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12-21-05, 12:19 AM
Some of the best meals of my life have been eaten in 250 seconds standing up in the back stairway praying Chef wasn’t on one of his stealthy recon missions. Not that I paid cash for these glorious meals. No way. Instead, they come from a dependable bartering system that happens in every restaurant I’ve ever worked. Allow me to explain. Mr. Turnip is from Columbus, Ohio, works insurance, loves wine, and wants his guests to have a nice dinner. He orders the Grgich Chardonnay ‘02 to for the first two courses then decides to follow with the ‘99 Stags Leap “Fay”. Just the way it should be, he puts himself in my hands and I take care of the rest.
Before the entrees hit the table I pour the “Fay” for the Turnip party leaving half a bottle of Grgrich they probably won’t return to. I go see Spats on the line. He’s got something I want and I’ve got something he wants. Everyone’s always looking for a deal. Wine and Food, the hardened steal beams that build the bridge that spans the gap between FOH and BOH. It’s very simple. Deals are are brokered and signed in seconds, on-the-fly. Naturally, there are codes of discourse. I can’t say, “hey Spats, I’ve got a half bottle of Chardonnay, can I trade it for duck leg confits with white raisins?” I’d get only blank stares and blacklisted for the rest of my career if I was that lame. Instead, a code is used, different every time. You’ve only get a quick one-liner in a fast paced kitchen, so humor works best when composing your zinger. I may say “she’s half way down the monkey” (Monkey is slang for Monk Fish, meaning my imaginary guest has eaten half her monk fish, a metaphor which translates to I’ve got a half a bottle of ice cold delicious Grgich Chardonnay that I’m looking to trade). Spats nods his head, says, “Heard. Half Monkey. Order fire two Bullies”. Spats and the boys hit Cal’s (400 S. Wells) hard last night after service, closed it down, and are dragging anchor today. Spats has just told me we’ve got a deal with a provision, he needs 2 Red Bulls RIGHT NOW because he’s deep in the dookie and needs a shove. I score the Bullies as a goodwill gesture keeping Spats on point as he plates Turnip’s “lambeau” (lamb).
Waiters debate what wines to keep and what to trade. Grgich is always traded, not that there’s anything wrong with it, but let the boys have it in their Styrofoam. I’d rather turn it into meat. On the other hand, I’d rather starve than give up any “Fay” Turnip may leave behind. That, my friends, belongs to me. I’ll selfishly horde it and drink it later over paper work and a steaming plate of Waiter Gossip. Besides, I can always hit Wiener Circle (2622 N. Clark) on the way home. Some wines have a special charm that endears them to a waiter. Others, however nice become...well, more ordinary. Nothing wrong with an ‘02 Chateau Montelana Chardonnay, but it’s a trader. Any Batard Montrachet on the other hand, is a keeper; savored and pondered with as much time as service will allow. Flora Springs Cab, fine wine, I’d drink it at home for sure, but it’s traded in the market place. Generally, the system follows price. The more expensive, the more precious. Anything a buck and change (over $120) is a keeper, anything under you trade. Not always, of course. Waiters do play favorites. I’ll drink any Riesling I can get my hands on for instance. Sometimes though, you’re simply more thirsty than hungry.
Chef called “Last Table Out” and heads to the office which means Spats is clear to do his magic. He’ll put something together depending on what’s been left behind. Always different. Spats says, “Surf and Turf in 2”. Which means, get your mies en place, we close the deal in 2 minutes, don’t be late, I’m going back to Cal’s.
On the sly, with smooth, well known gestures we trade Styrofoam for Staub. I make a quick right into the stairway. Behold, a dream. Giddy with delight. Hungry as a wolverine (we walk 10 miles a night) I asses the damage: 6 oz New York strip, pan seared med. rare in Plugra butter, fleur de sol, and pepper. Oregon Morels, glazed in Plugra butter, chicken stock, cognac, fleur de sol, pepper. Cappelinni pasta with specks of preserved black truffle, truffle oil, Plugra butter and fleur de sol. Spats had promised a “surprise under the pasta” and he delivered. Half a lobster, poached in brine, flashed in Plugra butter, fennel and Pernod. I cannot believe my good fortune. With the manners of a savage and the speed of a Piranha, I relish each bite (One of Mr. T’s guests also had the tenderloin, took him 25 minutes). So good. So delicious. I emerge from the stairway and find a half finished Pellegrino, slug that bad boy and burp. Yes Sir, God is most certainly in his heaven.
