Close to the Bone

Stock Market got you down? Law Firm losing its’ charm? Maybe you’re considering a return to the fold, like a heavyweight picking up the gloves, or Brett Favre after three months of retirement. Maybe you have never worked in the restaurant business before, but the financial market is in the cellar and your roommate is banking 80K a year and sleeping all day.

For some people, the restaurant business is like a meth lab town in Utah they grew up in, no matter how hard they try and stay away, they aways return. Others may think of it as an exciting departure from a boring life behind as desk. Really though it all comes down to money. I have seen Harvard MBAs stroll into shitty restaurants looking for a job, but if they don’t have the experience they won’t be hired. My advice is to lie heartily on your resume. If you can hang no one will ever doubt you or care if you lied in the first place, if you fail, again your resume is irrelevant.

Some advice.

Maybe with one too many Top Chef episodes under your belt you think it would be wise to quit your job and enroll in culinary school and try your hand in the kitchen, maybe at the expense of your family and household. From the comfort of an armchair it looks glamorous, fun even. The reality is that unless you have an innate talent for cooking, you are a liability to yourself and everyone around you. Expect hellish working conditions, often no benefits, long hours, unpaid overtime, burns on top of burns, maniacal chefs half your age screaming at you.

The front of the house you may find a bit easier to glide along as an impostor with the help of others. Although once you are discovered as the weak link you are finished. Never have I met a bigger bunch of cannibalistic savages than a group of servers. They might be pre-school teachers and midwives during the day, but as soon as you reveal yourself as someone they have to carry around you are finished. Culinary schools are like six month film schools. They are full of talentless, lazy, low preforming youngsters who barely scraped out of high school and are going nowhere fast. Living in the garage? Mom and Dad have given up? Maybe you are sitting around in your camo cargo shorts and Slipknot t-shirt and are trying to figure out to do with your life and the idea hits you, Culinary School. Skull tattoo on the neck? No problem. 1.7 GPA? No problem. No money at all and marginal credit? No problem. Sign on the dotted line and any of these schools will gladly take your money or better yet extend you an awful loan. The fact of the matter is, unless you are serious about cooking, and have some glimmer of talent, it’s basically a big waste of money, a lot of money. After graduation you can look forward to months of work for in some cases no pay in the finer restaurants, most tap out pretty quickly.
Now there are a lot of very talented people out there in Culinary School, don’t get me wrong. It is just an industry where anyone can jump in and try their hand. Restaurants need huge numbers of willing people, many who work for very little money, so there is latitude for nearly everyone.

I have great respect for people who are willing to roll the dice with their resumes and their skills. If you think you can do the job, why let some aging coke head restaurant manager who is grasping to his shred of the real world tell you no just because you haven’t done it before. But there are some things that will make your act more believable. Act as if you have done it for years. Sound hard? If you can’t be a bit of an actor you may fail heartily. I have lied profoundly in two job interviews. Once when I segued from cook to waiter and once from waiter to bartender. I had spent a fair amount of time as a cook watching anemic drug addicts and worn out moms kill it on the floor. I always knew I could do it, but I was young and enjoyed the pirate ship atmosphere of the kitchen. I got tired of making so little money and jumped ship. I moved from Florida to California and switched the Sous Chef title to waiter, winked at the chubby lady who interviewed me and that was that. A good restaurant manager hires more on feel than experience. Often a waiter with 20 years of experience is just a host of bad habits, a case of herpes, and a drug problem. A fresh faced college student with no money and an attitude that hasn’t yet been spoiled by heartbreak and 30K in credit card debt is always a better bet.

If you are serious about becoming a waiter I can give you a little real advice. If you literally have no experience and don’t feel comfortable telling total lies, there are some places that may still hire you. Corporate outfits that will brainwash you so completely that any frame of reference is just a pain in th ass for them. Houston’s is the best example of this sort of place. There are much worse places to work and it is totally possible to be hired based strictly on your interview. They interview on the spot so be prepared if you walk in. The training is extensive and they cover some fundamentals but the way they do things at Houston’s works best at Houston’s because their system is so specific to their restaurant. They are a monster company with stores all over the U.S, this is handy also if you need to move. Other places like The Cheesecake Factory are desperate enough that they often resort to those of you lacking great resumes. Too good for a shitty restaurant like the Cheesecake factory? Me too, but any port in a storm, as they say. In most cases, if you want to climb the ranks you want to leave these places as soon as possible, hanging around for too long shows that you may be lacking tenacity and pride. Learn some vernacular, and how to carry a tray of martinis, bang a couple waitresses and get out, fast.

