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| Yevgen Romanenko |
What sort of writing is tough to figure out. According to a vaguely-worded blurb in my program notes (I'm at a prestigious food event), she was “formerly restaurant critic for New York Newsday now with The New York Times.”
“Now with the New York Times” as what isn’t clear. Here’s what I think: she’s either the new restaurant critic of the Times; a summer replacement for regular Times restaurant critic, Bryan Miller; or someone who just writes about food and dining-out for the Times. Try getting past the phone maze there for an answer to simple questions like who’s who or who does what, and you’d think you had just called the head chemist at Coca-Cola to ask about the soda pop’s formula. Before the phone-call filterers at the Times will connect you (fat chance) to the person who may (or may not) be able to answer my questions, they want to know who you are, what you do, what company you work for; and (the part I like best) “what may I ask is the nature of your call.” Whatever it is that O’Neill does (the “whatever” part being the “nature” of my call), my program notes tell me (I’m paraphrasing here) she eats out a lot; at least 25 times a week, and writes about it.
O’Neill is a charming person, but she has some strange notions about what constitutes dining out.
It was at the Aspen/Snowmass Food & Wine Classic, sponsored by American Express’s Food & Wine magazine, that I dropped in on a panel and heard O’Neill and three others chatter on and on about “Sensible Strategies for Service: Solving the Big Problem for the 1990’s.” Tall order, right? You bet. Fulfilled? Not by a long shot.
The panelists dealt with the petty constituents of bad service, rather than the broad-sweeping essentials of a fix; worse, they dealt with everything anecdotally as if the anecdotes in and of themselves, each so absurdly improbable and bizarre as to be extraneous to the discussion, would suggest solutions. Panelist after panelist would preface his or her example with a variation on this apology: “You’re not going to believe this, but . . .” Several people in the audience had anecdotes, too, each itching to share his or her story and that didn’t help one bit. They were like first-graders waving their hands frantically to get the attention of the teacher. The panel dragged on and on until everyone, thankfully, ran out of anecdotes; and the panel out of time.
Face it, no one has the foggiest notion of what a “sensible strategy for service” is, there being as many foggy notions as there are restaurants. I mention that to let the panelists off the hook. If no one, let alone restaurant operators, knows what to do about bad service, how can we expect the panelists to come up with solutions or to analyze what it is about service that makes it good? Their only option, as noted, was to recount incidents of bad service, leaving attendees hanging, wondering what to do or how to deal with it.
On the other hand, untold thousands of chefs, owners, and restaurateurs can tell you what happens when you have a sensible strategy for service in place: bountiful sales and profits; bountiful traffic and customer counts, bountiful happy returns. But, if their life depended on it, not one of them could explain what a sensible strategy for service was.
Jimmy Schmidt of Detroit’s Rattlesnake Club, one of the panelists, took a shot. “They don’t return for the food,” he said, “they come back because they’re well taken care of . . .” He did not elaborate; did not explain what he meant. Well taken care of may be the protocol at Schmidt’s restaurant, but having been to restaurants where the food wasn’t good, but the service was, I doubt if I’d return to any of them just because I liked the service. As long as we’re on the subject, can we not all agree to retire the mantra: “Good service can rescue a mediocre meal, but bad service can ruin a great one.”? I expect good food and good service (or reasonable facsimiles) whenever and wherever I eat out. Good service, lousy food. I’m supposed to return? I don’t think so.
And so it was that the panelists, in trying to “solve the big problems for the 1990’s with sensible strategies for service,” couldn’t; and instead became bogged down in a slough of service clichés, sketchily and indifferently (ho-hum) enumerating service indiscretions while admitting there wasn’t a strategy you could put in place to deal with them.
Among the panelists, O’Neill was the worst offender, chewing on clichés like a dog with a bone.
Before taking bites, she set her table with a most improbable premise, upon which she then served a glut of leftovers.
Premise? According to O’Neill, customers don’t have a lot of time to eat. Hurry up, please, it’s time. They resent delays that interfere with the task at hand which is to shovel food from plate to mouth really fast. Hey, lookout, wow, serve me fast or don’t serve me at all.
As far as O’Neill was concerned, we had entered The Golden Age of Gulp and Gobble. The Epoch of Dash Dining: from cocktails to coffee in blank seconds flat. Last one to clean his plate is stuck with the check. Shut up and eat your spinach. Beat the clock.
