Chardonnay VS. Chardonnay

Last week on our way to see the latest on-screen adaptation of Hairspray, my friend Isak and I decided to stop for some dinner. He is a legal assistant with the highly reputable Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher - where they work him like a dog. After a particularly trying day at the office, he was in need of some food and wine. I called out "sick" that day, but tough workday or not, I am always willing to get my sip on! He made me promise to write about this on the blog. So here goes.


Isak and I recently went for a quick bite to eat at Caffe Pertutti, a replaceable (if you've eaten there, you know exactly what I mean by that) Italian restaurant located in Morningside Heights on Broadway between 112th & 113th streets. The two of us have a funny history with this little place. Our first dining experience there (September of 2004) consisted of a 40 minute wait for pasta dishes that were measly in serving size, and that I could have cooked for us at home (and I do not have much talent in the kitchen). Two years ago, however, they switched management, revamped their menu, and since then, it is a convenient place to get a decent meal. I particularly enjoy their Tuna Tartar special.

Well, the owner, a sketchy middle-aged Italian man, always used to make eyes gratuitously at Isak as we ate our dinners. He has this way of lurking, especially if you choose to sit in the quaint outdoor cafe. In the summer, from his post on the restaurant's threshold, he gawks and marvels at his pick of clientele and passers-by. Over the years, he has even gone so far as to stop Isak as he’s walking by the restaurant in order to strike up a very forced, very awkward conversation with him, always asking, "How is your friend?" as if he has some secret hope that he might find I had moved away, disappeared or died. He has offered Isak a job, the works. Basically, we all know what he really wants from Isak. We also know he likes the Latin flavor.

Thus, it came as no surprise to Isak or me when we arrived last week to find a newly hired Latin server: clean-cut, buff and showing off a big smile. Upon his arrival at the table Isak and I both let out little “Oh God!” laughs, eyes rolling.

Picking out a wine, I noticed that they advertised the exact same Chardonnay by the bottle and by the full carafe for the exact same price ($25). So I wondered: What’s the difference? Is one more wine? Puzzled, I turned to sketchy manager’s new prize for clarity:

Me: What’s the difference between the bottle of Chardonnay and the carafe? Is one of them more wine?
Latin Boy: Well yes, the full carafe is more wine, but it is also about the quality of the wine. You see, the bottle is much better quality.
Me: Oh…but they are the same Chardonnay, right?
Latin Boy: Yes.

I paused and just looked at him…I guess I was naively waiting for the moment when he would turn to self-deprecation and admit his flaw in logic. No such moment came. When I ordered the full carafe he half-frowned as if to say, “Why didn’t you take my advice about the quality of the wine?”

I turned to Isak and said, “I mean, unless they garnish their carafes with dirt, we’re either pouring the wine from the bottle into our glasses OR they are pouring the wine from the bottle into the carafe AND THEN we are pouring it into our glasses so…”

He just laughed. Good thing that waiter is Latin and handsome. For the sake of his tips, the sake of sketchy manager and most importantly, for Isak's sake, hopefully! ;)

Two Bad Tips and a Write Up

To all my British friends, I love you, I hope you tip well, this story does not apply to you...unless you tip badly.

* * * * *

I got written up. Anyone want to venture to guess who did it? Yeah, he climaxed. For anyone who hasn't worked in a restaurant, or, who has not experienced the kind of tyranny so typical of Cafe Roman, a "write up" is essentially a written warning that the server and two managers have to sign, acknowledging what the naughty server has done wrong. I had never been written up until this past Tuesday night. And here is why it happened.

* * * * *

What kicked off my less-than-stellar mood was when I served a man five 7&7's, and his wife two Apple Martini's only to overhear him arguing that she should not tip me on the alcohol after dropping their check. WHY? He was fine tipping me on the food, and yet I do not make that OR bring it to the table (a food runner does). Why leave a tip at all then? Let me pause and impart knowledge: When you tip a waiter (at ANY restaurant) a percentage of that money goes to the bar, the bussers,and the food runners. Now, at Cafe Roman, we actually tip out based on our sales, NOT our tips. So, if you decline to tip me on the $76 dollars of alcohol you consumed, you are SERIOUSLY screwing me over.Now, to continue. Their bill was $189 and they tipped me $20. Huge whomp, but I shook it off and moved on. (I literally shook from head to toe by the computer systems, told myself out loud to shake it off and went to pick-up another table's profiteroles).