The ultimate dickhead move, the total silver bullet is Bartending School. Any mention of this will get you thrown out of most interviews, or they may just point and laugh. I have been in the restaurant business for 18 years and have never met a person that went to bartending school that actually worked as a bartender. I made the switch from waiter to bartender and it was seamless. I drank a whole lot back then and figured that was enough research and I was right. There is nothing a bartending school will teach you that you won’t learn the first week at a real bar job. I always hear, “I don’t know how to make the drinks.” This is bullshit mostly because any good restaurant has their own drink recipes anyway. And if someone asks you for a Harvey Wallbanger or a Sloe Screw he is probably a jackass that will drink anything you put in front of him. I always tell the new guys to make everything pink and strong and no one will complain.

If you are desperate for a bar job, try a Marriott or a if you are pretty young lady you may have luck at a neighborhood bar or sleeker nightclub style restaurant. Sound sexist? Call it whatever you want but everyone loves a pretty bartender, talented or not.

One thing is for sure, it is almost never boring, truly boring. It isn’t for everyone, it’s not for the proud, or the lazy. And if you are any good at it, no one gives a shit about your resume. I have never seen anyone get “laid off” in a restaurant, fired maybe, and even then it’s rare, so in this way it is secure. No one really cares if you have an Engineering degree, or are about to sit for the bar exam. These stories may just alienate you as a tourist. My advice is to keep your trophy case closed, your mouth shut and your head down. You could be an MD but the only way to earn respect around here is to do a better job than the best employee and that may be a bigger challenge than academics for some of you.O

There have been times where I had to take a break. Sometimes grinding away five or six days a week, often several doubles spread across two, even three restaurants, for months, years. In the ninth grade my best friend had come to calling me the Jamaican. If this offends please email me and I will be happy to put the two of you in touch. The breaks were brief and usually occupied with an inane, ridiculous and always low paying job.

Insurance Adjuster
Time served: five months
Salary $32,500.00/year

Nowhere will you find a more masochistic group of suckers. How anyone aspires to be a part of this industry is beyond me. Basically, each morning a stack of accident reports were dropped on your desk, every morning. It was your job to call all parties involved, take recorded statements and make a decision on who was at fault. 90% of people you spoke to, whether they were insured by your company or another, were completely full of shit. The accident reports would pile fast, five to twelve a day. Each accident took weeks, even months to close. At the end of my first month I must have had a few hundred open cases, plus a couple hundred more that I inherited from some others who were smart enough to quit. I can honestly say I am adept at the restaurant business, no real hitches. I may though, be one of the worst claims adjusters in the free world. One sick day generally resulted in over a hundred angry voice mails, it was a break neck pace, futile, hopeless.

There were a couple of incidents that lead to my swift demise as an adjuster. The first was the night I went out after work and got completely wasted and lost three digital cameras and a brand new laptop. I called in sick the next day and only realized the case was gone at about three pm, another tough phone call. They let me off the hook and the laptop re-surfaced at a local pawn shop. Another was a night where I managed to take all the skin off the backs of my hands in an accident involving a shopping cart. The latter lead to a lot of stares at work as my trembling and bloody hands tried in vain to answer the phones. I also was wearing the same outfit from the day before, dried blood all over the pants, nice.

The final event that came on the heels of my two week notice was so unbelievable that had I not been present, I wouldn’t believe it. One of our insured, this is how they refer to everyone, “the insured,” a young man from Russia, had died in an auto accident. The family was entitled to the insurance claim. His family came all the way from Russia to cremate him and pick up a check. The day his parents came to pick up the check I happened to be in the lobby chatting with Brandy, our statutorily young receptionist. My boss asked the Mother for the death certificate. This was to serve as proof that he was actually dead. They had no certificate. They were on their way to the airport and had no time to waste. My boss explained the problem to the Mother and without a second thought she headed to their rental car. She came back with the urn, the urn that held her son. It was a gold number with a lid that bolted on. I stood and watched as masking tape with the claim number was fixed to the side of the urn. A picture was taken, one close shot, and one longer with the whole family, they even smiled.

I gave my notice that afternoon, fuck insurance.

