jdcfoodstyle

[jdcfoodstyle]

Greenhouse London

From the moment I stepped into the unassuming courtyard entrance adorned with lavish marble statues and ivy laden pale white stone walls, I knew I was in for a treat. A host eased opened the door, greeted me, and led me to a one-sided elegant booth in the front of the dining room. The decor was sleek: pale green banquettes, firm tan pillows, a small figurine at every seated table, a glass encased private dining room across the hall, and bright ferns, flowers and foliage everywhere. From my vantage point I could see a sliver of stainless steel kitchen equipment glinting under floressant lights whenever a black swinging door opened across the room. A chef peeked his head out, apparently the head hancho. It was odd having an executive on duty during the lunch hour. But Greenhouse is known for their killer lunch specials, affording a humble waiter like me the opportunity to feast on two-star Michelin cuisine. To call it a feast would be remiss, as what unfolded was nothing short of a symphony.

The waiter walked up within seconds. “Sparkling or still? A glass of champagne?” He had a beverage cart within reach, and a bottle of Roederer in hand. Impressive. I elected to have only tea and pelligrino. I chose the lunch tasting menu, and before I could blink the chef sent out a series of small complimentary appetizers in three phases. “What class,” I thought.

The first ordourve was a beef tartare on crostini with pear, apple and uni marmalade. It melted in my mouth with salty umami goodness. Next came a seaweed marshmallow fluff. It had an odd jelly-like consistency to it, and seemed more like a dessert dish. Yet, the flavor put all my doubts to bed. A magic blend of cool and refreshing flavors; the perfect bite to get my palate salivating in anticipation of the next course. However, one more curious bite came to me before the meal came full force: a tart with seaweed and seafood and other elements I couldn’t quite identify. The whole sequence was the epitome of inventive.

After ten years waiting tables, I know for certain that elaborate bread carts are underrated. Greenhouse had four types of fresh bread sliced tableside and several butters, one with lavender and one with nori. Each one was better than the last. When the waiter brought the buratta salad over, time stood still and I gazed at the dish as in a trance. Three colors of heirloom tomato, paper thin jamon serrano, Maldon salt, chopped herbs, micro greens, and a tomato gelatin lining the plate. Brilliant. Culinary simplicity executed to perfection. The flavors were not eclipsed by the stunning presentation, each component struck a pleasant bite that, in synchrony, left my mind and my palate spinning with excitement.

Next, filet mignon. The steak was seared evenly, the juices intact, and the color nothing short of sensual. Olive beef jus on the left, a jelly bourgonone sauce on the right, and a small “spaghetti” potato topper. Three textures, four distinct flavors, joining forces to make an ordinary cut of beef extraordinary.

“Would you like a small dessert or the cheese course?” Easy. “Cheese, definitely.” I made the right choice. The waiter rolled a cart tableside and showcased five enormous blocks of cheese. Accessories included picked fruit, jelly, and fresh sliced bread. Every bite was more intriguing than the last. The chesses were not only fresh, they were the highest quality I’d ever tasted. I could have sat there and munched on cheese for hours.

Greenhouse is the single most elaborate dining experience I’ve ever had. Every detail of the experience was flawless. It seemed that every staff member was abreast to all the details of every table in the restaurant. The waiters didn’t waste any steps. My glass of pelligrino was never empty, and the loose leaf green tea I sipped on was refilled three times without an extra charge. Between courses, empty plates and dirty stemware were cleared instantly, followed by a quick crumb, a mis en place tray, and fresh silverware.

[jdcfoodstyle]

Waiting tables: DFW, ATX, NYC

I've been waiting tables since I was 18. I never imagined that I'd have ten years of service industry experience on my resume. I always thought I'd be married at this age; starting a family, blossoming in my career, mostly settled down, writing like a madman, teaching part time, and moving forward with my life. But here I am, single, writing my first book, and still waiting tables. At the risk of inciting an acute strain of frustration, I plan on serving for another year or two.

