the room who pretend to see nothing out of the ordinary when we turn toward them to glare. At the end of the meal, she takes out her lip gloss, the kind applied with a squishy-tipped wand, and proceeds to search for the exact location of her inflated lips, stabbing the wand to either side, while thrusting them forward like a snowplow.

  THE COUPLE SITTING on table eight seems to me the picture of the American family. He is a broker with a soft chin who commutes from Greenwich; she is a dumpling of a woman whom I can see hanging clothes on a line while a pie cools in the window. They opt, with my prodding, for the chef’s tasting menu and settle into their meal with grateful ease. As we begin to chat, I learn that they recently moved to the area with a new baby and that this is their first dinner out together since she was born. They are having a hard time adjusting to the pace of New York (even if filtered by the commute) after having lived in both Washington, D.C., and Denver. She misses the outdoors, calling herself more liberal than her suburban neighbors. The pace of Wall Street exhausts him.

  All of my tables are seated within minutes of one another, which means that just as I have the food and wine order from one table, another arrives. For this reason, I only have a chance to stop by table eight a few times during their meal to top off their wine and spiel a dish or two.

  By the time it comes to their dessert, my other tables are under way and I have some time to chat. The dessert today is the Snickers Bar, a deconstructed version of the classic, with a chocolate Sacher cake, salted caramel, nougat ice cream, and peanut milk gelée. The gentleman takes one bite and closes his eyes in ecstasy.

  “This is better than pot,” he says definitively to his wife, who nods in agreement.

  There have been times when a seemingly conservative guest has surprised me with a quote from the movie Airplane, a Simpsons reference, or leftist politics, but this one leaves me gaping. The fine-dining waiter in me suspects that I should just nod and smile and pour a little more water, but the child of hippie parents from Vermont prevails. I decide to venture gingerly into the topic. Isn’t it my job to make the guest feel comfortable?

  “Do you indulge?” I ask politely.

  “Two or three times a week,” he answers, beaming at his wife, whose rosy cheeks dimple in response.

  You just never know about people, I think. This is the suit I make fun of on Madison Avenue, with his Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm, filing in with the other suits to a Smith & Wollensky steak house with their cigar-smoking bosses. But little do I know that he is probably just jonesing for a rib-eye after having smoked a blunt before getting on Metro North. I am filled with newfound appreciation for this man and determined to make him feel comfortable with having shared such intimate details.

  “That’s great!” I assure him. “I don’t smoke much myself, but I feel like it’s always been part of my culture. I grew up with my mother growing it beside the driveway, many of my friends are regular smokers….”

  As I say this, I notice his face clouding in confusion. He looks over at his wife and then back at me and, for a moment, I think he is just surprised to have found a kindred spirit.

  “I said ‘pie.’”

  SOMETIMES DRUGS ARE the only explanation. Like on Easter when a couple wanders in, attempting to balance eggs on their heads. They are staying in rooms at the Mandarin Hotel upstairs, to which they are sent to change out of their white denim and put on more formal attire. Apparently, they just flew in from Miami on their private jet. They are in town to buy hotels and were hoping to meet with their broker as they eat. Do we mind if a guest joins them for drinks at the table? The poor man is left alone on table six between every course, sipping calmly at his single-malt scotch, while they powder their noses in the bathroom.

  THE MAN SITTING on table two looks like a cross between Frederick Douglass and James Brown. I am excited to have someone who is not white, and not a banker, tourist, or underemployed philanthropist. He announces that he will drink Cuba Libres all night and I recognize a familiar lilt to his words. When I ask him what type of rum he prefers, I ask to confirm my suspicion and feel victorious when he tells me that he prefers Barbancourt. I throw a victorious look over my shoulder at André, who is waiting for me to get out of the way so he can approach the table about wine. I have been lobbying for Barbancourt since we opened, partly because it is the best rum on the planet and partly because I lived in Haiti briefly as a child and want to do all I can to support the country and its limping economy.

