The general manager walks slowly towards the health-inspector. “Hi, how can I help you?” he asks as his voice cracks. “Show me your kitchen.” The health inspector replies. She takes out her clipboard and hands him her badge. She has fined, closed, and ruined hundreds of restaurants. It’s her job, and she could stick a knife in the ass of anyone who gets in her way. “Right this way,” the GM says, leading her to the kitchen. Normally, the GM struts through the restaurant. Today, he is having a hard time keeping his balance. As soon as the GM and the health inspector disappear, Amy, the bartender screams at me. “Why didn’t you tell me the health inspector was here?” I’ve made a big mistake. In my effort to save the kitchen, I neglected the bar. I forgot to warn her. Amy is cleaning all of the liquor bottles and throwing out all of the garnishes. She’s got a lot of work to do, so I duck under the bar to help her. I throw out all of the breadsticks and start windexing the bar. Meanwhile, Amy is shoving all of the dirty wine glasses in the dishwasher, checking the expiration date on all of the juice containers, and making sure that none of our mixers smell funky. As I wipe down the bar, I peer over and see the GM and the health inspector making their way up the stairs.

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“The health inspector is here." “Fuck. Guys,” Max screams at the line-cooks, “put on your hats!” Then he starts yelling at the busboys. “Throw out all the breadsticks and rat-traps!” He looks straight at me. “Isabelle, get your ass downstairs and tell everyone that the food inspector’s here. We’re going to need all hands on deck. Move it!” Of course, everyone is downstairs in a manager’s meeting. For once, the fact that I used to run five miles a day is coming in handy; I sprint to the manager’s office and I throw open the door. All of the managers are sitting down with Chef at the head of the table. The general manager is mid-sentence and gives me a dirty look. I’ve obviously interrupted something. “Hey,” The GM snarls at me, “You should knock—” “The health inspector is here,” I say, hoping that third time is the charm. “WHAT?” Chef yells at me, and he leaps up from his chair and starts sprinting to the kitchen. All of the managers get up. It’s a mass exodus.

As we run upstairs, I see the busboys cleaning and sweeping all of the floors, inspecting expiration dates on milk containers, and throwing out all of the food that has been left out in the open. The cooks are washing their hands and putting their hats on. They strap on their Band-Aids, making sure that their recent cuts cannot be seen. Anyone who has ever worked in the restaurant industry knows that you are breaking health code about 70% of the time. but still, if a health inspector finds out, it's all over. “Isabelle. Where is the health inspector?” the GM asks, turning towards me as he makes his way up the stairs. “At the host podium,” I reply. The GM tucks his shirt into his pants, sweeps his hair across his face and takes a deep breath before he steps back onto the floor and greets the health inspector. The rest of us are still holding our breath.

To be continued…

Hostess Confidential is Jewcy's ongoing column about the dirty secrets of a swanky Manhattan restaurant. In the past it's tackled lovable old Jewish men, antisemitism, lecherous customers, and why you should never drink with bartenders.

The post Hostess Confidential: The Health Inspector Is Here appeared first on Jewcy.

Hostess Confidential is Jewcy's ongoing column about the dirty secrets of a swanky Manhattan restaurant. In the past it's tackled antisemitism, lecherous customers, and why you should never drink with bartenders.

The post Hostess Confidential: Why I Love Old Jewish Men appeared first on Jewcy.

Hostess Confidential is Jewcy's ongoing column about the dirty secrets of a swanky Manhattan restaurant. In the past it's tackled antisemitism and lecherous customers.

Everyone in the restaurant industry is an alcoholic. General managers sample wine on the job, waiters get trashed after every shift, and cooks drink so much they practically bleed Bud Light. And, of course, I’m a total light-weight. Two drinks and I’m buzzed, anything after four and I’m wasted. This New Years, after passing out in the ladies room— that’s right I FELL ASLEEP IN A BATHROOM STALL— I decided that I couldn’t do it anymore. I could no longer pretend I was a bad-ass.

So my New Year's resolution was to drink less. But then brunch happened. Brunch shifts, as Anthony Bourdain has said, are torture. You have to wake up early, the money is shit, and you have to deal with a circus of screaming babies. Sometimes I lie awake at night and hear the cries of desperate parents, “Please, do you have any crayons?” It is the single most depressing shift, and it’s damaging to one’s psyche and well-being. So after working a particularly grueling brunch, I was ready to call it a night at 5 PM. I wanted to crawl into my bed and order some take-out. As I was leaving, Josh, the bartender, asked me if I wanted to go to the Spanish tapas bar across the street for some sangria. Free drinks with great company…so much for not drinking. Four drinks later, we were talking about what it means to work in the restaurant industry. “Basically,” Josh said, “you have to be fucked up to work in a restaurant. Restaurants are for people who can't function anywhere else. We work late hours, long hours, and weekends, but we do it because, it's all we know."
I thought about how many people working in the restaurant industry are unfulfilled artists or people who like to live beyond their means. Chefs who enjoy screaming at people, bartenders who come to work drunk and drink during their shifts. What about the hosts or waitresses hooking up with managers in the closets or bathrooms after-hours? Maybe Josh was right: Maybe we are all fucked up. But then I thought about all of the busboys traveling from out of state to earn a living. The guys who work quickly and efficiently, with little recognition. I thought about the hosts I work with who enjoying sitting a cute couple at a nice table, or helping make someone’s anniversary or birthday special. There are managers who are fair, considerate, and flexible, there are cooks who are kind, and there are, though very rare, waiters who enjoy working and do it well. Maybe we aren’t all fucked up. “I think all kinds of people work at restaurants. Sure, we work there because we don’t really want to work 9-5, and we aren’t exactly in love with offices, but that doesn’t make us outcasts, that just makes us picky.” I said. Josh laughed at me. I wish it was because what I had said was naïve and silly. But I knew it was because I had slurred all my words. It dawned on me that I wouldn’t have had this conversation had I not been drunk. I decided to refine my New Years resolution: I will never drink again…with bartenders.

