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BY ROGER J. PORTER |
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We have all had exceptional service from waiters. I still remember one fellow in the late 1960s who, at the conclusion of my meal, placed a silver domed dish in front of me with a caution to raise the lid slowly. When I did lift it, I half expected a gerbil to jump out, but instead there on the plate for my post-prandial enjoyment was a perfectly rolled joint. More likely than not we can also recall disastrous experiences with waiters. I, for one, cannot shake the memory of malodorous mussels that made their putrid way to my table. Neither will I forget the waiter who not only insisted that his restaurant served only the freshest ingredients but berated me for being finicky and charged me for the platter I sent back. One tipsy waiter took our dessert order and returned minutes later--swaying, wobbling and reeking of drink--to ask if we wished to order dessert. A local waiter recounted to me the time he was waved off by a couple when he tried to take their wine order because the man was just then proposing to his girlfriend. The discreet waiter gave them ample time to negotiate the business, and at last returned to inquire if the gentleman had made his choice from "the wife list." Of course we all have our service peeves: the waiter who kneels beside the table to take an order, the one who ingratiatingly insists on telling you his or her name, the waiter who removes one diner's empty plate before his or her partner has finished eating, the waiter who compliments you on your choices as if you have passed some test of his devising, the waiter who brings a piping hot dish to the table but forgets to provide silverware. What can one say about the zombie-like recitation, the voice glazed over like a meringue topping, explaining far more than you ever need to know? Some waiters tell you so much because they cannot believe that you yourself know anything, are sufficiently informed to know what to ask, or are curious enough to enjoy figuring out the ingredients in a dish you've ordered. Nothing is taken for granted save the customer's ignorance: "You know nothing. I must tell you everything. I really don't know much either, but we both pretend I do to save us from anxiety." A highly professional waiter--and Portland is finally getting its share of smart, dedicated waiters--takes pleasure in the customer's understanding of food, just as the sensitive diner takes pleasure in his or her waiter's resistance to false friendship. One superb waiter told me that as Portlanders become more sophisticated with regard to food, waiters no longer need to introduce the provenance and techniques of cooking styles; they can take diners' knowledge for granted more so than in the past. But just how personal should a waiter be? "There's a fine line between aloof and intrusive, between being a robot and being a jester," one waiter told me. "People don't come to the restaurant to be with the waiter, so there's a danger in imagining that the customers want to include you in their conversations." On the other hand good waiters have a sixth sense about when to be playful with the table, when a bit of banter can provide the right and welcome touch. Other waiters speak of "tableside manner" or "chemistry"--the ability to "read" the table to see if a touch of fun can be had. One waiter makes a game with obscure ingredients; if he senses the customers are in a good mood he sometimes plays the school master: "Does everyone know what quinoa is?" Portlanders, obliging sorts, are generally ready to play. The same waiter, if he senses people are nervous about a particular cuisine, might even ask if they'd like him to order for them, a gesture unthinkable in, say, Paris. But nothing is less welcome than an obtrusive waiter, and it sometimes takes an effort to be discreet. One waiter noted: "I try not to seem stunned when a customer says something idiotic." A woman waiter I talked with expressed some wariness about being too personal, especially with male diners, lest her stance be taken for flirtation. Portland may not be ready for the famously intrusive waitresses of Boston's Durgin-Park restaurant: "You got a complaint, buddy? Don't bug me. See management. You didn't get exactly what you ordered, but you got close. What the hell, it's not a perfect world." Portlanders increasingly expect waiters to know their oats. The better restaurants provide serious training in their particular cuisines. Waiters periodically meet with chefs to discuss the menus and cooking styles and arrange stints in the kitchen so waiters can observe chefs at work. They also schedule regular tastings of new dishes. L' Auberge even has its experienced waiters help make decisions about new acquisitions to the wine list. But not enough restaurants expose their waiters to the intricacies of their respective cuisines, thus preventing them from intelligently advising customers. There are two main aspects to good service: attitude and technique. The latter includes such matters as speed, efficiency and timing, even movement among tables with an ineffable grace. The expert waiter understands, for instance, that hot food always takes priority over cold, that he or she never goes to or from the kitchen empty-handed and that one brings silverware to a needy diner before answering another diner's question. The best waiters exude confidence, convey a sense that you will be well-served and, without hovering, instinctively anticipate what the customer needs and desires. Of course, many waiters are people with lives in transition, "between triumphs," as the typical New York actor-waiter would say. Few regard waiting as an honorable profession, let alone a life-long career. That's not the case at the Ringside, where it's no secret that its waiters are among the most authoritative professionals in town. The style at the Ringside is as crisp as the onion rings, and waiterly dispatch blends with high regard for the customer's intelligence. There's nothing callow or transitional about these men of the cloth. Frank Burns, who heeded the waiter's call at age 12, is a 24-year Ringside veteran, and he's only the third most senior staff member. Why do customers inevitably request him? "I'm of the old school. I follow in a long tradition of taking my role seriously." For Burns, being a waiter represents a kind of apostolic devotion, and he maintains pride in the dignity of the waiter's craft. He speaks of "my restaurant," an identification suggesting family loyalty paralleling that toward his customers, some of whom are fourth generation "clients." "I can tell by a customer's eyes what is needed," Burns asserts. Mind and belly-reader, equipped with a kind of peripheral vision, he claims to be "a specialist of onions, cuts of beef and personalities." He may seem like a member of a dying breed, but I have hopes that the waiters of Portland are beginning to turn back to an old-fashioned and welcome professionalism.
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