* * * * *

Well, shortly thereafter three young British kids sat in my section. Young meaning I might have done them a huge favor by not carding them, but they definitely looked early-20s tops. They ordered $163 worth of food, drinks, dessert, and when I gave them the check I noticed each of them take it, and then watched as each one's face twisted into its own version of utter perplexity. It was as if they had been handed the math SAT I or something. I honestly had no idea what was wrong (especially since we have gratuity suggestion by percentage on our checks), but I knew it could only be a bad, bad omen.

* * * * *

Walking past their table, I heard a foreign gentleman lean over and say "Oh no, the gratuity is not included, but it is not an obligation...it is not an obligation." So when I pick up the bill, Icount the money and it is $171. $8 on $163 = BY FAR the worst tip I have ever received in my life. Since I started at Cafe Roman, I've witnessed many servers approach tables about bad tips. Most of them simply ask whether there was a problem with the service, and then segue into an explanation of American tipping standards. I personally never feel comfortable doing that, but this pushed me over the edge. Istill felt weird, and my heart was pounding, so I decided to turn to a manager. And take a guess who was the ONLY manager around...great.

* * * * *

His reply was, "Well, we work across from Lincoln Center, a place that attracts a whole lot of foreigners...what can I say? You win some, you lose some." It isn't like I was shocked that he wouldn't go out on a limb for me, considering our history and his actual hatred for me. So I shrugged my shoulders and approached the young Brits, on the brink of a panic attack.
"Here's your change, and here's our gratuity guide," was what I opened with. One of the girls, pretty, brown hair, smiled and said "Oh, that was for you!" So I took a deep breath and went for it: "Guys, normally I would never say anything...I had a great time waiting on you tonight, but if you only leave me $8, I'll be paying to serve you. I have to tip the bar, the bussers, the runners and this isn't even enough for that on your check. I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't mind tipping between 15 and 20 percent, unless you felt there was a problem with the service." They were totally embarrassed and left enough so that now I had 20%, and it was done. So I thought...

* * * * *

Said manager freaked out, grabbed my arm cappuccinos and all, causing them to spill all over me. "I need you in the back RIGHT NOW." "Ummm, do you think I could drop off what is left of these cappuccinos and ask someone to cover my section, which is full?" I was pissed beyond words. "Fine," he says, "But HURRY!" So he wrote me up claiming that even though it used to be fair game to do what I'd done, that policy had changed in February (while I was in Ghana!), and now doing so was grounds for dismissal. When I pointed out that I'd never been informed of the change in policy upon my return from Africa he snapped "It's in your new employee handbook." Of course it isn't. Asshole (spoken with a British accent).

* * * * *

So the conclusions I've come to is that foreigners (especially the British with their killer exchange rate) need to abide by our damn rules when in our country. Here is my thing, I'm so not the "WOOHOO AMERICA!" kind of person. But apparently the reason why this policy has been changed and enforced so strongly is because in January at some restaurant, some other poor waiter like myself went ahead and added a 17.5% gratuity onto three French people's bill. They flipped out saying it was completely insulting that he would do such a thing when they knew that gratuity at this particular restaurant was only added for parties of seven or more. Why should that waiter assume they were not going to tip him by an appropriate standard?

* * * * *

Well, because, nine times out of ten they don't. It's true. I hate stereotypes, but I can personally vouch for this. It isn't only the British, or the French. Last night I waited on a family of five from Alabama. Their check was $225, they left me $25. Bad, but at least it wasn't 5%. One thing Olive Garden does have over Cafe Roman is that it is smart enough to add an 18% gratuity to all tables rather than to allow its waiters to frequently lose money to ignorant tourists who either don't know any better, or tip badly knowing we will assume it is because they are foreign, and they just didn't know...

OH NO HE DIDN'T!

Last Thursday night, I went out for drinks with fellow waiters and friends Crissy, Adam and Beate. We went to Harry’s Burritos on 71st & Columbus for some Happy Hour margaritas in honor of Beate’s birthday. We had enough rounds and tipped well enough so that the bartender (Tom?) offered us a round on the house after we’d cashed out. I went for a Maker’s Mark Manhattan. It had been one of those weeks; I still hadn’t really brushed off the drama that my previous post details, and I’d willingly left two night shifts before they’d even started just to avoid working with the manager who seems to have it out for me. (We’ve hit that point in the season when business is slow and they take volunteers to leave before the shift even begins).