I add it up in my head, it’s at least a $60 entree if it was on the menu. Which is nearly what I paid for it, counting up the Chard. and the Bullies. I look for Spats to appreciate his work. Back of the house is loud with closing banter. He knows what I’m saying even though he can’t hear me, he’s already singing. Good night, thank you for coming.
Before the entrees hit the table I pour the “Fay” for the Turnip party leaving half a bottle of Grgrich they probably won’t return to. I go see Spats on the line. He’s got something I want and I’ve got something he wants. Everyone’s always looking for a deal. Wine and Food, the hardened steal beams that build the bridge that spans the gap between FOH and BOH. It’s very simple. Deals are are brokered and signed in seconds, on-the-fly. Naturally, there are codes of discourse. I can’t say, “hey Spats, I’ve got a half bottle of Chardonnay, can I trade it for duck leg confits with white raisins?” I’d get only blank stares and blacklisted for the rest of my career if I was that lame. Instead, a code is used, different every time. You’ve only get a quick one-liner in a fast paced kitchen, so humor works best when composing your zinger. I may say “she’s half way down the monkey” (Monkey is slang for Monk Fish, meaning my imaginary guest has eaten half her monk fish, a metaphor which translates to I’ve got a half a bottle of ice cold delicious Grgich Chardonnay that I’m looking to trade). Spats nods his head, says, “Heard. Half Monkey. Order fire two Bullies”. Spats and the boys hit Cal’s (400 S. Wells) hard last night after service, closed it down, and are dragging anchor today. Spats has just told me we’ve got a deal with a provision, he needs 2 Red Bulls RIGHT NOW because he’s deep in the dookie and needs a shove. I score the Bullies as a goodwill gesture keeping Spats on point as he plates Turnip’s “lambeau” (lamb).
Waiters debate what wines to keep and what to trade. Grgich is always traded, not that there’s anything wrong with it, but let the boys have it in their Styrofoam. I’d rather turn it into meat. On the other hand, I’d rather starve than give up any “Fay” Turnip may leave behind. That, my friends, belongs to me. I’ll selfishly horde it and drink it later over paper work and a steaming plate of Waiter Gossip. Besides, I can always hit Wiener Circle (2622 N. Clark) on the way home. Some wines have a special charm that endears them to a waiter. Others, however nice become...well, more ordinary. Nothing wrong with an ‘02 Chateau Montelana Chardonnay, but it’s a trader. Any Batard Montrachet on the other hand, is a keeper; savored and pondered with as much time as service will allow. Flora Springs Cab, fine wine, I’d drink it at home for sure, but it’s traded in the market place. Generally, the system follows price. The more expensive, the more precious. Anything a buck and change (over $120) is a keeper, anything under you trade. Not always, of course. Waiters do play favorites. I’ll drink any Riesling I can get my hands on for instance. Sometimes though, you’re simply more thirsty than hungry.
Chef called “Last Table Out” and heads to the office which means Spats is clear to do his magic. He’ll put something together depending on what’s been left behind. Always different. Spats says, “Surf and Turf in 2”. Which means, get your mies en place, we close the deal in 2 minutes, don’t be late, I’m going back to Cal’s.
On the sly, with smooth, well known gestures we trade Styrofoam for Staub. I make a quick right into the stairway. Behold, a dream. Giddy with delight. Hungry as a wolverine (we walk 10 miles a night) I asses the damage: 6 oz New York strip, pan seared med. rare in Plugra butter, fleur de sol, and pepper. Oregon Morels, glazed in Plugra butter, chicken stock, cognac, fleur de sol, pepper. Cappelinni pasta with specks of preserved black truffle, truffle oil, Plugra butter and fleur de sol. Spats had promised a “surprise under the pasta” and he delivered. Half a lobster, poached in brine, flashed in Plugra butter, fennel and Pernod. I cannot believe my good fortune. With the manners of a savage and the speed of a Piranha, I relish each bite (One of Mr. T’s guests also had the tenderloin, took him 25 minutes). So good. So delicious. I emerge from the stairway and find a half finished Pellegrino, slug that bad boy and burp. Yes Sir, God is most certainly in his heaven.
I add it up in my head, it’s at least a $60 entree if it was on the menu. Which is nearly what I paid for it, counting up the Chard. and the Bullies. I look for Spats to appreciate his work. Back of the house is loud with closing banter. He knows what I’m saying even though he can’t hear me, he’s already singing. Good night, thank you for coming.