Don't get me wrong: to a lot of good people, restaurants are livelihoods, and the embodiment of culinary or economic passion and savvy. And for the best in the business, this means an empire of followers and millions upon millions of dollars to back it up. There's a lot of money to be made in the industry. That's the reason I ventured into service in the first place: to make better money. Sure, my 10-15$/hour job working for an auctioneer wasn't a bad gig. But I wasn't satisfied. I knew I could make more, and be better than the majority of other servers around me. So, I took the plunge. For better or for worse, my early career has morphed me into a wanna-be beverage and food connoisseur with a hyper attentiveness to the nuances of customer service. I never could have predicted this effect. But when a guest comments on my Kobe beef presentation with, “you know your shit,” I begin to understand why I've evolved into a seasoned waiter. The draw of being great at what I do--one of the best in the business, with dexterity and expertise--still pulls me like a magnet into an industry I've grown to despise in countless ways. But that's another story for another day (Or an entire book! Believe me, I could fill the pages).

When someone asks what I do, I respond with all the enthusiasm I can muster up in the moment. I phrase my answer in a way that seems indicative of success to both myself and my audience: “I wait tables at a prime steakhouse in uptown, Dallas.” Or on another day: “I'm a waiter. I've been doing it for a while. It pays the bills.” To a certain sect of my peers, my title is impressive. “Oh, you're a fancy waiter at a celebrity steakhouse. You must make a killing!” I smile and nod, suppressing my desire to reveal any further details. “Sure is a great area. And the money is consistent. I can't complain.” To anyone who knows me, that's code for, “It's ok for now, but it could be better. And I want it to be.” I hide most of my thoughts on the subject, because I don't prefer to come across as arrogant, dissatisfied, or bitchy. Things could be a lot worse. What do I possibly have to complain about, in the grand scheme of things?

If my critiques of the restaurant industry mean anything to anyone, I hope that expressing them benefits me and my evolving perspective on my unexpected rise to the ranks of a “professional server.” Just the other day a coworker called me that in passing. “You're a professional! You know what you're doing.” I laughed it off, not knowing whether he was mocking or complimenting me. He's a good guy, I'm sure it was more or less a half witted compliment. But his words got me thinking: “am I really a professional?” Then again, why wouldn't I be. I have all the credentials and skills necessary to attain such a title. The problem lies, not with the label, but with the negative connotations behind the notion of “professional server.” Perhaps these thoughts are exclusive to me, but I find that unlikely.

The restaurant industry revolves around wealth. To owners and clients alike, few arguments are more powerful than a stack of hundred dollar bills, or an Amex black card. But isn't every industry like that, to a certain degree? Money talks. Right?

If it's not the wealth-crazed clients, it's the short leather skirts and plunging necklines that capture our attention. Waitresses with curves pleasing to the eye are not only put on a pedestal, they make more money, retain more guests, and benefit from the watchful eye of every sex-crazed man indulging in fine wines and oversized cuts of beef. Sex and sexual appeal play a shockingly large role in the industry. From cute young ladies in their late teens at the front door, to bartenders and servers sporting propped-up cleavage or ass-hugging pants, sex appeal isn't just a tactic, it's a way of life. On top of that, restaurant employees only add to the madness. Servers play right into the stereotype, and bussers and dishwashers, who in my experience are often Latin American, banter back and forth about the “puta” at table 33, or the “mamasita” behind the bar. I know enough Spanish to pick up on conversations about women, sex, asses, sexual organs and fucking. But dishwashers are no more lewd than servers that stare down the shirts of female clients while they “touch up wine.” I'm guilty of it. I learned the trick, along with several others, from the honorable people I've worked with over the years. Not to mention the cocaine sniffing, binge drinking, meth smoking waiters and managers I've encountered over the years. Like I said, I could write a book.