Telemarketer
Time served: two weeks
Salary: sky’s the limit, sort of.
This was a real low point, a blemish on the ‘ol resume. “Hi, this is Mark, calling from Millwood Landing Resort in Ashdown, Arkansas. You have been selected to receive two nights at a Disney World resort or a Weber grill and six ribeye steaks, isn’t that great?” This is literally what you said when they answered the phone. We worked out of the phone book, xeroxed pages of an Arkansas phone book. I worked with heavy smoking pregnant women and a bunch of alcoholics. One day I made the mistake of having a tryst with a foxy married lady I shared a cubicle with. Shit started to get a little heavy and I put in my two week notice. When you put in your two week notice, they immediately fire you, on the spot, which was a total relief.

Kirby Vacuum Salesman
Time Served: five weeks
Salary: straight commission

This is a long sordid tale that begs for a different, longer form. Basically we are talking about a really fucking expensive vacuum. It is truly, as they say, the Ferrari of vacuums. I figured the hard part would be finding someone who would truly appreciate such a thing, wrong. Southwest Florida hosts every species of housewife, the one thing they all have in common is bloodlust for the very best vacuum in the world. Kirby vacuums are only sold in the home, which is where I enter. They basically show you how to sell it and ask you to come back with no less than $800.00. You can sell it for anything over that, with financing available for just about anybody. I worked in the field for about three weeks and sold a few vacuums. I sold one to an older couple for $1,700.00 in cash. Another vacuum on credit to a woman who was destitute and married to an ex-con truck driver and another to a woman, who, unbelievably, had no carpet.

They truly old themselves, they were that good. The demo appointments were staged as free carpet cleanings, and it was up to you to turn it into an engaging info-mercial once you made it inside the home. Of all the salesmen, there were no women, I was one of two white guys and one of three people who were not on some form of parole. I was a lily white kid on his way to college and had a new car, the holy grail in the world of vacuum sales employees. I made friends fast with rides home and Newport cigarettes. All the guys and I got along real well, I immediately had the protection of about twelve of Lee County’s most dangerous men. I quit when it occurred to me that the charm had worn off and classes started. I will never forget what it was like to stand at the podium, the morning after a sale with a thousand dollars in my pocket, explaining how I had done it, over the cheers of ex-cons and the clatter of house arrest bracelets.

It has occurred to me that some of my favorite years were actually spent in Florida. I don’t say too many kind things about Florida so I am going to try to put in a plug where I can. The Patron Saint of Florida and tropical journalism in general is Carl Hiaasen. He writes cheeky, dark mystery novels all about Florida and is a favorite author of mine. He also has written a scathing column for the Miami Herald since the 80’s and represents what real Florida is all about. He loathes Disney and is keen on preserving what is left of the state despite the developers.

Stay tuned. Next time, Four Hours in the Mission and The Best Burger in Town!

Is there any place else on earth where the slow food movement would be embraced so heartily as San Francisco? We are at the center of the latest serious trend in farming and eating. Restaurateurs are eagerly hopping on the band wagon, and don’t worry there is room for everyone. Slow Food focuses on local farming, sustainability, preserving tradition, food education, warns against the dangers of fast food and actively lobbys for the inclusion of organic farming concerns within agricultural policy. It’s like a Barack Obama speech, you can’t help but nod your head and feel like these are all great ideas. The ideology is sound, but like so many trends in food, it is intimidating and has been called elitist. Alice Waters of Chez Panisse has been on this track for years and just successfully hosted the inaugural Slow Food Nation at Fort Mason, the largest celebration of American food in history.

Scrutiny is at an all time high, diners are more educated than ever. We waiters are fielding questions all the time, “yes, but is it local?, is it bio-dynamically farmed?” Where I grew up, the fish was always local and fresh, but no one gave a damn if the lemons were grown in some hippy’s garden or in Bolivia with agent orange. The philosophy seemed to be, “just feel lucky that you are eating fresh grilled fish with lemon wedges, most kids eat Kraft Dinner.” My family came from Canada, where sustainability in the 70’s meant there was hopefully another yellow fanged, slimy green pike fish to be lured out of a hole in the tundra somewhere. But for Californians, who are rabid for any accessory that can make them shine a little greener, this latest trend is literally being eaten up. For the well to do young person in San Francisco, and I count myself as one, never has it been easier to be relevant and green, all while enjoying some of your favorites. Suddenly, a two hour lunch at A16 is less an act of indulgence and more one of education and selflessness. “We ate the shoulder of a pig that I hear the Chef killed himself, and it was raised by locals, fed truffles and rubbed with Chimay every morning.”

