Barbie

I'm closing tonight. Closing totally blows. Within minutes all of my fellow waitrons punch out, pack up all their things, and leave me here to waste away as the last two tables of the night linger on into Toro oblivion.

Table 45 just sat down and has been too busy making googley eyes at each other to notice me. Guess I should stop pouting at least try to take their order. When I approach the table, the girl has excused herself; the guy is sitting alone.

"I can come back in a minute if you like," I say.

"No, bring us two shots of Patron. With Rose's," he says.

Blech. That sounds so gross. I'm so preoccupied by the thought that I walk away without confirming whether he wants those chilled. He must...I think. The only thing more terrible-sounding than a shot of Patron with Rose's is a WARM shot of Patron with Rose's. But the bartender will be pissed at me if I'm wrong and she has to make the foul concoctions twice, so I return to the table to confirm.

"You want those shots chilled, right?" I say.

"No. Not chilled. Just Patron and Rose's lime juice. Not chilled."

Ewwww. When I approach the service bar to pick up the shots my bartender informs me that we do not, in fact, carry Rose's. Duh. I head back to Table 45 to let him know these will be coming with fresh lime & simple syrup instead.

"That's fine, he says," waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Patron, lime & whatever. Not chilled."

"Okay," I say.

"Thanks, Brb..." he says, mumbling something under his breath - did he just call me Barbie? I'm still too preoccupied by the disgustingness of his drink order to know for sure what has transpired.

I deliver the shots. By now the girl is back at the table.

"Thanks, Barbie," he says when I drop them off. Again. He mumbled it AGAIN, and I swear he just called me Barbie. I decide to ignore it.

I approach the table a few minutes later to see if they're ready to order food yet. They 'haven't even looked!' but are ready for cocktails:

"Hennessy and Diet Coke, please," the guy says. "Wait, do you guys have Hennessy? If not, Remy will do."

Hennessy of Remy? With DIET? Really? "Sure," I say, looking at him suspiciously. Who is this guy? I wonder, What planet is he from? Where is it okay to order Hennessy with ANYTHING, much less Diet COKE? "No problem."

"Thanks, Barbie," he says. This time I heard it -- I definitely heard it. He called me Barbie. I can't tell if he's laughing at me or with me and I have no idea how to respond.

By the time Table 45 is ready to order, I have decided that this guy is a total chode and I am in no mood to deal with it. He keeps ordering MTV drinks (maybe next he'll ask for Alize or Hypnotique?) and surreptitiously calling me Barbie. The aggressive shot-ordering indicates to me that he's desperate to get this girl in the sack; we'll see about that.

His date asks me what dishes I recommend, and I extol the virtues of the messiest, most garlicky items we have: I launch into a litany about the the pan con tomate, toasted bread rubbed with raw garlic and tomato, extol the virtues of the gambas al ajillo, the garlic shrimp, and tell how they haven't lived 'til they've tried the maiz asado con alioli y queso cotija, known to most as simply "the corn."

"What else is really good?" the guy asks. I repeat myself. In the end, they order every single garlicky, alioli drenched, cheese-and-corn-kernels-up-by-your-eyebrows dish.

"Thanks, Barbie," he says.

"My pleasure," I say with a smile. Garlic breath = Barbie's revenge.

No writing. And no pictures.

I got kicked out of Whole Foods today. Why? For taking notes.

I've been working on a culinary research project for the last couple of weeks -- just a short freelance gig that kind of fell into my lap. It involves vetting local menus and checking out local grocery stores to identify current Boston eating trends. So far I've conducted research at Lionette's, Formaggio, Plum Produce, and the Copley Farmer's Market. All of these venues have been extremely welcoming, gracious, generous with their knowledge and helpful. Today it was time to tackle some bigger markets: Whole Foods, Shaw's, and Foodie's in the South End.

I started at Whole Foods. I walked in, armed with my little notepad and blue ink pen, and started walking up and down the aisles, searching for interesting food stuffs. It's a big chain so there weren't too many surprises in store for me but I plugged away, taking careful notes about anything that I thought I might need to write about later: macadamia nut butter, for example, or the multiple different brands of agave nectar they have on offer that I suspect may not have been on shelves a few years ago.

Then I rounded the corner to the fish aisle and a manager-seeming type guy came up to me:

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

Yech, he called me ma'am. "No, but thanks!" I smiled.