On top of the vicious cycles of flashy wealth and provocative sex appeal, the notion of health and nutrition is more often than not, a mirage. Even the good restaurants fry foods in greasy canola oil, and coat nearly everything with copious amounts of butter, salt and sugar. At long as it tastes good, who cares what's in it? Plus, when chefs use professional terminology to describe dishes, the guests attention is hence placed on culinary detail and artistry. The perfect diversionary tactic. And we all play into it, whether by design or incident. 

The restaurant industry is propper up by lies. I’m not the only one who holds this view. Check out these books and articles for more exploration into this theme: 

a) Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential” and “Medium Raw” 

b) Marco P. White’s “Devil in the Kitchen”

c) Edward Frame’s “Dinner and Deception,” New York Times, 2015

[jdcfoodstyle]

BK; poem

East village neon lights Bowery or Bleeker Red billiard tables Pale ales on tap Frequent bathroom visits Overconfident bank shots Women on the dance floor The players in the back Unquenchable thirst Jameson to hydrate Cigarettes to level out These streets are songs Poems, stories; late night glories Stumble out of Houston Call a cab to Wall The island has the night But Bushwick has my heart

[jdcfoodstyle]

Upper East Side, NYC

A lone man leans against the Lexington Avenue subway entrance, puffing a cigarette as travelers pass quickly by. He stares into the hazy midday sky, takes one last drag, and lazily drops the but on the transit stairway. The 4/5 train runs often from 86th street. He’s in no hurry.

He makes his way down, paying no mind to the occasional speed walker who zooms down the pathway like a racehorse on Derby weekend. The black box above the platform flashes “2 minutes” in neon green. I’ll get home quick. He thinks.

The station is bustling as droves of people come and go, sporting everything from pinstriped Armani suits to anti-establishment ripped jeans and dusty white t’s. From the loud Chinese tourist to the calm University fellow, he sees them all in their hurried frenzy. But the motion of an Upper East Side commute seems to him a mere spectacle. Like a man at a zoo, he watches and wonders why the creatures behave in such a curious manner.

[jdcfoodstyle]

L-train, Brooklyn

“Where am I?” My head pounds from the nights barrage of craft whiskey sours. I know I’m in a train station, but I’ve completely forgotten which one. I look around. This typical subway platform has an unusual splash of color to it. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I peer more precisely into the surrounding crowd: stone washed denim jackets; top knots and shaved sides; black bottoms and black tops; bleached tips; ‘Supreme’ snap-backs; wide rimmed shades; unkempt beards; and the confident assurance that each personal style represented on the platform was unique in its own legitimate and undoubtedly intriguing way.

The L train to Brooklyn. That’s what I was waiting for. It wasn’t the myriad styles seemingly united in a quest for independence that triggered this “aha!” moment. The men and women who sported these styles had a sort of agreeable way about them that suggested strong opinions but non-violent opposition. In a way, I knew they all had common interests. My drunk self perceived this before the gray round signs with white lettering and the black boxes with neon green lighting shouting “L train!” This may say something about me, but I think it says more about Brooklyn. I love Brooklyn. The inimitable feeling I experienced that night reminds me why. Until you’ve been on the L train platform, tipsy enough to call that ex girlfriend you swore off, you’ll never know the depth of DNA strata that is BK.

[jdcfoodstyle]