At the core, I don’t see elitism, I see farmers. Just as wine making is essentially farming, yet gets contorted into a celebration of wealth in the finer dining rooms, white people one upping each other with bottles of wine with price tags that can exceed the average mortgage payment. It is obviously easy to get off course. The Slow Food ambassadors can’t seem to shake the elitist reputation, unfair? Take for instance your favorite taqueria. In some cases, lard, factory made tortillas, hot house tomatoes, non-organic onions, cilantro, meats. What do you get? Maybe the best meal for under ten dollars anywhere. That’s not to say that the Latino community is opposed to embracing change that includes better, certainly more popular products, on the contrary. Many taquerias have revolutionized their approach with sustainable organics, but it certainly isn’t the industry standard. The bottom line is that fresh, local, organic produce is more expensive and little harder to come by. If you came here on foot from another country, ascended a difficult class system, not to mention the local bureaucracy of permits and inspections, probably sending most of your money back home to your family and others. Do you think your priority is going to be preserving the seed bank or rare Heirloom tomatoes?

In other words, what is the incentive for someone who doesn’t feel the need to augment their menu and dining philosophy with leftist political agenda? Does a corn fed, milk rubbed pig from a local farm taste better? Of course. Does it make sense to turn it into Carnitas that you would have to sell for 1.5 times the price to an audience of diners that probably, mostly don’t give a damn? Maybe, but probably not. If failing means going back to Nantucket for another loan from Mom and Dad to try your hand at another cutting edge concept, you may want to roll the dice. If failing means risking homelessness and real poverty, poverty that you thought you had left behind you, it could be too much of a risk. The best case scenario is owning a restaurant that garners the kind of market share that gives you the latitude to try on any hat you want.

It’s about the ingredients, especially according to those who are on the production end of things. The farmers, the chefs, the wholesalers. But for the consumer? I think the elitism notion is drummed up mostly by the consumers who are trying to out do one another. Leave it to six figure democrats to take something pure and turn it into an accessory that puts them ahead in a race to be the most legit. I buy organic tomatoes and bananas because I find they taste much better, and if the proof is in the pudding, Chilean avocados are still good enough for me.

In a city where some of the best ideology is placed out of reach for some, no one has a more real, vital role than the unassuming La Cocina community kitchen down on Folsom street in the Mission. According to Caleb Zigas, the program’s director, “La Cocina provides commercial kitchen space and technical assistance to low-income and immigrant women who are launching, growing and formalizing food businesses. We believe that small business owners can become economically self-sufficient making the food that they love.” This place is the real deal. No place for the arm chair activists that spend long afternoons scrutinizing prix-fixe menus for their organic integrity. I recently toured La Cocina and let me tell you, this place was buzzing with people working on everything from Empanadas to Claire’s Squares, to die for chocolate confections. In a world where most people are focused on their own successes, La Cocina is buzzing with people who spend their days making sure each other are bound for success. The selfless nature of the business model is infectious and revolutionary. The food that is produced here is unmatched in taste, diversity and would make the most ardent organics snob squeal with pride.

At a time where bio-dynamic farmers are relying on phases of the moon and stinging nettle compost manure to help replace previously worthy, mere organic produce, you might ask, what next? Perhaps Taquerias can begin channeling the Chupacabra in order to carve out a niche in the food market. Maybe the bologna sandwich will make a comeback on a four star menu where irreverence and irony suddenly trump talent and taste. My favorite taqueria has no special accreditations and I don’t give a damn. In a town where it’s hip to resist, where dissent is king, how long can it take for it to be cooler to shun slow food than to embrace it? This blog asks more questions than a Carrie Bradshaw piece, but it’s all new to me. Afterall I grew up on enhanced milk and ground beef, Sunny Delight and Oscar Meyer, I glowed in the dark until recently. Now my blood runs rich with the egg shell calcium and chamomile compost of a three hour Ubuntu lunch date. I sweat cold, hand-pressed olive oil and wake to the sound of Nate Appleman running his band saw through the head of a local pig, marina wives gathering around for scraps of hand made Coppa di Testa. I’m no better, really. One thing is for sure, put it in front of me and I will eat it, even if Alice Waters doesn’t respect me in the morning. I love it all, the whole gamut. I just feel lucky we live in a part of the world where we are deciding between the best tomato in the history of farming and the next best one. People are drinking out of ditches and dying in life rafts all over the world so if there’s a little growth hormone in my milkshake or some cancer in my sandwich, I still feel like a lucky guy.