"I see you're writing something down there. What are you writing?"

"Oh," I said brightly, ever the eager student, "I'm actually doing research for a food trends study. It's about what kinds of flavors and ingredients are most popular in the Bostonian palate." I was just about to ask him what items seem to be selling well right now and if he had any thoughts to contribute to this type of study, when he very sternly interrupted me:

"You can't do that here. You can't write down notes. Or take pictures."

"Oh...um...okay," I said. "Well, I just...I can't write anything down?"

"Nope. No writing. And no pictures." His tone was firm, as though THIS CLOSE to bringing out the heavy if I even tried to argue.

"Okay." Shit. Now what do I do? What about my deadline? "Well, can I look around, then?"

"You can shop," he said, giving me a stern don't fuck with me smile.

"Oh. Okay."

So I bought a tube of lip balm and left. I felt mortified as I made my way through the check out line, and I definitely heard a woman standing behind me on a walkie talkie as I was texting a friend of mine about the situation in disbelief. I can't be sure she was monitoring my movements but...do you think she was monitoring my movements?

I have never shoplifted in my life. I've never been arrested. I never even got detention in high school. And here I was, indicted for the crime of taking notes in Whole Foods.

I tried to walk out of there with my head held high, but I felt totally shamed by the incident. And betrayed. I mean, Whole Foods positions itself as this earthy-crunchy pseudo-hippie bourgeois outpost where all the things that will make yours a greener, healthier, happier life can be found (at a slightly higher price point that your run of the mill grocery store.) Now I know that is mere posturing. In reality, Whole Foods is just a big, mean chain with a weird no-note-taking policy.

And it is strictly enforced.

cookin' with coolio

From Publisher's Lunch...

Cooking

Rap legend and soon-to-be reality show star Coolio's COOKIN' WITH COOLIO, offering 75 recipes built around comfort foods with a healthy twist, to Amy Tannenbaum at Atria, in a very nice deal*, at auction, by Marc Gerald of The Agency Group (World).

I loved Fantastic Voyage, too, but...Really?

This industry really is in crisis.

* "very nice deal" means they paid $50,000 - $99,000

where my interests truly lie

Every time I get a new issue of Vogue or Elle, I toss it on top of the filing cabinet to the left of my desk to read "when I have time." I'm like 8 months behind (as is probably evidenced by my clothing.)

Every time I get a new issue of Food & Wine, Gourmet, or Imbibe, I tear it open and begin scanning the pages immediately. My heart leaps at the gorgeous four color photos, the exotic ingredients, and the fascinating tales of food in distant lands.

I just ealized this the other day. I guess it's indicative of where my interests truly lie.

what I saw at Island Creek

See all those fuzzy little lumps down there? Looks like rocks, right? Wrong. Those are oysters. Big, sweet, briny, delicious oysters.

You can read about my recent excursion to the Oyster Farm in the Dig on Wednesday. But in case you're wondering what your food looks like in it's natural habitat, here's a peek.

Yum.

forbidden frutti del mare

So, the Mathematician has gout. It's a weird old mannish condition caused by high uric acid levels in the blood, back from the middle ages to haunt him.

Because of this the Mathematician can't eat many of things that he loves, like pate or organ meat really, lobster, shrimp and crab, of any crustaceans, certain fatty fish like anchovies - the list goes on and on. Tonight we sampled oysters, seafood, and rose at B&G Oysters in the South End. Here's a glimpse, a la East Coast Girl, of what our relationship looks like from the inside:

ME: (Spying a dish on it's way from the kitchen to someone else's table) I want that lobster roll. Look at it. I know what it tastes like: awesome.
MATHEMATICIAN: Well then get it, baby.
ME: No, you can't have it. Besides, we already ordered bivalves.
MATHEMATICIAN: No, go ahead and enjoy it -- don't let me hold you back.
ME: That's kinda mean, don't you think? And I prefer to share anyway.
MATHEMATICIAN: No, I want you to enjoy yourself. Don't let me get in the way just because I can't have that. I can enjoy vicariously through you. Kind of like watching you hook up with a girl.
(I furrow my brow.)
MATHEMATICIAN: You know, I'd like it and I'd like to watch. And I might totally want to join in, but I can't. It's verboten.
(I narrow my eyes.)
MATHEMATICIAN: You don't like my analogies do you?
ME: No, no, I think you're right on the money.

