CONFESSIONS OF A WAVERLY INN BUSBOY
Originally published October 21, 2011 for The Gentleman Tramp
The Waverly Inn is no longer the preening “It-Girl” it was when it first opened its tiny green door back in 2006, when the chattering class murmured of $100 mac-and-cheese and someone named Fritz who kindly informed you via email of your place in society. Now, “The Wave,” as my friends sometimes call it, has grown from it-girl to seasoned actress––the Annette Bening of restaurants.
30 years old, unpublished author, semi-frequent patron and very infrequent waiter, I somehow managed through a right-time, right-place, right-look trifecta to land a job as a back waiter––more commonly known as a busboy––one of the apron clad spirits who swirl about with cutlery and carafes and ask things like, “May I clear?” I had always been more of a desk job person, but there is something special about The Wave, something alluring about all those lanky waiters and Greenwich Village misfits painted on the wall. Maybe I too could be immortalized in caricature and this job could be my trailhead. The money would have been good too, but I only managed to hack it four nights, and I cannot emphasize the word “hack” enough. I never thought the job would be easy and never dreamed it could be so hard.
So Many Men, So Much Dictation
Each night before service, the regiment assembled and when I say regiment I mean like in an army, and when I say army I mean men only, tending on the willowy, effete side––I told you I had the right look––uniforms ready for inspection, notebooks, pens, corkscrews and crumbers locked and loaded. Enter Chef. Stem cells taken from Gordan Ramsay, Tom Colicchio and Coach Taylor apparently were grown to create the world’s most intimidating leader. His basso profondo commanded the room like timpani, his temperament, a port wine reduction of simmering rage.
He read aloud the menu additions: oysters of the day, four starters, three mains, two desserts, each with their preparations, accompaniments and provenance. That first day, a centillion of proper nouns blew by me faster than I could jot down the words, “bone in.” Glancing around, I was bewildered by the look of concentrated boredom as the pro’s scribbled like seniors taking a freshman exam. After completing the specials, he elaborated on various food facts: the difference between a flat fish and a round fish, where he buys his rabbits, what makes Boucheron so special, which I thought were all interesting FYI’s but turns out were on the pop quiz, which took place then and there. The manager called on staff at random. Impossible, I thought, no one could absorb that much information on one hearing and recite verbatim, but like I said, seniors kicking freshman tail.
As an art history major, I was very good at committing vast numbers of names, facts and dates to memory. My flash cards were the envy of the department and here I was faced with a similar task. Even as a back waiter I was required to know everything about everything, the menu inside and out, the cocktails, the wines and the daily specials, which I thought an admirable challenge were it not for the double message of, “Don’t be dense, you can’t learn it all in one day and yet why don’t you know this yet?”
By the second day, I thought I was making good progress. During the chef’s dictation, I was already spotting patterns and devising a short hand although my notes were still pretty sketch, “pork something cooked somehow with …. shallot … $35.” I could even feel a bit of stress unknitting in my stomach when:
“David,” the chef said, he seemed to have taken notice of me. “Where are the scallops from?” Thirty sets of eyes glanced over to see if the new kid might burst something. Reaching deep within myself I came up with, “Um … Massachusetts?”
“No, the answer is not, ‘um, Massachusetts?’ The answer is Boston, said just like that. I know you’re new, but you guys have to sell this stuff.”
Survey Says … Movie Stars
If I was to learn one thing it would be that food was paramount. Nothing mattered so much as one’s encyclopedic knowledge of the menu––the better you can describe the taste of a sunchoke, the better you can sell it. “We’re in the business of selling food here,” I was told over and over. It’s ALL about the FOOD. Which I get, but also thought rather bizarre for if we were playing Family Feud and the category was, “Things you care about when dining at the Waverly Inn,” food would be up there albeit ranked somewhere in between wine and proximity to public transport. Indeed, I was shocked at how many tables ordered a salad, a $400 bottle of wine, of which they drank two glasses, and were on their way. Aurevoir merci.
So who does come in these days? Mind your feet, I am going to drop some names. There was Josh Brolin smiling and kind, Salman Rushdie, not so smily––Fatwa and all––Brad Goretsky, thin and handsome, Jon Bon Jovi, looking very Jon Bon Jovi, but leave it to Liza to get the staff truly a flutter. My first night Signore Valentino had a charming little dinner party in the garden. If Vermeer painted his subjects with tans, that’s what they looked like, rather stiff but sublimely luminous. He came in a second time that week during a busy Thursday night. “Do we have rice?” I heard someone in the kitchen ask. “All he’ll eat is a side of rice.” ALL about the FOOD … Oh and be satisfied those who feel socially castrated by sitting in the garden. If Valentino chooses to dine back there twice in one week, so can you “suffer.”