  “Ki gen ou vle? Cinqe etoile ou trois?” Of course, my asking what kind of Barbancourt he drinks is misleading as we don’t carry any at all, but he is too astounded to notice, after discovering a white kreyol speaker at a restaurant where the average check for a table of four is just under the per capita yearly income of his countrymen.

  Both his three dining companions and my three other ta bles suffer for the rest of the evening, because we take every opportunity to discuss everything from Haitian politics to goat purveyors. After he orders, he calls me over to request some peppers. We reminisce about picklies, the pickled hot pepper condiment that Haitians serve with fried plantains.

  The Per Se kitchen can accommodate any allergy, make gluten-free bread, run out to the deli around the corner to buy Red Bull on request, and whip up chicken noodle soup for a sniffling guest who couldn’t taste his meal. But when I go to J.B. to request “pepper service on table two,” he is not amused. Luckily, one of the sous chefs saw some Scotch bonnets come in that morning and offers to grab a few. Next thing I know, a vested runner strides purposefully from the kitchen with an array of chili options arranged in ceramic bowls on a silver tray. There is sriracha sauce, kept for family meal on taco day, and a selection of diced peppers. The maître d’ wanders over to see what is going on; the runner who presented the tray stays to watch the response. André, my backserver, and I all remain close as well. As he takes the sriracha and dumps it right onto the Russian sevruga caviar in his Oysters and Pearls, I have to avert my eyes.

  When I return to the kitchen to ask for a second service, the chef looks puzzled.

  “But he has only had one course.” Then he gasps. “He didn’t put hot sauce in his Oysters and Pearls.”

  The first thing you learn as a waiter is when to get the hell out of the kitchen.

  IT MIGHT COME as a surprise to know that Per Se has regulars, like any restaurant. Some go through the sixty-day reservation system; some spend $20,000 on their first visit and hop the line in the future. I went to watch one of my favorite regulars perform in the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, another I met for lunch, and with some I corresponded via e-mail. Although I could tell a story about each of these guests, I will respect their anonymity—except in one case. I feel comfortable telling her story because she is not only one of the most fascinating people I have ever met, but because she will not be bothered in the slightest to know that she is being talked about. In fact, I think she assumes this to be the case.

  “Eve” is in her midtwenties and claims to have been engaged nineteen times. She often dines with her partner (I did not ask whether he was number nineteen, a future number twenty, or will remain unnumbered), an Englishman with the understated and befuddled look of a marriageable vicar out of a Trollope novel. Just as often she entertains friends, dashing single gentlemen, or dines alone. Eve is one of the few guests who have had both lunch and dinner at the restaurant on the same day. She is quite petite, with porcelain skin and al
mond-colored eyes that match her long hair, which is usually pulled back. She is always curiously dressed—in large hat sculptures, transparent sheaths, or sarilike pantsuits. When the maître d’ announces that she will be dining at the restaurant, someone always mumbles the reminder maxim: no peppers, no fennel, no bra.

  If her gentleman friend belongs to Trollope, Eve belongs to Fitzgerald. She seems often to have just returned from a mysterious destination where she has been “resting” after a bit of “exhaustion.” Once she vaguely referred to a surgery. On occasion, “in dire need of a nap,” she asked to have a room booked for her at the Mandarin or the Essex House.

  Whether ill, recovering, or exhausted, Eve has a story that will make even the most seasoned among us blush. Sixty-eight out of sixty-nine times it will involve some sort of sordid sexual behavior.

  One day Eve enjoys a long lunch on table two with two young gentlemen. They are the last in the dining room, and I am alone keeping watch while the rest of the staff enjoys the family meal of fish and chips, which, if I recall correctly, was a parting gift from an English cook on his last day. I stand by the door, waiting with boxes of chocolates, trying to encourage them to depart so that we can reset the table before the first dinner guests arrive. On her way out, Eve puts her hand on my arm and leans close.