Look out, Lobster Roll. I've got your number.

pretentious: another toro story

Table 46 is pretentious. He's handsome and at first I thought he might be fabulous and gay, from the neighborhood. He's not. He's European.

He keeps saying things to me in Italian like "Bravissimo!" and "Perfetto!" and rolling the r's in the words as he orders ostentatiously. As Toro is a Spanish restaurant, I therefore assume that he must have some native connection to Italy. Why else would he insist on speaking to me in the wrong language?

"Oh, are you Italian?" I ask enthusiastically, since I love Italy.

"No," he says flatly, turning back to his guest. Ah, I see. He is a citizen of the world.

The European than makes a big show out of how he needs to spend some time with the wine list before he can choose. "I had a fabulous wine last time I was here, I just don't remember what it is. I need to take some time to find it." When he waves me over to the table a few minutes later, his finger slides down the list to land beside a $31 bottle of Tempranillo from Rioja, the most well-known Spanish region and therefore, in my mind, an obvious and pedestrian place from which to order. I'm all for drinking affordable wine, especially at Toro, where $30 goes a long way. But I am a bit disappointed by his pomp.

I approach the table with the bottle and pretend to be staring off in space while I listen to the European talk at his guest as he picks at his boquerones:

"They are supposed to be made with more vinegar, and they are supposed to be served hot."

I pour a taste of wine, and he nods. To his guest he says:

"It's not the one I had last time, but it's okay, it will do."

As I pour for his friend, he goes on, about his pimientos del padron: "These are supposed to be hot, and should have more salt."

"Oh really?" I interrupt. "Where are your boquerones SUPPOSED to be like that? Where are your pimientos SUPPOSED to be like that? In Pretentious Asshole Land, where you come from?"

No, no, no, I didn't actually say that. But I laugh out loud to myself imagining it as I scrape cheese and corn cobs off a dirty plate into the kitchen trash. The dishwasher gives me a funny look.

I ignore the European for the rest of the night, and delight in the fact that this guest will never be completely pleased here or I imagine anywhere else. It means I can cut my loses and stop trying.

In the end, the European tips me well and leaves happy. "Ah, mediocrity," I imagine him saying to his friend. "When one is surrounded by it all the time, one must make their peace with it."

manorexia

I spent the better part of Wednesday looking at images of very thin models wearing very expensive clothes.

I wasn't just messing around, I was working -- it was for a media placement for one of my clients, the Achilles Project, who open the doors to their innovative boutique/restaurant on Monday. There was something unusual about these skinny models, however: they were all boys.

As I paged through look-books from McQ by Alexander McQueen and Shipley & Halmos, I couldn't help but notice: all the male models looked as thin, frail, and anorexic as their female counterparts. I was shocked.

I do recall the heroine-chic thing of the mid-1990s, but the models from these look books? They evoked something different. Just as the high-waisted, wide-leg jeans I bought last month are similar but not-at-all like my mom's bell-bottoms from the 70's, these skinny guys seemed to foretell a new era of thin. It's bad enough that we don't let the women eat, I thought. Are we now taking food away from the men, too?

Intrigued, I googled "anorexic male models" and turned up this article from last Thursday's New York Times. Says writer Guy Trebay: "Far from inspiring a spate of industry breast-beating, as occurred after the international news media got hold of the deaths of two young female models who died from eating disorders, the trend favoring very skinny male models has been accepted as a matter or course."


Huh. Really? Then I began to wonder: How will men respond to this new trend?

Are food issues going to become de rigeur for both genders now?

Will men finally begin to understand what it's like to have the media plucking away at their self-esteem all the time?

Will we see an increase across the board in manorexia?

It levels the playing field in a way, I guess, to have food issues plaguing everyone, not just women. But when I dream about gender equality, meritocratic food issues aren't exactly what I have in mind.

the obligatory Valentine's Day post

I am not working at the restaurant tonight. And that makes me very, very happy.

This is the first Valentine's Day in years that I have not spent behind the apron, popping champagne and smiling obligatorily at guests, pretending the kitchen and the entire restaurant behind me wasn't going down in flames. For that reason alone, I have abhorred this holiday for years. It always meant money, sure, but hard-won money that was never really quite worth all of the blood, sweat, and misery it took to get there.