No matter who you are, no matter how relevant, or likable, or graceful you are, you’re waiter is talking shit about you. It’s not you, gentle reader, it’s us. You see we can’t help ourselves, it’s nothing personal, it’s built in. When you spend the last two thirds of your life profiling diners, it becomes a matter of course. Whether you are an old lady from St. Louis in a holiday sweater who wants Kendall Jackson over ice, or even a fellow waiter, especially a fellow waiter, we have a lot to say about you, mostly to each other. The backstage of a restaurant is no place to suspend judgment, it’s a blood sport. Lifer waiters one upping each other with analogies they have been crafting for years, vile things are said about sweet, generous people in every restaurant in every city every day. We don’t hate you, we love you, but we love to bitch, we love to be right, we love the drama. Some waiters, and bartenders for that matter will likely claim the don’t go there, that they transcend the stereotype of the bitter waiter, bullshit. It is the lowest common denominator. Don’t think for a minute that because you are at Jean Georges, or Masa that the service staff is somehow more mature and has left this habit behind, on the contrary, these people have seen it all and have higher expectations for you, after all, you are so evolved that you are spending as much as a thousand dollars a head on dinner.

Whether you are a pregnant teenager working at Applebee’s in Nashville, or a captain lubricating the dining room at Michael Mina with a bottle of Champagne that seems to be pulled out of thin air, one thing remains the same, your waiter is taking you apart. To be scrutinized by perfect strangers is part of working in a restaurant, to be a waiter is no different, most waiters can tell you what someone is going to tip before their ass hits the seat. This is not at all a serious business, it’s all part of the fun. If you don’t practice this to some degree, you just won’t make it.

Every industry does it, Car Lots have tire kickers, Retail sales have to deal with window shoppers, returners, Teachers deal with manic parents. If you think teachers are above this, go and visit a teacher’s lounge in any middle school in the country. You will be left wondering if you were just in an Army locker room or a WWII trench. People in every industry are nearly constantly saying all manner of vile things about the very people that pay their rent, it’s part of the exchange. I am in no way excusing waiters. I know better than anyone what waiters are like. Just as a lot of stereotypes are in full bloom at the dining table, so are they true about waiters. Sorry guys. The hungover, the art student, the actor, the alcoholic, the lazy, the crude, the undereducated, the willfully indignant. In most cases, the smart and capable, sometimes rudderless.

You see, most of us don’t wake up at fifteen and have an epiphany about being a waiter, we don’t set out on this course. Most, will claim that it rather happened to them, which is not totally unfair. If your passion is something creative, that often yields little to no income, you might be thrilled to be a waiter on the side. Take myself, today I will spend most of the day writing something that no one may ever even read and tonight I will go put in six or so hours and come home with a couple hundred bucks, not such a bad deal.

You typically hit a point where you decide either that I am a lifer, this is it, or I have to get the fuck out. If you are going to stick it out, hopefully you have been smart enough to ascend to one of the finest restaurants, if you are in for the long haul, why be anywhere else? I have taken home over a hundred thousand dollars cash a year at certain points, take home. If you decide that you have to get out, it is important that you do so, for all of us. It is when someone desperately wants to get out, but can’t seem to, that you end up with the bitter asshole waiter that we have all had. The world owes him a favor. No one likes this guy, especially his co-workers, if you think having to deal with him for an hour at lunch is bad, imagine being in the life raft with this idiot for sometimes years. Nowhere do more utterly worthless employees survive, even flourish than the dining rooms of restaurants. You see, half of the job is showing up day after day, what happens after you get there is often, sadly, of much less concern. In a poorly run restaurant about 20% of the staff does about 80% of the work. Anyone worth their weight in the business knows exactly what I am talking about. I will say that at some of the finer restaurants things are typically a little different. You are far more apt to get fired when you deserve it at a fancy restaurant, you are a liability for everyone, especially the guy with his name on the door. At a lesser restaurant, it’s more about the big picture, revenue is a bigger issue than the individual experience of one person. For example, if you are eating at the Olive Garden, one of the worst restaurants in the country, you might find yourself with a sloppy, hungover excuse for a human being at your table with an dirty apron and a bad attitude. How does this person hold down the job? Maybe he/she is even in charge of some other staff members…because what person in their right mind would come back to a shit hole like the Olive Garden day after day, in most cases if they could go somewhere else they would.

