If You Name It, It (aka Disaster) Won't Come. A Breakfast Prayer.

Brunches can be treacherous. As I've previously written, it's hard to deal with high volume before noon. But 2 Sunday brunches ago, real disaster befell the Keith McNally brunch empire when the truck carrying the breads for Balthazar and Pastis and his other restaurants got stolen as the driver stepped out to make his first delicious delivery. What would one do with stolen Balthazar croissants? Re-sell them as your own at a farmer's market? Donate them to the poor masses before they go stale? Use them as leverage when you tell McNally he will hire Furio the cheese-maker? Give them to that woman trying to be the fattest person EVER as a charitable donation to her cause?

It wasn't headline news- but do an internet search for "brunch disaster" and brief articles about the theft from the New York Post and from The Village Voice will pop up. I can only hope that nothing close to this happens to me today. (As a side note, since this weekend was a balmy one driving many to the Hamptons or to air-conditioned hibernation, I'm hoping brunch will be a quiet one.)

A Little Sifton Bashing Is Good For The (Restaurant Workers') Soul.

Since I now have a blackberry, I can tweet and email and do lots of things when I'm not doing anything, and if I'm discreet, I can do such things on the job.

Below is an email exchange between me, Underemployed, and an Ivy League '06 who is in the part of his culinary school training where he is doing legit dinner services. Keep in mind I was (still) at work when I wrote.

Underemployed:

They sat a 10-top 7 minutes before kitchen closes. If/when I'm in charge somewhere large groups will not be seated within half hour of kitchen closing unless they are reserved or vip. This is bs.

IvyCulinaryKid:

shit! that is brutal. i got out by 1045 even though it was a pretty rough service... sorry 'bout that; that is bs. like a raymond chandler novel narrated by angelina jolie, sultry yet off-putting. (that was my best off the cuff sifton impression)

Underemployed:

One could say its like tripping on cough syrup- it could do you good but more likely it will leave face-down buck-naked on a bathroom floor you can only hope will be yours.

IvyCulinaryKid:

wow. that is good. you should write for the times.


If only, if only.

Check out this amazing Sifton poem from The Village Voice and these disturbingly accurate Sifton Mad Libs on Eater.

Everyone Loves An Alpha Male in Uniform.

At Penn Station today, I heard one of my favorite public service announcements, and one of the few whose words of wisdom I sometimes need a reminder to heed. Do Not Pet The Homeland Security Dogs. They are trained, they are not your friends : The Onion ran an amazing piece about these dogs back in '03. Even though the novelty of these hard-working four-legged civil servants has worn off, there is still no getting used to the unbelievable adorableness of a beagle in a windbreaker
.

Hot On The Trial. I Mean Trail. I Mean...

Last night I trailed at that popular East Village eatery I wrote about last week. Trailing is a restaurant industry mainstay. A trail is shadowing a server, and being as helpful as you can without really talking to guests or getting in the way.

I arrived at the restaurant, introduced myself to the manager and she promptly told me there would be another would-be server trailing. That made me anxious. The thing is, by its very nature, to be trailing is to be in the way on the floor and to be annoying to the server you're shadowing by asking questions and slowing them down. To have two extra bodies who are basically not capable of contributing meaningfully to service sounded horrible. But I figured having someone around who also didn't know what was going on would be a net positive, since I wouldn't be the only one looking like a deer in the headlights.

The East Village restaurant (EVR for short) did a solid dinner service, but nothing compared to the restaurant I work at. That's ok with me- cocktail serving isn't the same thing as dining service, so it's good to get my sea legs at a place where the pace is reasonable but I'll still make money. The server I trained with was damn good at his job- never once did he look stressed out, he was elegant and efficient with his movements on the floor, and he had a nice way with the customers. I helped with bussing tables, filling water glasses, topping off wine glasses, running food and cocktails.

The spirit among the front of house staff wasn't as lively or camaraderie-driven as the restaurant I work at. I missed the sense of being in the trenches with friends instead of fellow waitrons. Still, the customers were kind, the food at EVR is delicious, and I would fit in nicely there. I felt like working there a couple nights a week would be a positive addition to my finances and my work life.

As the server I was trailing approached the end of his shift he told me I was done and to find the manager. She told me I'd hear from them on Thursday, and if we were going forward they would set up the training then. She told me that the EVR was trailing three candidates for one spot. My enthusiasm for the restaurant fell. When I asked her if there was anything I could do in the meanwhile to secure this job she said to study the menu. "Just in case I get it," I said smiling.

Seeking counsel from the restaurant savvy Daphne Dusquesne at Gastronomista, I told her I felt like my time and free labor had been wasted. "Most restaurants trail more than one person," she told me, "they just don't tell you about it."

NYC By Way of Seoul. Underemployed is Underemployed.

One of my great good friends from Ivy League, Class of '09, double major in Public Policy and Critical Theory, has been living and working in Seoul basically since she graduated. She was teaching ESL there and now that the school year is over is balancing some paid internship opportunities and some fully-paying opportunities and trying to figure out how to do something she wants instead of something that will be horrible.

Below is a gchat:

UnderemployedInSeoul:

12:00 AM you know what i dont understand

is some of the most unqualified people i know in the class of 2010 got jobs

i guess that can be explained by connections or something though

me: that's what i was about to suggest

UnderemployedinSeoul: ah, connections

12:01 AM me: i also wonder if any of these so-called jobs are thinly veiled free labor spots gotten from said connections

but i have gotten to a bitter enough spot where i tend to assume most employed peers have had some sort of boost

UnderemployedinSeoul: yeah right?

Oh, The Places You'll Actually Go! A Fucking Masterpiece by the CollegeHumor Crew.

These are two pages of the amazing collaboration of Susana Wolff, Jeff Rubin, and Caldwell Tanner. You can see the whole UNBLURRY piece at CollegeHumor.com

Don't Touch My Tail When I'm Cocktailing!

Through a series of scheduling mishaps that came my way, I got evening cocktailing shifts Saturday and Sunday night. I worked my lil' patootie off. Speaking of posteriority, I have a general rule that all customers, particularly male customers should adhere to which is, namely, don't touch the merchandise.

When cocktailing, I keep the drink menus in my back-pocket. The menus are tall and narrow so they fit nicely and I hate wearing those little cocktail aprons. While talking with a table of middle-aged women that had been drinking for a couple hours Saturday afternoon and thus deserved my attention when they wanted to chat, I felt a menu disappear from my back-pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I see an athletic late 20-something hulk of a man walk away with a menu. The women looked at me scandalized, and I just stood there slack-jawed. "I wouldn't mind if he touched my back-pocket," one of the drunk ladies said to me. Before I could stop myself I blurted, "I'm uncomfortable."

Maybe I should have said something to him when I went to take his order. I mean, he didn't cop a feel, but he definitely didn't respect my bubble (butt? Lame joke). Something like, Now that you violated my personal space, what else can I do for you. But I didn't say anything. I just took his order and avoided him as much as possible.

What's funny is that much later at night as things were really busy, a male supervisor snuck a menu too, since he had cranky guests he needed to appease. Kind of bugged me, but if I were in a pinch and he had menus in his back-pocket I might consider...

Need to get some ass? Put menus in your pants.