Tonight, instead of trying to make a bunch of high-maintenance yuppie couples feel special as they pretend to enjoy each other's company on a Hallmark night, I am spending the evening at home alone with the Mathematician. We are cooking dinner for each other. He is making the main course, a roast, and I am making the starters and dessert: bacon wrapped dates (thanks to Orinoco for the inspiration), arugula dressed with balsamic purchased at the Mercato Centale in Florence for like 80 euro or something ridiculous like that, caprese salad with the amazing bufala from the Butcher Shop, and caramelized banana crepes from Jacques Pepin's Fast Food My Way. It's little more than a typical Thursday night, the biggest difference being that I'm letting us eat fatty food and cooking almost everything in butter.

And I could not be happier.

Happy Valentine's Day!

pointers for bachelors emboldened enough by alcohol to attempt flirting with their waitress

Leave a big tip.

I mean, sure, you were polite enough, but that thing you just said would qualify as sexual harassment in a normal workplace. Would you talk to your boss like that? Or your secretary? I know you didn't mean it that way, and no offense was taken by the waitress. But don't you think it's weird that you could be prosecuted in a court of law for that comment, provided this were a normal workplace?

Your waitress' sole responsibility in your evening is to transport your drinks/food from bar/kitchen to your table. She is not responsible for not taking your comment the wrong way or not getting weirded out or offended by your suddenly outgoing nature. And because she is a kind-hearted, patient person, she will hold none of it against you next time you come into the restaurant. She will bring you your patatas bravas and glass of vino and smile and say 'Nice to see you!' and actually mean it. She will pretend what you just said never happened.

The least you can do is leave a big tip. Like, bigger than 20% big. Why? Because there aren't many people in the world who will do that. Most people in this world are obsessed with holding each other accountable, with placing blame, and with being right. Tonight, she let you say whatever stupid shit you felt like saying, and never said boo. And she will not judge you for it in the end. Because for the most part, you're a nice guy.

And that suspension of judgment is worth much, much more than 20% of your dinner tab.

friend or foe???

The scale that I bought from Target.com came in the mail today. I have avoided owning such a thing for my entire adult life, preferring to take a "don't ask-don't tell" approach to the number that is my weight. On the one hand, I realize that numbers can be deceiving, and that a person's general health can have very little to do with some magic number they conceptualize as their ideal weight. On the other, I realize that I have obsessive tendencies, and have avoided purchasing one for fear that if I did, I would torture myself with it.

However, in light of this post, I thought it might be a good idea to bring a little reality to the business of my body image issues. Who knows? Maybe having a scale in the house will be a good thing? Maybe it will help me stop worrying about the unknown so much, deter me from deciding that I have magically gained ten or fifteen pounds when I have no material reason to believe that is the case. And it might be nice to know, for once and for all, exactly how many pounds I gain from water when I have PMS (somewhere in the vicinity of 1-3 I think, but to my crazy mind, it usually feels like ten.) So, I made the Mathematician buy us a scale using his company discount on Target.com. He likes gadgets & selected a fancy one. I have been eagerly anticipating it's arrival since its purchase Sunday evening.

I unwrapped the scale and squealed with glee when I realized that it can not only measure my weight in pounds and kilograms, it also measures my total fat percentage AND the total percentage of water in my body. (I do not know why the latter is important.) I liberated it from its plastic packaging, plugged in the included batteries, and briefly skimmed the instruction booklet (so as to avoid blender-melting disasters like this one) before giving it a go. The question loomed. Would our new scale be my friend or my foe?

I then immediately weighed myself eight times in a row.

The first time I got on it, the scale told me I weighed about 2 pounds more than I thought I should. Foe I thought, and narrowed my eyes at my new enemy. Then I realized, Oh, wait. Maybe I should take off my shoes. And , while I'm at it, my clothes. Jeans are heavy.

The second time I got on, the scale reflected what I considered to be a much more acceptable number. Friend! I smiled. Welcome to your new home.

The third time I weighed myself, I was disappointed to see that it was accusing me of being 55.5% body fat. Foe, I scowled. I hate you! How dare you call me half fat!!! Then I read the instruction booklet, and realized that was the water percentage number the scale was reporting, not the fat percentage, and being 55% water is goo. Friend!