I know a lot of you at this point are getting your feathers ruffled at my snide opinion of the Olive Garden. I know better than anyone what it’s like to grow up in a wasteland where you go to the Olive Garden for special occasions, I really do. Furthermore, I like some terrible restaurants, I just don’t want to work in one. There are some practices in restaurants that would make the average person’s skin crawl, a lot of these have been covered by other writers. The point I would like to make is that just like there are some real screwballs working in the business, and not just at the Waffle House on I-75, but at the elevated rooms of the world’s finest restaurants, there are common practices that are revolting that happen at the finer restaurants. Ever wonder how fine dining restaurants can afford to brings plates of cheesy European butter to each guest, roll after roll, even with the sky rocketing Euro? Because in most cases what you don’t eat is recycled back into the inventory. That’s right, half eaten pats of butter are scraped into a bucket that is often then melted and strained and then used to make other dishes. Disgusting. But in a business where owners are lucky to put just pennies on the dollar in the bank, this sort of thing is commonplace.

It’s not to say that any of this is truly unsafe, after all, I have worked in the restaurant business for 18 years and I eat out all the time, still. Think of it more in terms of being a human, in a country where sixty percent of people don’t wash their hand after they use the bathroom, none of this should surprise anyone. Plead your case to your favorite waiter and if he/she is honest with you, you will be lucky to elicit so much as an eye roll.

The only thing a waiter likes less than a British tourist is a British tourist with a food allergy, although in my experience a Brit will eat anything you put in front of him, but I am just trying to illuminate a point here. If you tell your waiter, “I am allergic to onions, oh, and nightshades.” He/she is thinking only one thing, you’re an idiot. Now, we are not doctors, and I am not claiming that it is impossible to be allergic to all vegetables that grow at night, though highly unlikely, but this is what he is saying about you nonetheless. There are many, many legitimate allergies, especially those that have to do with shellfish and nuts, we know. The problem is that we have become a culture of eaters that are obsessed with being different and particular. The problem with allergies is that they tend to go along with a certain type of diner. The type of diner who is more interested in what he/she cannot eat than what they can. Dinner is a process of elimination, an exclusive act that may be more enjoyable for everyone if you do it at home. The food allergy is one of those American things, and the responsibility in most cases falls to the restaurants. A comedian once said, “find me someone in Somalia who is allergic to pork chops, impossible.”

A friend of mine who is a Journalist e-mailed me recently to ask where he and his press pass should head for dinner during the week long Slow Food conference. He sent me a long list of restaurants and I picked a few. Here is a copy of the e-mail.

Mark,

sorry i had to run out on lunch yesterday. i don’t know if the slow food nation event is on your radar but I’m going to attend with my press pass. and i need your advice. the press office sent me the list of possible slow food dinners which i can attend. some are already full. since you know a lot of these restaurants and chefs can you rank you top 3-4 choices on the list below and I’ll put in my request based on your suggestions.
thanks….and hope to see you soon again at work.
ciao,
v.

V,

The best- Boulevard, Coi, A16, Millenum, Greens, A16 isn’t great for vegetarians, lot of pork. Coi specializes in molecular gastronomy, check it out on wikipedia. Coi is also very expensive, as is Boulevard. Delfina is another great one. Foreign Cinema does a great brunch.

Stay away from- Market Bar (terrible), Orson (ridiculous), Aziza (poor Moroccan), Americano (Corporate owned Yuppie nightmare).

So basically must eats are Delfina and Coi, but be sure to bring your wallet. A lot of great restaurants here.

My friend went on to say I should write restaurant reviews.

Now unlike some reviewers, I don’t have any real relevance, or any market share. No one knows who I am, so I don’t garner any real authority to judge, but I do know food, and restaurants for that matter.

