Sunday, October 11, 2009

Bar People: The Streamliner

A sure-fire warning sign that a customer may be difficult is the desire to be seated at the sushi bar rather than at a table.  I dare say that this is the greatest predictor for difficulty.  Exceptions do exist but they are rare.  There is something about the desire to sit at a sushi bar that sets the diner apart from the casual horde that wants simply to fill their bellies.  Bar People, devils one and all, arrive at a restaurant with a hidden agenda.

If it is a male/female couple, the session at the bar will invariably begin with a suggestion by the woman.  "Oooh," she will say.  "Do you want to sit at the bar?  That way we can watch them make our food."  The man will grumble and be dragged by the arm to his place at the bar.  The irony is that, at my particular sushi bar, the bar is elevated and the seats are low, so that the customer is treated not to a front row seat of the chef's work, but a face full of fish in the refrigerator.  Now Lord and Lady are deprived of the special delight they derive from watching another human being--underpaid without a doubt--sweat and grumble as he toils over their order.  They are then forced to occupy themselves with the task of annoying the chef by putting an index finger to the glass and playing the game of questions and answers known as "what kind of fish is that?"

Of all the types of bar people the above are perhaps the most harmless.  We now move forward into darker territory, into the world of those who seek a seat at the bar in order to fill some aching void in their lives.  To take a glimpse of this world is to bear witness to the staggering number of walking the streets with undiagnosed psychological disorders, ready to foist a bit of their madness on the first captive audience they come across.  For them the chef, chained behind the bar by the fetters of duty, is the perfect target.

THE STREAMLINER

This is a type of person rather than one particular individual.  Though, unfortunately, the traits of the Streamliner can be found in many customers.  The Streamliner is a rather forward-thinking individual who has, in his own mind, solved some of the problems inherent in the restaurant system.



The Streamliner (ironic that his name so infrequently reflects the character of his physique) takes a seat at the bar because he feels that the direct route is the best route.  He thinks, because he can speak directly to the chef, that he has solved the problem of dealing with severs.  Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth.  The server is still in charge of bringing drinks, soup, edamame, and clean plates for sharing, as well as refilling drinks, clearing dirty dishes, keeping track of and adding the bill, taking the payment, busing, cleaning, and setting up the space at the bar for the next customers.  The only duty that the server is spared is bringing the food from the chef to the table--a convenience which, in a small restaurant such as myself, saves the server a journey of four or five feet.

It is upon this small convenience paid the server that The Streamliner bases the justification for his abhorrent behavior.  Blind to all that goes on around him, The Streamliner believes himself to be the champion of a new era.

Look at all I've accomplished, The Streamliner thinks.  The direct channel I have opened between diner and chef is a new dawn for mankind.  Notice how obsolete I have rendered the server.  Surely, once the table-sitting monkeys follow my lead, serving as a profession will not be around even as early as this time next year.  Accordingly, I will commence to treat the server like garbage.  Every polite inquiry made to ensure that my time spent at this establishment is pleasant and enjoyable and that all my needs are met will be treated as a vulgar interruption and be met with open disdain.

Continuing on in my own limited way, I think that I will tip the CHEF instead of the server.  Ha!  How do you like that?  Tipping the chef and stiffing the server!  Get a load of me!  I am quite the hot-shot, am I not?  I'm not afraid to step on a few toes--I know how things really work.  I am a champion of justice, and champions of justice are not known for winning popularity contests.  I mean, the chef's the guy that's making the food, right?  Why would I tip the server, whose hourly pay is less than minimum wage, when I could tip the chef, a fully-salaried employee who's vitality does not depend on how busy the restaurant is on any given night?  The chef has a skill: making food.  The server, who has to deal over and over again with stunted animals such as myself . . .  well, dealing with difficult people couldn't really be considered a skill, now could it?  Certainly not something that a person should ever be PAID do do.  True, I fumble through life in a kind of short-sighted, blundering way so I don't even know that the chef is already getting a percentage of the server's tips.  Nevertheless, even if I did know that I would not care.  Because I would like to see the chef, this noble soul preparing the feast upon which I will sup, dressed in the finest silks and furs, wandering the spacious halls of a stately golden castle.  Conversely, these servers, loathsome breed that they are, belong in in the shadow of this castle, huddled together for warmth.  Let them be dressed in filthy rags and their blood be the nourishment for lice, ticks, and other vermin that science has yet to discover.


Maybe next time I eat in a restaurant that does not have a bar, I will follow my enlightened philosophy anyway.  I will march past the server and right into the kitchen and shower the chef with handfuls of cash from my pocket.  Why should it be any different if I do not actually see the chef?  He makes the food and food is visible.  Service, which is invisible, does not really exist.  As a result it should not be rewarded.  Gee, I'm on a roll here.  I'm feeling pretty expansive.  Is this the kind of feeling that those poets were always talking about?  Perhaps they are not flakes I had thought them to be.  Perhaps I am dishing out hate as arbitrarily that I dish out love?  Why do I put the chefs above the servers?  Or the servers above the dishwashers?  Or any person above anyone else, for that matter?  Are we not all equal?  Do we not have the same desires, the same hopes and dreams?  Deep down don't we all just want to be loved?

Wait, the chef is handing a plate over the bar.  My food is on it.  The food he made for me.  As I take the plate from his skilled hands he nods sternly.  It is a nod of understanding.  A message is communicated.  He knows how much I appreciate him.  And now I know that he knows it.  We have entered a secret pact, the chef and I.  The server is the enemy.  He stands between us.  He must be done away with.  Not today, necessarily, but soon.  I've got it!  I will tip only the chef and not the server.  It is a gesture of my understanding of the situation.  The server is superfluous and I will stiff him.  I could do much more but this is something.  This is something.  A start.

1 comment:

  1. As soon as the italics started I started laughing and didn't stop until the end. Very, very funny. "Get a load of me" made me laugh out loud and really the whole thing was good.

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