The fourth, five, sixth, and seventh time I weighed myself, it was in an attempt to decipher the body fat tabulation offered me by the scale. First it said I was 20% fat, then 23% fat, then 21% fat, then 18%fat. My reactions to all of these numbers: Foe, foe, foe, probably foe but since you're 2% less than the initial estimation and 5% less than the highest, I might like you a little better. Then I referred again to the instruction booklet, and realized that all of those numbers were on the low side of normal, with the 18% figure being below average.

By the eighth time I weighed myself, I realized: Staring at these numbers isn't going to change them. At this point, I've been playing with the scale for, like, 20 minutes. I'm naked and I just weighed myself eight times in a row for no reason, and I would never ever do this if someone else were home. So, I put on my clothes, declared a truce with the scale, and made a new home for it beside my closet.

Friend or foe? Who cares, at least this new appliance is honest. And I need something in my life that can tell it to me straight.

things to love about working in restaurants

I was reading over my post of New Year's Eve and feeling as though it gave restaurant work a bad name.

The fact is, I love working in restaurants and I always have. On a good night a busy, smoothly run restaurant is an amazingly fun, energizing, lucrative place to work. And in their best incarnations, restaurants lend themselves to a community-oriented working environment that is unparalleled in the world of cubicles, flourescent lighting, and desks, more akin to hanging out in a fun club-house with your weird friends than working your blue-collar job.

In light of this, I thought I'd list some of the reasons that I love working in restaurants, and will be loathe to give my notice when my big break comes, no matter how rich and fabulous I have become:

1. Interesting people work in restaurants. It is difficult for ex-convicts and illegal immigrants to get jobs in offices, but usually not much trouble at all for them to find work as bussers, line cooks, chefs, and waiters. Some of these people live shrouded in mystery on the margins of society, sure; but they often have the best stories to tell.
2. You get to be around food ALL THE TIME. As a former fat kid, food and I have had a tumultuous love affair. As a restaurant worker, I have been able to cultivate this relationship a positive friendship.

3. Waitressing is an instant, free education in food and wine. Good waitstaff must familiarize themselves daily with the stuff that self-proclaimed "foodies" dream about. Plus, if you start in the business at the tender age of 16, like I did, it is high probable that some of the talented young cooks you used to work with, or maybe even your former roommate, will have marched up the culinary ladder to the very prestigious position of Chef de Cuisine or Executive Chef, by the time you are 28. Then you can tell all your office-worker-bee friends as Will Farrell did in Elf: "I KNOW HIM!!!"

4. Waitressing is the ultimate PR education. In both professions, you must learn to spin or die trying. It is also great for building up a thick skin, and learning to know in your heart when you've done your job well, no matter how ornery, cranky, or crazy your nightmare table is, and to pat yourself on the back for your work, regardless of the size of your tip.

5. Restaurants are deliciously unprofessional. I am an ultra-liberal lady who strives to be as politically correct as possible in real life. It is nice to have an alternate work environment where I can tell an obnoxious co-worker to go f*** themselves every once in a while. As necessary, of course.

The fact is, I live precariously balanced between the world of restaurants and offices. Like an immigrant who has lived for twenty years on new soil but pines for her home country every night as she falls asleep, I feel completely at home in neither. I'm not really sure how this blonde is going to handle it once every night of the week is mine again, and all of that free time stretches out in front of me like a string of dark, blank pearls.

Oh wait a minute, yes I do. I will spend that time writing posts for Blog 365.

California travel journal: In-N-Out Burger

What is the deal with In-N-Out Burger?

In real life, I do not eat fast food. In fact, most days I eat only salad for lunch, and something marginally to very healthy for dinner. In California, however, I eat In-N-Out Burger. And so does everybody else.

I was resistant to the concept at first: a burger is a burger and fries are fries. Fat + fat = fat people, so in my world, those items should be avoided unless you have PMS and are indulging in a guilty pleasure. But here, in California, the land of endless sunshine and very large cars, they have a magical burger place called In-N-Out Burger, where the prices are somehow lower than your local McDonald's or Burger King, but the food is fresher and more wholesome. Fresh cut, well-seasoned fries, "real" meat patties (not frozen dog-food grade like at the competitors), delicious milkshakes made with actual ice cream. And as if that all wasn't enough, the place is staffed by happy-seeming people who do not seem put off by the fact that their uniform requires them to wear a paper hat.

This Boston blonde has to ask--what gives???