In London, on my way to Paris

A couple nights ago, I struck out on my own to find a bite to eat and a cocktail. I stumbled on "the breakfast club" in shoreditch, and devoured a delicious chorizo burrito. I washed it down with a local craft pale ale. Next stop, the bar. I had heard the place "happiness forgets" mentioned in both conversations and publications, and although I typically prefer a dive bar or a pub, I gave it a shot. The bar is tucked below a restaurant in a quaint basement. I walked right past it my first time around. When I wandered back around and saw the unassuming flight of stairs with a small sign at the bottom, I knew I had made a good choice. Although I only intended to stay for one, the charming barmaid, Caroline, placed a menu in front of me as I sipped the last few ounces of an irresistible Campari, bourbon, and grapefruit concoction. I settled on an old fashioned. It was one of the best I'd had. I asked for the check, and Caroline brought over a slip of paper with the bars name on it and a figurehand sketch signifying my total. She asked me where I was from, and I told her about my travel plans. "Paris?" She said. "I love that place. Let me give you a list." She wrote a list of six places, along with the words, "Paris, please take care of josiah," and a small heart. I walked out smiling. I travel a little differently than most people. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy most touristy attractions. Many of them are, more or less, essential landmarks or locations that I'd be foolish to miss. However, my goal is to embrace a culture and learn as much as I can about it in the brief time I spend there. Thus, I spend lots of time researching local bars, coffee shops, vintage/resale stores, museums, restaurants, and parks. The trick is to find the places that are off the grid, usually too far of a walk from major city centers for the typical traveler. And when searching out the best spots, nothing beats the advice of a local. Sure, yelp and google can help to a degree (I use local publications like TimeOut, google, yelp, foursquare, event apps like Dojo, and online food and drink criticism articles), but what online reviews don't tell you is the character of a place: how long it's been there, if locals are a part of the clientele, what the house specialities are (you can always ask a server/bartender), and perhaps most importantly, the level of authenticity present in both the ambiance and quality of product. Now, due to my extensive experience in the restaurant industry, I intuitively ask these questions. Perhaps for others less savvy about the ins and outs of the service world, these questions would be simply overlooked. Not to disparage anyone. Traveling is overwhelming at times. New places, unfamiliar dialects and languages, a thousand attractions at every corner, and a Pandora's box of information both online and in print that successfully overwhelms before it actually helps. Fear not. There is a method to the madness. Call on locals just like our darling Caroline. She was the only compass I needed.

[jdcfoodstyle]

Austin, TX

“Hello, welcome to Bob’s. My name is Josiah. I’ll be your server tonight. How’s the night treating you?”

“Fairly well. Look man, I’m a wealthy spoiled kid. But these prices on your wine list aren’t just rape, their molestation. I’m not gonna order wine by the bottle…it’s not your fault.”

“Not a problem sir, what else can I get you?”

“Jack and diet please.”

“Yes sir. Coming right up.”

I walk away from the hosts seat at head of the table towards the computer and order the man his drink. Why would he make such a comment? He’s rich. What does he care? Restaurants make most of their money off of liquor and wine mark ups. He’s a regular. You’d think he know. But I play it off. My job is simple: take care of the guest, regardless of how irrational he or she may be. This guy was the epitome of rich: bootcut faded jeans that reek of the “I buy pricy clothes but don’t give two shits about it” vibe; fancy pointed shoes that didn’t begin to redeem his lack of cohesive dress ware; a colorful button down with wide stripes and off putting shades of orange and brown; spiked thin hair undoubtedly groomed with “touch of gray,” inspired by the “save your hair” bosley mantra; a dark orange skin tone indicative of long hours in tanning beds and the frequent lavish tropical vacation; and to top it off, his dolled-up white teeth hide an unenthusiastic, banal smile that wants to be sincere but couldn’t possibly manage relatability, even given the best of days and a genuine effort. His name was James. From the moment I shook his hand, I despised the man. Everything about my first impression of him was contently stuck in the rich, snobby, egotistical realm. Regardless, I did my job, and he seemed reasonably happy, despite his complaints.