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It's 4:30. I’m standing at the host stand and I've been there for six hours. I'm on for another six and working "a dirty double," our industry's name for a double-shift. I haven't eaten a thing and I feel dizzy and nauseated. It's slow, and two bartenders from the restaurant next-door have been sitting at the bar for over an hour, and I swear, if I have to hear how "full" or "round" another wine is, I'm going to start dry-heaving. Their names are Frank and Eddie. Frank is a tall, waifish, blonde who is trapped in the eighties: he wears skinny pants, a skinny tie, and thick framed glasses. Eddie is scruffy and bearded and wears his suit with a smile. Frank, on his fifth glass of wine says "So I met my girl's family during Hanukkah." "Your girl is Jewish?" Eddie asks. "Oh yeah, she comes from this big Jewish family. And it's Hanukkah so they've got this huge spread of food: roast beef, smoked salmon, matzo ball soup, roasted potatoes, two different desserts, I mean, there was so much food—Jews, they're such big eaters, it's disgusting. So, her grandma starts serving me, you know, big Jewish portions, and I've got to eat it, because grandmas are the matriarchs of Jewish families. So I’m buttering up grandma, you know, lots of nods and uh-huhs while she's talking because, old Jewish ladies don't know when to shut-up—" "Right, bitches don't stop." Eddie says, rolling his eyes. "So, now, Grandma loves me. It's smooth sailing from now on. I'm proposing to my girl next week." Frank says. "Congratulations. Does that make you half-Jewish?" Eddie asks. "Dude, I will NEVER be Jewish." Frank says.
Finally Frank had said something that I agreed with. He will never be Jewish. His antisemitism and chauvinism were grating on me and what I found even more grating was knowing that I would have to deal with Frank, and others like him, again. Frank, like many, think that anything goes at the bar. They believe they that have the right to say or do anything because they are paying for their drinks. What they don't understand is, they don't pay people like me, people who work there, enough to listen to their racism and bigotry. In fact no amount of money could pay for this. Furthermore, when we tell our managers that a customer is being obnoxious, we have to continue working and serving them. And, at the end of the day, we are the ones that have to leave the restaurant with a foul taste in our mouths. I wanted to say something to Frank, but Jose, my manager, came over to me and said, "It's time for you to go on your break. I'll watch the door." Relieved that I was finally going to get something to eat and leave Frank behind, I gathered my coat and purse and braved the New York winter. Walking outside, I was left with one thought: Think about what you say at the bar. Others are listening.

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It’s only 7:30, and already we have 170 reservations on the books. There’s a bunch of old Jewish ladies huddled by the host stand, a line of drunken Brits at coat-check, and just enough room for me to squeeze by when Elise, the maître d', hands me a soignée, a card that tells the restaurant to give special treatment to a table, and says “Tell Chef how many menus are on the tables and pass this out to the server.” The server on the soignée is Selena, table 40. Where is she? I charge through the main dining room, the alcove, and the back dining room–no Selena. I nearly collide into one of the bus boys, his hands full of dirty coffee cups and half-eaten desserts. I step aside and thank God that I am not wearing a pumpkin sundae. As the waiters, bus boys, food runners, and managers scramble past me, I go to the kitchen to see if Selena is there. Then Chef, a small, angry man with a Napoleon complex, yells “Hey! Are you looking for some leftovers or are you going to give me a menu count?” Shit. Chef is the last person I want to rip me a new asshole. As I walk out I see Selena and hand her the soignée. “Table 40 is VIP," I tell her as I scan the restaurant. How many menus are on the tables?

27. Chef is going to love this. I walk back into the kitchen. “Menu count 27, VIP on 40.” I try to sneak out of the veal broth sauna heard but unnoticed.

“Is that on top of the 17 you gave me last time?”

I nod.

“Fire it up guys!” he yells at the line cooks. I make my way back to the host stand, relieved that I don’t work in the kitchen. Elise smiles at me, big this time, and I can tell that whoever I am about to seat is a real pain in the ass. Elise has the sophistication of a good maître d'. Her smiles indicate just how terrible a customer is. “Isabelle, please take these gentlemen to the private party downstairs.”

I look up and see twenty brawny, outrageously tall business men, all in suits two sizes too big for them.

“Are you going to be my date?” one of them asks me, staring at my tits while the guys behind him laugh.

“Right this way gentlemen.” I reply. Objectification is an old game, and I am weary of it. I walk them to the stairs, and while I know that I should walk them to the actual room, I don’t feel like it after that remark. I know Elise needs me more than they do, anyway, so I say “Down the stairs, enjoy your evening.” As I walk away, I consider slamming my shoulder into the gentleman's jaw, but I think better of it and make my way back to the host stand. Finally Elise is alone. No one is crowding her, yelling at her, or insisting on being sat at one of the reserved tables as a walk-in. “We just had a little rush.” she says.

I nod. “How many did we do?”

“Two Hundred, chica.”

Two hundred customers on a Wednesday night? At our restaurant, that's unheard of. While I don’t feel a sweeping, overwhelming sense of accomplishment, I know that we’ve made it and that we’ve survived. “What does Saturday look like?” I ask. Two hundred and twenty on the books. The shit-show has only just begun.

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