plan to observe both the back of the house and the front of the house,” I say. “It’s clear to me that some changes need to made in the restaurant, but I will observe first, before I make any decisions. And I would very much appreciate your input.”
Christopher looks down at me and raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”
Restaurant Music
All of a sudden, it’s five o’clock and the front door is clogged with people. The two big, back-to-back parties have arrived. Christopher and I get to the door at the same time.
“Good evening,” he says. “Welcome to Café Louis. I am Christopher, and this is Mimi. If the Duvall party will follow me, the Gormezano party can follow Mimi.”
Christopher has graciously given me the smaller of the two parties, but I am determined to prove my front of the house skills. Pulling menus from the pile, I seat the Gormezano party, take their drink orders, and hand them over to a waiter. Ta da.
After seating half the restaurant, I decide to check on the kitchen. When I open the kitchen door, a cacophony of noise greets me. Pans bang, voices shout, and a tangle of white ordering forms hang from the rack above the heat lamps. I should have realized that the cooks would be overwhelmed. A waitress is yelling for her food. “¡Oyé, oyé!” I shout. “Me llamo Mimi Louis. Soy la hermana de Jeremy. La hija de Jay. ¿Comprenden?”
Four heads nod at me. I grab the orders and shift them into a pile, guessing when they were delivered by my memory of when I sat the tables. “Mesa tres,” I shout. The cooks man their stations and wait for me to call out the dishes. “No platos primeros. Un sirloin medio rojo. Un pollo Parmesan. Un pollo Marsala.” Looking up, I see the cooks are keeping up with me. “Mesa catorce. Ensalada Greco…”
Two hours later, I’m still expediting in the kitchen. Sleeves rolled to my biceps, hair tied in a rubber band, and a white apron around my waist, I stand sweating in the kitchen. Working with the four cooks, who introduced themselves as the San Padre brothers, I have almost cleared the board. “Oyé, por favor. Mesa nueve. Un fettuccine Alfredo. Un flounder. Al lado: tres frites, dos arroz.”
A waitress bangs through the kitchen doors. “I need a side of mash and a side of rice pilaf on the fly.” She turns to leave, her black and red ponytail bouncing.
“Wait for it,” I tell her. “Oyé, por favor. Rápido. Un mash y un arroz.”
“What?” she says to me.
“Wait for it. You put in a fly order, you wait for it.”
“I’m totally weeded,” she says with her hands on her hips.
“You’re weeded?” She has only four tables.
Fly Girl rolls her eyes at me. “Weeded is restaurant talk for being, like, overwhelmed.”
“I know.” I smile indulgently at her. “I speak restaurant.”
Ten minutes after Fly Girl leaves the kitchen, the San Padre brothers put their hands on their hips and wait for more action. “¡Bueno, bueno!” I tell them. They smile, proud of their teamwork. Taking off my apron, I head for the dining room.
Because the orders came in all at once and the food went out at a fast clip, everyone is eating at the same time. Scanning the restaurant, I see general calm. Fly Girl looks frantic, swinging her ponytail to and fro, but after watching her for a few moments, I see that hers is self-induced mania. Some servers work better when they are on the edge. It’s a buzz, a rush.
Because I am completely disheveled, I don’t walk through the dining room. Instead, I stand at one end of the counter and lean against the wall. I’m starting to come down from my kitchen high. Closing my eyes, I listen.
Humming conversation, interspersed with laughter. Knives and forks clicking and clattering. The soft whoosh of the kitchen door opening and closing. Plates chiming as they are cleared from tables. Glasses ringing. This is restaurant music.
Jeremy Louis
After my day at the restaurant I decided to see my brother. To do so, I had to make an appointment. I look around the anonymous corner office Jeremy maintains as a junior partner in his Philadelphia accounting firm.
My big brother is a very busy man. Always has been. In high school and college, he was president of this, that, and the other thing. Sports, too. Jeremy was captain of Westfield High’s basketball team. Which was a handy way for me to get