Restaurant Critics Lie

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Around the time that SARS hit Toronto, I  was working in an offshoot of a well established Toronto restaurant. that rhymes with bEDO. We we're struggling to get off the ground, when I had the pleasure of serving an elitist moron who was the son of one of Canada's great authors and in a conflagration of poor judgment had been granted the position of food critic in a still fledgling national newspaper of dubious reputation.

(update: the publication is still fledgling and still dubious)

I wish my Daddy's reputation could get me a job like that. For arguments sake, lets call this person bRichler, though I will avoid any reference to bathroom breaks, sniff sniff.

I served Mr. bRichlers table that night, it was a party of three, they had ordered sushi and then mains. I brought the sushi course, which was then consumed. After that the critics friends disappeared for a long long time, and frankly if I had the misfortune of knowing this spoiled moron, I would probably do the same.

But I'm your waiter, and I don't know that your friends are so bored with your company that they have fled to the bar upstairs to spend more quality time in the bathroom. I tell the kitchen not to fire the mains, thinking that Mr. bRichlers skittish friends are going to return.

They never do, but the following day, I get to open up the Bational Boast and watch good friends get pilloried by some born to the manor twat (who may or may not benefit greatly from rehab and a reality sandwich). On a personal level, I was left unscathed, but it was clear to me that these folks didn't know the difference between dining and eating.

Fortunately, the gentleman who owns this ill fated joint is blessed with another review in another national newspaper, and this time it comes from someone who attends the same synagogue. Lets call her, Boanne Bates, for arguments sake.

I then open up another national newspaper, (lets call it the Glib and Drole) only to find the same restaurant is one of the most brilliant things ever.

The thing is, that I served Ms. Bates. Once when she came in with her husband, and on a subsequent visit where she spoke with the owner, someone that she had previously to as " attractive and charming" in a previous review. I felt a sexual tension in the air that left me surprised that Ms. Bates did not get on her knees under the table in full view of her husband.

But hey, I'm just the waiter and that is not my concern. Ms. Bates later went on to vilify another well known Toronto restaurant run by the exact same chef, providing a similar menu. Perhaps the owners should have spent their Sundays somewhere else.

Next time you read a restaurant review, take it with a grain of salt, consider the source, and remember that the words you read may have an agenda that you cannot see.

Eat, drink, and think, for yourself.

And by the way, to all libel lawyers out there, I am implying that Jacob Richler is a cokehead and Joanne Cates is a liar. Any takers?

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Sunday, Brunchy Sunday

Image by Ed Yourdon via Flickr

The Boomtown Rats aside, for those of us in the hospitality industry, it is Sunday that we don't have a liking for. Years ago as I quaffed a frosty in my local I watched a Hall Of Fame bartender, a veteran of considerable charm, wisdom, competence, and patience deny service to a clearly unqualified customer.

After vanquishing the drunken rogue, she leaned in to me and said "I don't know why, but Sunday is always a freak show". And she was right.

I have probably toiled in at least two dozen restaurants over the years, and I cannot recall a time when I enjoyed working Sundays. Though it could be much worse, I could be working the most despised shift in all of restaurantdom, the dreaded brunch shift.

My current employer runs an excellent Sunday brunch, and I have the utmost respect for the people who stand guard in this most treacherous battle. As often as not, Sunday Brunch sales exceed Sunday night sales in a shorter time period, but in the world of brunch every nickel is hard won.

Picky clientele, refilling coffee, eggs done just so and couples with two weekend papers tucked under their arms so that they may ignore each other in sync, while blaming you for their loveless trap. And the strollers, don't get me started on the strollers, yet alone the cargo.

Brunch is nothing but a congregation that celebrates the death cry of hope, catered by a hung over mob of angry and bitter miscreants not unlike myself.

And Sunday night is not much better. Make no mistake, I don't worry about the customers I know on Sunday night, I worry about the people I don't know.

Its Sunday night, and I have the closing shift. As I take off my coat the debit/credit card machine crashes, and those heroic soldiers who work brunch are out of gas and trying to figure out their cash in the face of the fact that they have charges sitting in the crashed debit machine.

Just to add to the fun, we forgot to clear the till from the previous evening, so it takes awhile for all of us to figure out the algebra of what is going on financially. Enraged, I ask myself who the idiot was that worked last night? After a careful investigation, I discover it was me.

We went through three scenarios before me and the Ace Of Bass figured it out.

In the first scenario, she confessed that she had made $900 on sales of $1300. That didn't sound quite right.

In the second scenario she made crap money, but we couldn't find it. Being the class act that she is, The Ace was willing to swallow the loss and walk away.

And finally the realisation that, like a bad Star Trek episode, there was a charge stuck in cyberspace, an updated version of a grainy Spock showing up on our radar screen, trying to tell us something. A financial piece of data for which there was no hard copy, something that had been billed but not collected.

It is one thing to get screwed in this business, but getting screwed on a brunch shift is the most cruel thing of all, and I have the deepest respect for The Ace and Smasher and everyone else who makes brunch work at my bowl of rice. I'm not sure I could do it.

Then again, after this initial problem was dealt with I was then informed that the busser was ill and wouldn't be joining us and I had to kick out some moron who I had mistakenly served and was now cruising the bar, annoying all and sundry who help me pay my rent.

Throw in a call to a 1-800 number over a cheap cordless VOIP phone where nothing can be heard in a crowded bar in a vain attempt to fix an apparently unfixable debit/credit card machine. "For extreme anger press what?"

And that was hour one of my Sunday shift.

But, such is the nature of the business. If you want that Saturday night shift, you have to play a little ball and work Sunday night. Ditto for Friday and Monday. And ditto for brunch.

In a just world, the sun don't shine on the same dogs butt every afternoon.

The smart people who make schedules know that a balance must be struck between seniority, credibility and fairness. Some effort should be made to cut the pie fairly, while taking into account a number of divergent factors, including the fact that each and every name on the payroll  has rent and bills to pay.

Luckily, I work for a person who strives to find this balance. That is why I work Saturday night and Sunday night. Ying meet yang.

It is also why I was able to book off  fourteen weeks in the last twelve months. Working Sunday may suck, but not being able to go to Africa, Asia and Central America sucks quite a bit more.

I must admit though, once in awhile, I long for those puritan times in Toronto when opening on Sunday was prohibited by law.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com