  “My friend has just told me the most incredible thing. Don’t be shocked.”

  I brace myself.

  “Apparently the new thing is to shit in a condom, freeze it, and use it as a dildo!”

  And with that she floats away, leaving me with my hand clapped over my mouth and my eyes wide. When I am sure she is quite gone, I sprint to the sommelier station. André stands with the rest of the wine team, with greasy fingers and tartar sauce in the corner of his mouth.

  “Get this,” I begin.

  WE REMOVE THE chair from position three on table two to make room for the wheelchair. A short man, who appears to be in his seventies, wheels a woman of similar age as close as he can get her to the table. He adjusts her legs, props her up a little, and places her napkin so that it rests over her breasts and lap. After making her comfortable, he pulls his own chair closer to her, away from the window and the view of the park in the early-evening light. When I approach with menus, I look to him for direction, but she tells me exactly how she wants me to prop the menu so that she can read it.

  “Rabbit!” she exclaims when she spots the chef’s tasting menu. “I love rabbit!”

  I am shy around handicapped people. I am self-conscious, for example, with someone who reads lips. Am I overannunciating? Should I pause and wait for eye contact or would that be insulting? If at all possible, I will not help a blind person across the street—not because I don’t care, but because I’m sure there’s some right way to do it that I don’t know. Even a wandering eye flusters me.

  This is one reason why, when the maître d’ goes through the reservations for the evening, I find myself on edge. Proposals and allergies bring their own anxiety because of the disastrous implications of a blunder. Celebrities and press make me tense. Even children cause me to overthink my service as I try to be kid-friendly without being belittling or excessively animated. The forewarning of a wheelchair causes jitters of equal magnitude. Of course, what I always forget is that these guests spend their entire lives dealing with people like me and are prepared to tell me exactly what to do.

  She orders her rabbit and he selects from the five-course menu. They do not order wine, but André remains in my station anyway. Together we watch as the husband carefully feeds her the entire tasting menu.

  “Now that is how you love someone,” André says quietly.

  THE AVERAGE GUEST spends about three hours at Per Se, during which time she allows herself a little more than usual of everything: carbs, cleavage, calories, and certainly, more cocktails. This may account for the fact that more people throw up in the dining room of Per Se than your average college bar. Once, a woman on the upper level leaned over the balcony while staggering down the stairs and vomited on a table below. But it is a testament to the stamina of some that they head to the bathroom, clean themselves up, and proceed with their meal.

  THE WOMAN ON table six is still here. Her guest has even paid their bill and left. Assuming she will eventually leave as well, I decide to polish a few trays and wait it out. Ten minutes later, when I peek around the corner into my otherwise empty station, she is craning her neck and scanning the dining room. I’m afraid I know who she is looking for.

  On our first night together, she informed me that the captain who took care of her on a previous visit had been pretentious and that, so far, she liked me much better. Thrilling, I thought. She called ahead to request me before each of her next few visits, and I soon had her particularities down. She preferred to drink from the most expensive hand-blown glasses, sample our most aggressive cheeses, but most of all, she liked to be out-Diva’d.

  “She’s fabulous,” she would tell her guests with a grand gesture toward me, as if recommending a house specialty. Her guests looked at me skeptically, waiting for me to be fabulous.

  Once, the maître d’ ignored her request and seated her upstairs when I was working below. When she demanded to be moved, he lied and told her that I was in great demand and the other tables had requested me first. The staff had a big laugh at that one.

  “I see I will have to be much more clear the next time I make a reservation,” she said in a huff. Every time I looked up, she was watching me.

  Tonight she seemed intent on learning as much about my life as possible.

  “You never have time to talk anymore,” she whined when I tried to extricate myself. I reluctantly answered a few questions about my life, my neighborhood, my possible future plans, my more immediate plans for a snack after work. She was riveted. While I agreed that burgers and beers at the Corner Bistro were just what I needed after ten hours of spoiling others, it was far from riveting.