A few recent excursions:

Dynamo Coffee and Donuts-

This place is great, basically a roll up window on 24th near York. they make their own donuts, fancy yet delicious, and great coffee, on par with Ritual without the hipsters and laptops, throw in homeless people and a pit bull named Butters and I am sold, sold, sold. It has a nice European feel, sun, some scrappy chairs and benches, or just lean against the Espresso machine and talk to the varying cast of oddballs who man the the dishes of donuts. Flavors tried so far: Lemon Pistachio (awesome) Chocolate (rich) Bacon Maple (little bit of a letdown) and Vanilla Glazed (nicely restrained). I have always said Donuts are one of my favorite foods, why you ask? Because they are a total pain in the ass to make, so I need to find places that make them well (also try Bob’s on Polk, they are coming out of the fryer at three am and yes they are open).

China First-336 Clement

Another slam dunk. I knew this place was going to be great when I realized we were the only people in the whole place who were white. Great seafood dishes and authentic Chinese vibe which was a bit of an adventure. Huge lazy Susan, and lots of fresh Jalapenos. The Peking Duck is enormous and served with Dim Sum buns, cilantro and Hoisin, delicious. The service is succinct if a bit solemn. Definitely order the salt and pepper short ribs, otherworldly. Lots of random sweet stuff in the neighborhood after you have had all the Black Bean Squid you can handle.

Burma Superstar-Across the street.

Now why is there always a line a mile long at this place?
Because the food is unbelievably good. I hate waiting in line, which is probably why it has taken me so long to get down and try this place. The Fermented Tea Salad was completely original, crunchy and delightful. Coconut water out of fresh coconuts. Anything with pumpkin is amazing, particularly the curries. The service is swift and sweet. A total winner. They are open everyday for lunch and dinner, go early and don’t skip the salad, trust me.

I have it on the ‘ol resume. It’s mostly a conversation piece, like a an extra digit or an antique bicycle, people are immediately curious and skeptical. It’s true, I worked there, which seems to have some relevance for nearly everyone. The irony is that I collected a paycheck at the most famous restaurant in the free world, and didn’t even know it was a big deal. Like a teenager working in Bill Gates garage who splits because it starts to feel a little bit routine. Truth be told, I moved from Napa Valley back to Florida, which in terms of geography and gastronomic relevance, is like quitting NASA and going to work for a company in the middle of a tepid swamp making paper airplanes, but I was seventeen and SW Florida was still home.

I had just moved to town and my Mother had a friend who was friendly with a man named Thomas who was opening a restaurant in Yountville, CA. I was in Napa and not really working and headed up for an interview. He hired me and told me I wold be doing a little bit of everything. It was Thomas Keller, Ron Siegel, the pastry chef and me. Now, that’s not to say I was an equal spoke on some divine wheel of otherworldly culinary talent, quite the opposite. I was seventeen and didn’t know shit about anything. I was there to strain stocks, polish stainless steel, wash dishes, mince shallots and help out in the garden. I was willing and humble, but no real asset in any department, not at first.

I have a few distinct memories of these early days. One was the day Thomas showed me how to better mince shallots. I was chopping a pile of shallots into what looked like a pile of crude confetti when he smiled and came around the wooden island in the kitchen and stood next to me. He brought a paring knife no bigger than a Bic lighter and in what seemed like an instant, pureed a shallot into nearly a paste. The smell it released was ethereal and intoxicating. Ron, who was making mushroom raviolis looked on, grinning and nodding. I was speechless. I tried in vain to replicate his microscopic brunoise and failed, but I still remember to this day where his fingers were and how he had told me that small things like shallots sometimes call for a smaller knife. I was wielding and 8″ Whustof like it was a machete, butchering everything that came my way into crude bits.

Another afternoon he showed me how to make a mixture that cleaned copper pots so incredibly, it defied science, it consisted mostly of lemon juice and salt. There were lunches in the garden. We all ate out of an iron skillet, polenta and bisteca with fresh rosemary, cured salmon canapes, lemon trees bursting with fruit, bees buzzing all around us. All the while I had no idea what was gong to happen.

My favorite memory is the night before the restaurant opened. Myself and Ron Siegel, and Thomas stayed late into the evening polishing the antique hardwood on our hands and knees with cotton clothes and thick oil soap. It occurred to me then that this guy meant business. He lived in a house on the property, the manager who moved up with him was already a casualty, I think also a pretty girlfriend peeled off early on, but he forged ahead, quiet and polite. The only Chef I ever worked with who never yelled, he just didn’t seem to ever have to, all the elements seemed to be under control at all times.

