Restaurants

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.

Good times: In the bathroom stall.

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."

Sangria: Drink of Truth. 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.

If you caught the first installment of Hostess Confidential, you'll remember that I work at a well-known restaurant in Manhattan's Union Square. It's a fast-paced environment with demanding customers who have no use for wait-lists, which means I witness a lot of scandalous behavior. Bon Appetit.

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.

Red Wine: Brings on Bad Behavior. 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.

Say Anything: Except at a bar. 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.

I'm a hostess at a well known restaurant in Manhattan's Union Square. It's a fast-paced environment with demanding customers who have no use for wait-lists, which means I witness a lot of scandalous behavior. Bon Appetit.

It's getting hot in here: The kitchen in actionIt’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.

Everyone is reporting that the long-awaited Second Avenue Deli on 33rd St is opening on Monday, but I could swear I heard on New York radio station 1010 WINS this morning that it was open. As in, open at 7 a.m. I know that sounds crazy. Maybe I was still dreaming...or maybe they were having a special pre-opening breakfast for radio DJs.

Regardless, we're all excited. Gothamist has some great pictures of the new locale, and New York Magazine did a nice little Q&A with the new owner, 25-year-old Jeremy Lebewohl. Apparently they're doing a ceremonial salami-cutting of "nickel shtikel" links at 11 a.m. on Monday. See you there!  

At the end of the summer, Nathan Lichtenstein set up a kosher food cart in the heart of Williamburg, Brooklyn's ultra-Orthodox neighborhood. What a great idea! Well, maybe not so much. The cart, "Sub on Wheels," has been actively protested since its opening. Street posters warn, "If you know what's good for your kids, don't let them go." A few weeks ago, two men were taken into custody in connection with the protests.

Why are these Jews acting so crazy?

Protesters think the food truck encourages fress--a Yiddish expression meaning to eat more than is necessary, or purely for pleasure. Fast food is not considered a viable alternative to home-cooked meals by Haredim, so it is assumed that whatever food is bought from the truck is in addition to dinner at home. Some also fear that the truck encourages men and women to mingle on the streets.

Yikes, people.  

Born and raised in the neighborhood, Lichtenstein, who has since moved upstate, doesn't seem phased by the protests and isn't stressing over the hate mail he receives. Despite the resistance from a loud minority, he still gets about 200 customers a night to gobble down his hot dogs, hamburgers and, yes, cholent.

Coming soon...The Second Avenue Deli won't be on Second Avenue anymore, but at least it's really coming back.

The New York Times Magazine published an illuminating article yesterday on the rise and fall (and soon to rise again) of the venerable New York institution, along with a brief history of the Jewish deli in general. Did you know that in the 1960s there were 300 kosher delis in New York City and its suburbs? Now, you've got to do some research to find one. What about Carnegie, Katz's, and Stage, you ask? Nice try, but they're not kosher. All the more reason to be excited about Second Avenue's reopening—as the only big-name kosher deli in New York.

I'm keeping my eye on the construction site at 33rd Street between Lexington and Third Avenues, where the deli is scheduled to open early next month. A change of locale won't be the only transformation: the restaurant will be open 24/7 and will have a full bar; it will fit a mere 65 people compared to the 128 seats at the old location; and there's going to be a new "appetizing" section on the menu with pastrami lox, smoked tuna loin, herring and the like.

It's comforting to know, though, that most of the same cooks will return and, of course, the deli is staying in the family. Stay tuned for updates...

Kosher Jews in the L.A. 'hood couldn't be happier: now they, too, can aspire to be like Jared.

The West Coast's first kosher Subway recently opened on Pico Boulevard. The first one opened just last year in Cleveland, and since then a few have popped up in New York and Kansas City.

With a fleishig menu, the familiar Subway sandwich items remain the same, with a few Jewishy additions, like shawarma, pastrami, and corned beef.

JewishJournal's Jay Firestone recently paid a visit to Subway's new digs and spoke with a little girl who called Subway's sandwiches with cheese "disgusting." Don't kid yourself, honey. We all know there are few things in this world more delicious than meat and cheese combined.

Wolfgang Puck: Happy veggie chopperKosher Chicagoans will soon be able to go out for lunch downtown like everyone else. Wolfgang Puck, a big fan of Jewish cooking, is opening a new kosher cafe and catering company at the Spertus Institute of Jewish Studies.

Puck's company already provides kosher catering in L.A. and Atlanta, and this is his first venture in Chicago.

The Spertus Cafe will serve sushi and hot aged beef alongside sandwiches and salads, and will be grab-and-go style.

Executive Chef Laura Frankel says:

There’s no sacrificing anything. I think people have a stereotype of kosher food that it’s all matzo ball soup. If you keep kosher 365 days a year, you’re not going to eat matzo ball soup every day.

Hell, I would certainly hope not. Can you imagine? That would be like living with bricks in your stomach. Then again, you'd probably never catch a cold.

She also says:

The kind of food we're doing is very modern and edgy. The kosher part is important, but it's almost the last thing. Unless someone tells you it's kosher, you're not going to know.

Ahh, the goal of all kosher food: to not taste like kosher food. It must be hard trying to constantly pretend to be something you're not. Having to disguise your true self with a trendy exterior in order to fit in...

Well, I wish the Spertus Cafe the best of luck. Apparently, it is going to be the only kosher cafe in downtown Chicago, so it won't have much competition. It's scheduled to open on Nov. 30 at 610 S. Michigan Ave.