I’ll concede O’Neill this: her premise may work at lunch that, for most (exception: power lunchers), is a timed event—a fuel stop, as it were. But dining? Nope. Dining, let us remind her, is a leisurely, unclocked event. Dining is a treat. One does not treat fast.
O’Neill, however, forged ahead; and, building on her flimsy premise, went on to spout the following service flaws as interminable interruptions to the rhythm of her chewing as if they were Pepto Bismol inhibitors. Full disclosure: I have taken liberty to embellish truths; to provide implications based on her declarations. Truths in italics are O’Neill’s; implications and embellishments that follow, mine.
If you are my waiter, she proclaimed, I do not want to know who you are. Don’t bother introducing yourself to me. If you are my waiter, Bruce, please keep it to yourself and move on quickly to the business at hand. Don’t waste my time with goofy greetings. You may think you are Bruce, but you are sadly mistaken: you are just a waiter. My for-the-time-being-in-the-moment waiter.
You waste my time, too, with a recitation of specials. Don’t do that. If the restaurant has not bothered to print them and their prices as an insert to the menu, then it’s up to you to come to my table equipped with a reasonable facsimile. Hand it to me. Give me a minute or two to look it over and I’ll tell you if there’s anything on it that I want.
If I need to know what’s in a dish, I expect you to know. Don’t tell me you have to ask the chef or the manager. Don’t do that. That’s another waste of my time.
You may hover if you wish. That’s OK, but try to be discreet. Because I am always in a hurry, I like hovering, but I don’t like to keep looking over my shoulder to see if you’re doing that. As noted, I eat and run. I expect you to know what I need when I need it and to react accordingly.
Do not, she concluded, bother me with pepper mills.
Her enumeration of complaints elicited the appropriate buzzing and self-conscious chuckles from an audience of mostly restaurateurs, consumers and reporters who should’ve known better. For me, however, her arguments— assembled as they were upon a premise suffering from an overdose of presumption—were exemplary of questionable absolutes, more to be pitied than laughed at.
So, let’s get specific.
Customers, when dining out, become part of a most agreeable ritual: thoughtful service and the savoring of food and drink. There is—be advised (and, as noted)—no rush to any of this. Throughout, there are pauses to drink in the subtle flavors of the restaurant’s ambiance. Between bites (and often with their mouths full) customers have been known to talk to each other—aimlessly, perhaps, but, more than likely, matter-of-factly, romantically, or even pedantically (especially, if they’re power-dining). Dining no longer is a prelude to some other event: a concert, the theatre, a ballgame. It is the event. For many, dining-out has become the evening’s entertainment. We like to take our time.
The pepper mill? It has no place at The Upscale Place, but it does at The Midscale Place or any other restaurant where it’s an unexpected, but appreciated, part of the service. The same goes for cold forks presented with the salad course. That’s a certifiably nutty cliché, but still a service amenity cherished by those who appreciate the thoughtfulness of the gesture, even though the fork warms immediately to the touch. With the pepper mill and the fork, we’re talking form not function—a perception of value. Cold forks at “21”? Not a chance. At La Villa Tarantella and Enoteca? Of course. Who’s to object; what’s not to like?
Specials can be delivered with all of the nervous apprehension of a 5-year-old playing a talking tomato in a school play; or, lovingly, as if praising shamelessly the brilliance of the chef and the craft of the kitchen for collaborating to create such a spectacular special; or, can be spoken credibly and convincingly with all of the élan and eloquence of an actor playing to the last row of the balcony. However, give O’Neill her due: a list of specials, handwritten or printed, is a nice touch.
What about the waiter who takes time to introduce himself? What are we talking about here? Manners? Boorishness? A breach of service ethics? What service offense does a waiter commit who cozies up to the diner? Well, I suppose it is offensive if cozying is affected, sleazy, indifferent, matter-of-fact, an innuendo. But if cozying is pleasant and sincere, warm and thoughtful, even flirtatious, it breaks the ice. More importantly, it establishes a trust between waiter and diner that should strengthen as the meal progresses.
We want O’Neill to know this: Service is intrusive and annoying when it is redundant, ineffective, overbearing, and unsolicited; when it is a conditioned reflex. It is a pleasure when it is attentive and gracious, when it responds intelligently to every request with useful explanations and clarifications; when it arrives at the table with introductions, pepper mills, recitations or a list of specials and more.
Does any of this make sense? Sensible strategies for service? It’s a start. But pay no attention if all you want to do when dining is to eat and get the hell out.
