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Charlie’s Angels Thursday 8 p.m. For much of the night, it is necessary to communicate non-verbally because of the Cone of Silence. I learn to translate the gestures and significant looks that make up the servers’ unspoken vernacular. Guests’ dishes, for instance, must touch the table in a perfectly synchronized downward descent of plates. Servers lock eyes, then look down, signifying “now.” Privately, I call it the Shrug Patois. In the kitchen, dirty plates are piling up. Chef hates a messy dish area. He catches the dishwasher’s eye, then places his hands over his eyes, ears and mouth: a soundless “see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil” gesture. Quickly, the offending dinnerware disappears. Shrug Patois may have evolved to communicate despite Chef, but clearly Trotter has learned to speak the language. Wait a minute – is that irony?  Friday 9:30 p.m. Full house. Chef is angry, and the party of four seated at the kitchen table (a lone group planted in the middle of scurrying waiters and chefs) is getting a show. Eating in the kitchen is like securing a backstage pass: It is the most sought-after table in the building. Trotter is watching lines of plates stream off the pass, leaning in so close that his eyes nearly touch the tenderloin. He finds one dish where a delicate purée, smeared thinly over the plate, has baked dry under the hot lights. He tries to scrape it with a fork – no luck. He frowns. The room tenses. This is what some guests hope for when they book the kitchen table: discord, a fiery spectacle. Tonight Trotter doesn’t oblige. “You know, this is why other restaurants suck,” he says, pointing at the plate. “Do it again.” Cooks speed into a blur of white. Later, as the last guests are tucking into their main courses, the manager pulls me aside. Oh crap. My mind reels with a list of potential mistakes. (Was it when I put the plates down out of sequence again?) We approach an empty table in the dining room. (Did I set it wrong?) He slides out the chair, motioning for me to sit. I am confused; the room is still half full, and we shouldn’t have a sit-down here. Then the manager smiles. “Hungry?” he asks, and I get it. After four days of seeing the restaurant from the inside, now I get to experience it as a guest. It’s over. I’ve passed from hell through purgatory and didn’t even notice when I came out the other side. The 10-course meal that follows is a series of tiny miracles. You might even call it heaven. Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
