This post is taken from my new book which will be published this fall. It’s called “Strong Water: On Food, Wine, and Restaurants.” It’s a collection of essays written over the last ten-plus years. One of the first sections in the book deals with various experiences while working in restaurants—and after the fact. The latter in the form of restaurant nightmares. As I say in the book, you may leave the business at some point—but the business never really leaves you.
With the exception of lifers or owners, everyone who works in restaurants leaves at some point, often moving sideways into another career. However, regardless of when you leave the floor, behind the bar, or in the kitchen; the restaurant business never leaves you. Periodically, it careens back into your sleeping and dreaming life in the form of restaurant nightmares. To that point, my last shift as a waiter was sometime in the summer of 1981, over 40 years ago. My last shift on the floor as a sommelier—and in any restaurant—was on March 31st, 1993, over 30 years ago. But I still have restaurant nightmares. The latest one woke me up at 3:40 in the morning not long ago. It went something like this:
- The joint: a fern bar that looked like Henry Africa’s, a place at Polk and Broadway in the City in the 80s which was about six blocks from our first apartment on Lombard Street. The cast included the following.
- The bartender: a skinny guy with greased back hair and a pencil mustache. I don’t recall his name so I’ll call him Slim.
- A waitress: in her 40s and very high strung. I’ll call her Shirley for reasons soon to be obvious.
- The manager: a large woman with short, dishwater blonde hair. She was wearing a loud floral print muumuu. I’ll call her June.
- The cook: a large unkempt swarthy guy. He plays a very minor role so will remain unnamed.
- The plot: As with all dreams, much of the actual sequence quickly faded back into the ethers once I woke up. I’ll just hit the highlights as I can remember them.
In this dream it was a Sunday night, and the only staff working are listed above: June, Slim, Shirley, yours truly, and the cook. Otherwise, the place is huge. June has divided the entire dining floor into two stations—Shirley’s and mine.
There was also a cocktail lounge. However, the cocktail waitress didn’t show. June has decided that Shirley will be handling most of the diners. I will only be given two or three tables but will have to handle the cocktail business. I’m not happy about it and protest, but to no avail.
The doors open and it’s quiet at first. Then June starts seating tables in Shirley’s section in multiples. In no time, she’s in the weeds.
Then a group of about eight young women wander into the cocktail lounge wanting drinks. They look like college-age sorority types, all dressed up. One approaches the bar trying to order. Slim tells them that I will be taking care of them. Meanwhile, he’s busy talking to two women at the bar, giving them his undivided attention.
I then get what will be my only two tables of the shift. Both are deuces, couples out for Sunday dinner. I approach the first table and the guy tells me they want a bottle of Clos du Bois Merlot. He pronounces it close dew bwas several times. I acknowledge the order, thinking I can get the bottle and open it within a couple of minutes. Then I go to the other table. They both order white Russians and a bowl of the soup of the day to start. I think the combination sounds questionable at best, but then head to the bar to place the order.
I tell Slim I need two white Russians. “We’re out of Russians,” he says with a straight face. “White Russians,” I say, “you know, like Kahlua, vodka, and half and half?” “That’s not a Russian,” he says. “Don’t you know what a Russian is?” Then he goes back to talking to the two women sitting at the bar.
At this point, one of the women in the sorority group comes up and says they want to order drinks—right now. I look over to see that the group now numbers around 20. Some of them look like they can’t be of legal drinking age. June steps up right at that moment and tells me that I better card everyone before serving them anything.
I nod and then head off to get the bottle of wine. I open the wine cabinet to find it filled with the same kind of wine. Thankfully, it’s the Clos du Bois Merlot. Just as I grab a bottle, Shirley comes up to me, visibly shaken. “She’s filled my section!” she wails. I look over and see that Shirley must have more than a dozen tables. “I’ll try to help out,” I tell her before racing off to the kitchen to get the bowl of soup.
As I head to the back of the restaurant, I see that it’s now filled with people waiting for tables. Some of them are now in the kitchen actually eating the food at prep stations. The cook is going nuts, shouting and waving a knife.
I grab a soup bowl only to discover there are no soup spoons—and that the soup has been devoured by the marauding diners. In desperation, I look around for anything vaguely soup-like. I spot something that looks like Beef Stroganoff and then fill the bowl with it. The chef yells at me, asking what the hell I’m doing. I bolt through the doors dodging various people eating whatever they can find.
I grab a tea spoon at the wait station and then serve the guy at table two the soup. “Hey, where’s our drinks?” he says. “Coming right up,” I respond. I then go to the first table to present the bottle of Merlot, only to discover I don’t have my corkscrew. I excuse myself and then try to find Shirley to borrow hers.
Shirley is easy to spot. She’s sitting at one of my empty tables, head down and crying. “Shirley, I need to use your corkscrew,” I tell her. “I don’t have one,” she blubbers, “I forgot it at home. And I have too many tables!”
At that moment, I’m accosted by one of the women in the sorority group. “Are you ever going to take our order? This place is the worst ever!” I look over to see that the group now numbers around 30 and some of the girls look like they can’t be older than 15.
Then June races up to me looking completely freaked out. “There are too many people! I’ve locked the front door!” I tell her that she can’t do that because it’s against the fire laws. She races off waving her hands in the air with the floral muumuu trailing in her wake.
From there, the dream/nightmare speeds up and gets more intense, with more things going wrong. Shirley throws her apron on the floor and leaves. Slim is nowhere to be found. June is hiding behind the front check in desk. I’m the only soldier left standing. My diners have left their tables and are now confronting me about missing cocktails and why I haven’t taken their order. Several of the sorority girls are also in my face asking for drinks. I still can’t find my corkscrew—which is what finally wakes me up in a cold sweat with my heart racing.
There are times when I wake up from a strange dream and try to go back into a semi-sleep state to fix things so the dream has a happy ending of sorts. Not this time. I rolled over, took a deep breath, and then started to piece the disaster together. And now you know what I can remember.
In the end, it is said that Morpheus, king of dreams, reigns supreme in the sleep world. What a cruel bastard he can sometimes be.
And I never found my corkscrew.
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