Star gazing aside, who I actually enjoyed serving were the tourists––not as in fanny packs and cross trainers––I mean tourists to this rarified world, the un-regulars who try in vain to hide the stars in their eyes. They start the night so erect, so psyched to have actually made it in, so eager to see who’s there. As the wine flows and the potpies pot, their labored nonchalance gives way to a grandiose sense of contentment. ‘Aren’t we lucky SOB’s?’ they all seem to toast, ‘God has blessed each and every one of us.’ It is something to behold, at least in retrospect. While working, there is little time to think, much less behold.
Nine Minutes in Hell
So what does go on up in the service-phere, that mysterious layer of air located two feet above the diners’ heads? In short, a lot, but here’s how it goes: servers are divided into front waiters, back waiters and food runners. The front waiters are the lieutenants. They take orders, handle the money, bestow charm, tend to the infinite needs of the customer. The food runners, well they run the food while the back waiters do everything in between, clear plates, pour water, refill drinks, occasionally run food, but mostly supply bread, silverware, condiments and menus. Seems pretty simple right? Join me, if you will, for nine minutes of medium busy service:
7:54 We’ve got it really easy and have only three tables seated in our section. Challenge one is getting into the computer to see what everyone has ordered. The computer is almost always being used, so we have about ten seconds to memorize everything our section is having. (Deciphering the ticket is a task unto itself). So, 301 is working on their salads and are then having a steak at position 1 and a potpie at position 2 so that means after we clear their first course we have to bring them, along with fresh forks, a steak knife for position one and a spoon for position two. This is called marking by the way. At 303, position one and three are splitting the burger (knife for each, ketchup and mustard), four is having pasta, regular knife; two is having the halibut, regular knife. 304 ordered crème brûle, wait they never told me what to mark for that dish. I guess just a spoon right? 7:55 OK now 301 is done with their salads, but people just got seated at 302 so we need to get them their water. We’ll do that first, then clear 301 and bring the markings … 7:56 302 wants sparkling. 7:56:30 Had to wait 30 seconds to get to where the water is. 7:57 OK they’ve got there water, now to clear 301 but am stopped on the way, “What are the oysters tonight?” a lady asks me. Shit! Castle Rock and something, I can’t remember. Ask another waiter who responds, “Why don’t you know? The chef told us at meeting.” He tells us the oysters and we try to relay to the patient woman, but trainer intercepts, “Don’t you see that 301 needs to be cleared?” Explain we’re on the way but need to tell customer about oysters. “I’ll do that,” he snaps. “You clear 301.” 7:58 Clear 301, make perilous journey through the restaurant to the kitchen but can’t get through the door as three people are blocking the way to the dish station. Wait an endless 30 seconds. 7:59:30 Finally get the plates scraped and to dishwashers. Now markings, it was 1 and 3 splitting the burger, no no that was 303. 301 is steak knife Position 1 and Position 2 is … oh crap what is 301 position 2? I have to re-check with the computer, wasting an entire minute. Take 15 seconds to breathe, wipe forehead, gather cutlery. 8:02 Feel like Rip van Winkle by the time I am back to the section. 301’s second course is arriving. This is a MASSIVE failure. Rule number one is to never let the food arrive before the silverware. The food runners have covered it which is good for the diners and bad for us. Now must return obsolete silverware to service station. Two more tables have sat down and so offer them their choice of hydration: sparking, sill or tap. 303 needs clearing and 302 has ordered which means they need bread and at some point I need to check their ticket so I can be ready to mark them; five water glasses need to be poured; two empty cocktails can be refilled or cleared; the matre d’ informs us that 308 needs to be changed from a two top to a four top, and we have totally forgotten about the spoon for 304’s crème brûlé. 8:03 Repeat these 9 minutes 24 more times and call it a night.
Drug Dealing, Hooking and Bussing Tables
Those who are familiar with this brave world of service either just yawned or reached for the vodka (or both). Those who think they have an idea of life behind the swinging door from various reality programs are as well informed as a soldier whose only training was a thorough read of Henry IV. I didn’t mind being on my feet, didn’t mind the manual labor, the rude customers or rectum ripping critiques from my comrades. I knew I would eventually get the hang of it, but that was the problem. The moment I realized I could do the job was the moment I decided to quit.
Endlessly marching up and down that tiny little aisle, scraping what seemed gallons of half eaten mac and cheese into the trash––I don’t care how glamorous a gullet the other half ended up––night after night after night, it seemed untenable. If I can make a living any other way––any other way––I needed to try that. But quitting? I’m not a quitter, yet the idea swept through me so quickly, so completely, it had all the glory and honor of harakiri. After all, this line isn’t for everyone. Just to make sure, I asked one of the star waiters for some advice. “Listen,” he said, “All you have to do is be confident and act like you don’t care and they’ll love you. There are only two other professions where you can make this much money this easily: prostitution and drug dealing.”
“Don’t suppose you know any pimps do you? I just might look into that.”