* * * * *

Before I take you to the cherry on top of this hateful ice-cream sundae: the manager from my previous post specifically told my friend Jenn that he hates me, referring to a pre-shift meeting in which senior servers were arguing that junior servers should be allowed to work pick-up double shifts in the case of this one particular Saturday since it was one waitress’ wedding, and most people with seniority (all of whom work Saturday nights) were invited. Apparently, I rolled my eyes a lot (go figure!) and muttered things under my breath (oops), and Jason took notice, deciding he hated me. I’m pretty sure I was even sending text messages to another server (Doug) saying things like, “Is this real?” or “Where am I?” or “Kill me now!” or “I’m in hell!” These are things I do rather than allowing myself to get invested in dead-end arguments between the management and the waitstaff. Ultimately, the management is going to do what it wants, especially at Roman’s where a manager would rather watch a server get clubbed than confront the customer who is behaving inappropriately. Club your server and you might just award yourself some complimentary Prosecco – maybe even some cheese and olives! In fact, at Roman’s managers slap waitresses and no one flinches. The slap was a joke, but it was hard enough so that Jamie had red marks on her face minutes after being “jokingly’ slapped across the face.

* * * * *

Said manager took his personal vendetta against me to unforeseen heights that Thursday night when he accused me of buying cocaine on the premises from my friend Bryan (a Dominican busboy...racism anyone?). After drinks with Adam, Crissy and Beate, I stopped by Roman’s to pick up Sekou for more drinks. Bryan came from the restaurant’s outdoor café to give me a half-handshake/half-hug. That is when the manager pulled Sekou (who was on his way out of the restaurant to meet up with me) aside and said, “I’m pretty sure Josh just bought coke off Bryan.” WHAT?!?! The sad part is that after Sekou told me, I felt overcome with helplessness. As if I was the one who should be worried, as if he was not the one who was accusing me of breaking the law and in doing so, slandering my character. Let’s not leave out how absurdly racist it is to accuse Bryan (who is perhaps one of the most well-mannered, kind and responsible people in the entire restaurant) of being a drug dealer! I haven’t decided how to counter-attack. I'm open to suggestions, but he most certainly will not be receiving complimentary Prosecco.

Cookie's Revenge

I'm a month-and-a-half back in at "Cafe Roman" and things have been wonderful. Oddly, the transition from caring for orphans in Ghana to catering to Upper-West New Yorkers was not as horrible as I expected it to be. Yet two days ago, the tides changed and I am back to sadly report that I'm not a happy "Cafe Roman" waiter anymore. Here's the story: It is the end of my shift and my least favorite manager asks speak to me. "Re-ally..." I can't help but be sarcastic. His response was a very tight-lipped, "Yeah, so about last night. I had a lot of complaints." I sat down in the banquet room to think about the previous night. Oddly, aside from a few generally unhappy foreigners (why are they always so unhappy?...especially the Europeans…their exchange rate should leave them with a permanent smile and me with an automatic 20% gratuity), I couldn't recall any disasters. I'd been "allowed" to serve one of our V.I.P. couples, The Solomons (whose mere presence merits a capital "T" because they are that freakin' special). Mrs. Solomon's name is "Cookie." And no, that's not a pet name. Among their many expectations that are to be met without their asking is the way they want their "complementary" bread: we are to lightly toast a basket of Tuscan Italian white bread (which we don't serve to tables -- ever) and serve it with aged balsamic vinegar (also never served to tables), a bowl of grated parmesan, and butter. Mr. Solomon likes to start with a Bloody Mary -- in a large white wine glass -- with extra horseradish. Later, he moves on to a Pinot Grigio served from a quartino (a small quarter-liter decanter) into yet another large white wine glass, and whatever wine remains in the quartino is to be iced in a coffee pitcher with ice water in it. Cookie has a Lilet on ice in a large white wine glass with an orange slice. Oh, and she needs to sit on a stack of unfolded napkins. The Solomon's are a pain, but they're nothing the average "Cafe Roman" waiter can't handle.

