FOOD AND WINE (a short story about hubris)

At Frâiche Restaurant, the kitchen is starting to heat up. In the dining room some parties are settling in as others make their way to their tables with tunnel vision. It’s that time of night when honest clean daylight gives way to something more opaque—a kind of playful malevolence.

        The waiter’s heart rises when table 24 gets there. It’s his first four-top, and he’s placing a final polished butter knife on the table. Theirry the Maitre d’ pulls the waiter aside and soft-brusquely tells him to take care of this table. Theirry is a hard man whose catch phrase is “you don’t like it, you can leave.” He’s French, and does nothing to defy the stereotypes.

         “VIP’s…Food and Wine Magazine," he grunts. "Don’t blow them.”

        He means don’t blow it. Last week the waiter got clumsy and spilled a glass of 1982 Lafite Bordeaux all down a customer’s front. With dry cleaning and comps, about a thousand-dollar mistake. He cannot afford to lose this job. The waiter watches the table sit down, giving them time to decompress and acclimate. He approaches the counter at the open kitchen, asking the chef to prepare four amuses bouche—little complementary bites.

        The chef coughs into his armpit and calls to his sous-chef without looking up. “Fire four foie gras. Half portions.” Chef Jason Travi and his wife Miho control the back of the house. He runs the line like a German submarine captain. She’s the pastry chef and she cracks whips, not jokes. 

        The waiter looks back at the slightly formidable pair of couples at table 24. Brainy but charismatic. Unselfconscious. Sharply happy, subtly well-dressed.

The waiter offers cocktails and mentions in passing that the monkfish made the cover of Bon Appetit last year.

        “And I think the chef is putting together something special for you. Let me go check on that.”

      

****

        When the restaurant opened last year it hit the ground running, got some quick media attention, maintained its stride, became a celebrity stomping ground, fed Billy Crystal, Robert Downey Jr., studio execs, booked itself two months out, hosted benefits, hired and fired, became self-satisfied, puffed its chest out. Or rather Theirry puffed his chest out. He had the gaze of an emperor and a bodyguard’s mien. He manhandled the floor staff and gladhanded the A-list. Married Theirry flirted openly with the hostess. With a meathook on her lower back he lit up her electrical system and she preened like an exotic bird. 

        Lately, though, the restaurant seems to be on the decline. The honeymoon period is well over. No longer are there three turns a night in the dining room. The hostess deigns to answer the phone to take reservations. C-list celebrities arrive to the anemic flash of a lone paparazzo. Clearly Frâiche Restaurant, Culver City, Los Angeles is on the wane. They need a good review from a serious magazine. In a city that chews up and spits out new chefs and their food, this could be their last chance.

        To that end, the complimentary goose livers are served to table 24. Oohs and ahhs happen. The waiter enjoys this small victory and swans through the dining room to commandeer a backwaiter. 

        “More Evian on 24.” 

        Some patrons ignore the special treatment over there while others look on like neglected children. The backwaiter can be seen talking to a busboy, who scampers to refill waters. Everything in its right place. The waiter reappears with four small glasses and a bottle of something, saying “so Theirry saw this foie gras go down and he told me that foie gras without Sauternes is a travesty.” The diners giggle with delight as he pours the sweet wine with no little flourish. “A travesty, he said.” (He said no such thing. He’s out in the alley smoking.) “I’d better get these menus off the table or we’ll have to start selling air rights.”

        The table orders. Three monkfish and a duck. “And for your first course?” Nothing, saving room for dessert. “Of course,” he says.

On the return the waiter tries talking shop: “Did you see the article in the L.A. Times last week? Chef husbands and pastry-chef wives. Jason and Miho were mentioned, and a few other couples.”

        Haven’t seen the article. But much of what the foursome say is impressively hip or enigmatic. They’re in another league, it seems. The waiter is simply outclassed, and realizes it might be a good time to break away and start paying attention to his other tables. Two elderly women on his right are both craned around and snapping for attention like hatchlings. Another table is arguing loudly about the ethics of foie gras. A man’s hand reaches out and grabs the waiter’s wrist. “Waiter, can you please get our check? The show starts in fifteen minutes.” 

        “Yes, one moment,” he says over his shoulder, clearing a half-eaten squash soup from Don Rickles.

        “I’m not finished with that, young man.” 

        “Terribly sorry,” he says as he places it back down.

        “Well I can’t eat it now, can I? You’ve touched it!”

        “Quite right. I’ll have the chef make you a new one.” 

        “I’m not hungry anymore!” His guests implode with restrained laughter.

        “Of course.” The waiter is sneaking a glance behind him at Food and Wine. Are they hearing all this? Could mean big demerits. They look like they haven’t noticed. Whew. 

         It’s clear now that the ladies’ auxilliary has a wobbly table. “Waiter, we have a wobbly table,” they chirp, roughly in unison. The waiter mops his brow with the back of a bare hand, and motions for a busser to come over, with the universal "bring-a-little-table-wedgie-thing-over-here" gesture. By this time the theater couple is standing up and exagerratedly collecting their personal effects. Oh, their check. 

        DING! It’s the kitchen bell. Table 24’s entrees are up. 

        DING! No food runners to be found. No bussers around. The waiter scans the room frantically for someone to throw him a life preserver. Or at least take this soup bowl off his hands. He swings around starboard and it’s Theirry across the room, stock still and staring, arms akimbo, not amused. Food and Wine are watching the waiter expectantly. 

        DING! They see their entrees in the window of the open kitchen. 

        At this point it’s culinary triage, and hard choices have to be made. Down goes the soup bowl into the bustub of a passing busboy. The waiter’s body makes a large letter C to let a giggling kid run through… One, two, three dishes up the arm and now one in the hand. Pivoting, the waiter begins sliding the dishes onto the table. “Monkfish with local morel mushrooms and a beet foam… monkfish… another monkfish… a-a-and the duck. Roasted hormone-free local duckling with white truffle risotto and asparagus mist. One of these kids is doing his own thing!” The waiter sings. 

        The Sesame Street reference falls flat as Theirry begins a slow, inexorable march toward the table. “I’ll be back,” the waiter says as he scoots in the other direction toward the computer. He prints the theater couple’s check while Theirry breathes damply on his neck.     

        “What you doing out there?” 

        “Just printing a check here for table 32.” 

        “In this business, you either driving the buce, you riding the buce, or you under the buce, do you understand?

        “Oui,” the waiter lies. 

        “Give me that check. I will bring it to them. Go see about Food and Wine Magazine.” 

        They seem to be content at the moment, closed mouths working and heads nodding. The waiter has found a moment to breathe, and surveys the rest of the dining room. He has no rapport with his other guests—they are strangers to him. But at least he hasn’t spilled anything. He takes the opportunity to step into the men’s room for no reason. After shuffling around in there for a while, he emerges slightly refreshed. Table 24 must have really wolfed down their entrees. They seem to be done.

        The waiter makes his way over, and while he regales his guests with post-dinner banter, he clears and crumbs their table to an immaculate finish. They laugh—about having no room for dessert, about the falling value of the dollar, about the L.A. restaurant scene—like five old friends. After thanking their waiter for a good meal, the best they’ve had in a long time, one of the women gives him her card, which he is genuinely happy to accept. He looks down at the card and thanks her very much. Is she a columnist at the magazine? An editor?

        “National Restaurant Sales, Inc.,” he reads.

        “We’re food and wine distributors,” she says. “If Chef Travi ever needs anything, please let him know he can call us.” 

        And with that they are gone, and the table is once again empty. The waiter places the card in his shirt pocket and removes the tablecloth, eyes closed, a slow smile of recognition creeping across his face.