  “No, you don’t understand,” she said tragically, “you’re free.” I almost expected her to put her thin, pale hand to her head and sigh as she detailed her personal prison, the firm hours, the bills, the monotonous client dinners. She certainly made it sound dismal, but how bad could a life be that involved extra cheese courses and hand-blown stemware?

  Now she sits, one hand guarding her fishbowl of a glass, the other hand drumming its fingers impatiently. That’s it, I think, my day is too long to play this game. After her leisurely tasting menu, she has been here for a good four hours and I feel completely justified in leaving.

  I walk confidently over to her table, inform her of my decision, and point out the captain who will help her if there is anything else she needs. He waves and she shoots him a look of disgust.

  “But I thought we were going out for burgers.” Her whine and pout are a perfect match.

  AFTER SPENDING AT least one evening with each of these fascinating characters, I became weary of discussing which celebrities I encountered. All of them, I would respond before changing the subject. But the truth was, I did meet my share of the rich and famous and noticed a few patterns.

  On the whole, celebrities seem to have a large cranium—literally big heads. I bet if you took an average, celebrity heads would prove larger than those belonging to the rest of us. It could be argued that their bodies tend to be smaller, but even the bigger ones have big heads. I wonder if it is one of those survival-of-the-fittest things—like tall presidents and women with big breasts.

  Celebrities are usually the last in their party to show up. Perhaps this is another survival tactic, as food tasters once were for royalty. Or maybe being fashionably late really does get you somewhere in life.

  Celebrities love to be allergic to things. Either that or they are so bored by good food that they have to spice it up by asking for an all-mushroom tasting menu (famous news anchor) or being allergic to any or all of the following: nuts, fish with scales, fish without scales, shellfish, all fish, wheat, dairy, sugar, chocolate, egg yolks, d
uck eggs, onions, garlic, pineapple, mango, peppers, fennel, and the list goes on. As a server, it is hard to know what to take seriously. Will she really go into anaphylactic shock if she eats sprouts or an Indian spice? Will she keel over from a little butter in her sauce? Obviously, the kitchen takes allergies seriously, but if a professed vegetarian just ordered foie gras, a little chicken stock will not kill her.

  I have mentioned the cute list before; veal, rabbit, venison, and lamb tend to inspire the quivering lip.

  “I can’t eat Thumper,” they tell me with puppy-dog eyes, “or Bambi, either.”

  How about Daffy? I always want to ask. What about Bessie the cow or Sammy the salmon?

  Bernard the brussels sprout—he’s cute!

  Celebrities are not as attractive in person. But they usually have the best hair, skin, and shoes in the room.

  Celebrities love to talk about other celebrities, but only by their first names—just to keep you guessing. Which Bobby could it be? De Niro? Duval? Redford? Reiner? Billy Bob?

  If there are multiple celebrities in the same room, the rules state that they must get up and speak to one another. At this point, they do their secret handshake and exchange the code word. (This is done almost imperceptibly, which is why you probably have never noticed.) If they are actors, they will both get up and greet each other in the center of the dining room. If they are politicians, the one who plans to lobby, bribe, or slander the other makes the move. If they are in comedy or music, any of the above may be done, but only when leaning on something in the flow of traffic or draping an arm in such a way as to make it impossible for a plate or bottle to come between them. Ballet dancers are required to double kiss; anyone in the news must say the other person’s name at least twice during the exchange; and socialites and old money are allowed to skip all pleasantries until they are on their way out, at which point they follow a script along the lines of: “Oh, hello, (insert first name, last name, title, “darling,” or “guy” here)!I didn’t even see you!” Now a complimentary comment is required: “Doesn’t that look del ish!” “That dress is fabulous!” (Shortening to fab is not usually well received—nor is calling someone “guy” for that matter.) “Good game last weekend!” Etc.