* * * * *

So what could possibly go wrong? Apparently, Cookie flagged said manager down to let him know that when their entrees were served, they had not been given fresh silverware. Alas, the fact that the busser literally arrived less than five seconds after the entrees were dropped didn't seem to qualify as "fresh" enough. This was only a minor complaint, because if Cookie really cared, there'd have been a scene. Even though I may have never waited on The Solomons, I've had multiple guest appearances in their weekly "Roman's" saga; Cookie gets her kicks out of pointing out the little things. The manager felt the need to act as if "my" blunder had nearly ended the world. "I DON'T KNOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO CALL AND COMPLAIN TO CORPORATE!" was the climax of his histrionic tirade. I have a feeling that laughing in his face didn't really help my chances of getting on his good side. Even so, Mr. Solomon tipped me $70 on a $250 check, so clearly I was a success, absentee silverware and all!

* * * * *

My next major faut-pas required a hostess to find me in order to tell me that a table had been waiting for their check for ten minutes. Let me set the scene so you understand why a table flagging a hostess for their check should not have been a memorable event that night. I was working in the café, the outdoor part of the restaurant, and the average temperature that day had been 91* Fahrenheit. I had an eleven-table section, which did not have a single empty table from 6:00pm until 12:00am closing. Of these eleven tables, one was The Solomons'. I was one of the few servers who was not screaming, running or crying. When the hostess found me amidst the chaos, I was in the middle of making four Shirley Temples for a Southern family, all of whom had annoyingly blonde hair, AND who later complained about the exorbitant cost of $3.95 for a soda even after I gave them free refills. Any guesses on the percent gratuity on that check?...
Lower... No lower... Probably still lower. I calmly handed the hostess my card and said, "Go to Ula and ask her to run the check for me." (Ula is our new manager who hates girls and gays but by some glitch loves me so I love her too.) This is a completely acceptable practice at Roman's. They weed us every night because they never seat in rotation and so if you need a few checks run, it is no problem. (For you non-restaurant people, that last sentence essentially meant that they send all of us into furies by sitting our entire sections at once instead of seating one table in each of the servers' sections before sitting the same server again). That is something they WILL help us with. It is not something that would normally lead to a sit-down reaming session.

* * * * *

But the night wasn't completely bad: I waited on the Editorial Director at Essence magazine. She brought me this month's issue, the cover of which reads, "Black Men Want to Meet You" and features the three men below. She handed it to me and said, "I knew you'd want one baby." LOVE HER. So I walked to my favorite new wine place, Bacchus (on 71st & Broadway), bought a bottle of Jean-Luc Colombo's Viognier and drank myself into a better mood in my closet-sized, very air-conditioned room while watching Amistad. Better mood actually just meant upset for better reasons.

The Meeting

I wrote this in a euphoric state on Wednesday, May 30, 2007 from my best friend Amanda's apartment. She inspired me to start this blog, and is allowing me to re-publish the two I have done for her on my own!

"Ooooh I love a well-dressed man!" I look up from my rehire application form at "Cafe Roman", a traditional Italian mainstay on Broadway across from a world famous performing arts center (hint, hint!), to find an older black woman with designer sunglasses and graying dreadlocks staring me in the face from across the bar. I decide to move to her end while I wait for a manager to come interview me. Why not? We start talking, and I mention that I've just spent five months in Ghana. She looks at me with one eyebrow raised and says without words that she is wary of white people who go to Africa, period. I quickly qualify my presence over there by saying, "I was just studying, that's all." We go on talking, she not-so-subtly identifies that I am not attracted to women, and then encourages me to pursue an old flame (a fellow waiter). Before I know it we are debating history and fiction, and the possible danger of fiction. I argue wholeheartedly on the side of it, believing that fiction can force us to stare knowingly into periods of our histories that we know nothing about. "Give me an author who's done that," she demands. I laugh nervously and say, "Toni Morrison." "Oh, Toni's not my favorite," she says laughing a hearty laugh. "Really? What don't you like about her?" "I am her!" I turn redder than the pomodoro langosta on the famous antipasto bar. I'm actually staring my literary hero in the face. I actually just debated the power of fiction with her. She sized me up, and I unknowingly told her how incredible I think she is. Just an average encounter at "Roman's", which is frequented by stars like Meryl Streep, Al Pacino, Jim Carrey, Roseanne Barr and Barbara Walters. Ten years from now I'll say: one afternoon in Manhattan I shot the shit with Morrison.