The more I wait on wealthy high profile people, the more disenchanted I become. What do they have to offer that’s acutely better than my arsenal of personal strengths, loves, and giftings? How did they grow into powerful individuals? And why should I give a damn about the particularities of one person's privileged, cushioned life? Throughout my life, I’ve had to work for everything. Food, drink, health, education, transportation, and a fragment of social relevance, all on my own dime. Then again, maybe I’m wrong to judge him. Perhaps he’s entirely self-made and deserves every dollar the ecosystem of western capitalism has afforded him. However, if one man’s wealth speaks louder and more obnoxiously than every other potentially relatable subjective experience, I can’t help but think he’s on on the losing side of the spectrum. Money is great. But money can’t buy a blissful soul. Nor can it purchase happiness or love, as countless poets and musicians have articulated throughout past centuries. Being rich is great, when money is the thing you need to answer questions and solve problems. But when capital isn’t sufficient, a man’s true colors begin to show. And no amount of money could make this interaction any more pleasant.

“Hey buddy, I’ll take the tab. And add 18% please.”

“18%?” I thought. What a low-grade level of compensation for a far above average waiter that makes his bread and butter off of scum like this. I didn’t make enough that night. I don’t know if he was aware of how skimpy the tip actually was. Maybe he just wasn’t paying attention to the numbers. It’s beyond me. All I know is that I got paid less than normal to wait on an extremely high maintenance client full of complaints and extensive lip service. But complements don’t pay the bills. Maybe he meant well. More than likely he didn’t think far enough to give two shits about the servers that went out of their way to cater to him and his entitled group of friends and family. It was his daughter's 15th birthday. She came across as 18+ with a lovely frame and a charming smile. I caught several older men giving her a look as she walked into the private dining room. I couldn’t believe it at first. Isn’t it despicable for a middle-aged man to gawk at a girl far below the legal age? Not my place. I’m just a server. Put the blinders on—professional aura, expertise in every step of service from picking up plates to articulating features, and a “can-do” smile that diffuses tension and makes me appear completely willing to accommodate any request. To my core, I truly am available to fulfill any request. If a guest needs me to venture across the street for a pack of smokes or a small bottle of Advil, I’ll do it without question. I’m that kind of server. But this gentleman (I say that to formalize our interaction, not to commend his character) was impossible to please and made it a point to be difficult. I let it be. Just another night in the business of pleasing clients and tailoring an exquisite dining experience. Then again, the guest has to want that. I can only do so much when the man sitting in the chairs I’ve dusted and positioned precisely around the table wants to complain and bicker about the most tangential details. What can I do? Smile, accommodate each request promptly, and fulfill the role high-profile clients expect of me. Most are complete strangers. But my job doesn’t change due to that. I’m in it for the money and the experience. And on that night, both end goals were severely lacking.

As I walk around the table, surveying empty glasses and dirty plates, clearing away superfluous items, I can’t help but overhear the conversation. The same man I’ve overanalyzed from the first minute I saw him takes lead of the dialogue. What followed was a disturbing back and forth about gender, sexual equality, and current political affairs.

“Most of this shit, all the #metoo stuff…some of these girls, with the way they dress, they’re asking for it. You know what I call a girl dressed all slutty? A pound sign. That’s what I call them. They’re begging to be pounded. That’s what it comes down to.”

The man’s wife looks at him passively, attempting to dismiss the comment, but too apprehensive to call his bluff outright. Lots of cheap laughter and eye-contact evasion follows. The comment was off-putting, at best. Absurdly sexist and hateful, at worst. Whatever his intentions were, they were lost in his crudely expressed viewpoint of the role of women in society and his generic aura of pretension and esotericism. I certainly couldn’t relate to him. I needed only to oblige him. He couldn’t give a damn where I’m from, what I’ve been through, who I claim to be. Why would he? I’m just a glorified butler, here to accommodate his every request.

On nights like this, the waiting game gets old real fast. Feeding the mouths of entitled individuals, selling steaks and wine to the those who could care less about a price point, embracing the role of server and personal assistant in a world dominated by the rich and powerful—it’s all mad, every part. But until the world opens up to me, I’ll do my part, pouring wine, serving cocktails, picking plates up, setting others down, cleaning tables, smiling when a guest asks for my opinion, balancing on the tightrope of the perception of others and the obligation to meet and exceed expectations. It’s a mad science, this waiting game.