These days Thomas Keller is revered like a God. I have heard stories about dining experiences that seem nearly impossible. One journalist referred to donuts that “seemed to hover above the plate,” and then when on to wonder if he had eaten them at all or if it was something imagined, a perfect moment possible only in a dream.

So the this anecdote begs the question, if you don’t have the clout, patience or money to eat dinner at The French Laundry, where can you and have a similar experience?

Some alternatives:

Richard Reddington is cooking up some magnificent courses just down the street from Keller in Yountville at Redd. Redd inhabits a building that for a long time was a sort of chain restaurant called Piatti. In high school, during the mid-90’s this was the place where everyone wanted to work, it was packed every night and the food was pretty good. Piatti came on the heels of the early 90’s obsession with the abuse of Rosemary. Piatti was one of the first restaurants to do the butcher paper and now antiquated plate of olive oil and balsamic vinegar routine. Piatti, now on its’ last leg is essentially a laughing stock and has closed nearly all its’ locations.

I made it through nine courses at Redd for about a hundred bucks a head. There were two of us and they brought each of us something different for each course. Eighteen dishes and they were all better than anything I have had in San Francisco in a couple years. The service was competent if a bit chilly.

Yountville was once home to Piatti and Compadre’s, a glorified Chevy’s and that was about it. Now it is teeming with good restaurants and is home to some of the country’s best chefs, not to mention some great places to crash.

Be sure to try Bouchon, nearly next door to The Laundry. This is the place we waiters of the Valley headed after work to slurp down gin martinis and ice cold oysters among hard drinking trophy wives and local chefs alike (until 1 am!). Sit at the zinc bar and pretend to be important as the warm lavender breeze wafts in through the open patio doors. You can do champagne and oysters with a round of Fernets and then head to where the local Industry People really go after work, Pancha’s. Pancha’s is the only real bar in town and hosts two pool tables, beer in a can and drunk waitresses who are looking for nothing but trouble. It can be real refreshing after a night of white table cloths and lots of silverware. In the past, they even did off sale out the back door at last call. Nothing like a twelve pack of MGD at 130 am in a town that shuts down like a convent at around ten pm.

If you find yourself in Yountville in the morning, peel yourself out of Villagio’s Egyptian cotton sheets, or some bartender’s futon, whichever the case may be, and head to Bouchon’s Bakery. That’s right, baked goods from the Keller family. The coffee was a yawn but they host enough scones to soak up anyone’s alcohol poisoning, and have a quiet patio where you can sit in the sun and pull out your Visa receipts and try to piece the previous evening back together.

I have had some great meals in San Francisco, and terrible ones. Why do great restaurants often fail? While others succeed that serve something close to what I would expect in a Bolivian prison, there are a lot of factors. I grew up in the restaurant business, since I was 13. It all started on an Island called Sanibel, in SW Florida. I was a fledgling busboy under a hairy, blue eyed waiter named Jon. My first night I rose to the occasion and Jon gave me $20, and I was hooked. It was a Thai restaurant called The Bangkok House, and it was here I learned a lot of things; how to make an ice cream sundae out of peanuts and sticky rice, how to make people like you, how to kill a rat without making too much noise, how to charm a waitress, the joys of talking shit about people while they eat their dinner.

Since that long ago summer there have been dozens more restaurants and a hundred stories to go with each. There have been seizures, alligator attacks, armed robberies, car crashes, third degree burns, sex in walk-in coolers, explosions, fires, STDs, suicides, fist fights, marriage proposals. If you have been in the restaurant business for as long as I have you literally may think you have seen it all. I have worked in everything from Floridian crab shacks and blackened fish bungalows, to the inside of the kitchen of the French Laundry, crowded nightclubs to Fleur de Lys, from rowdy corporate owned food factories to the lofty dining room of Michael Mina and back again. I have never written a Blog.

I was raised in a restaurant, not by parents, but rather by a band of savages: one-eyed line cooks, crab fisherman, lovable drug dealers, rednecks, Mexicans, worn waitresses, sociopaths, drunks, Haitians, Moms, drug addicts, and some actual sweet and lovely people. So let this Blog serve as a communique to other people in the industry, a conversation about what we have learned after years of blood, sweat and tears. There are some things that are hard to understand if you haven’t spent your life in this business, a certain knowledge of humanity from underneath.

I have worked as a dishwasher, busboy, food runner, waiter, bartender, manager, fish monger, delivery driver, scooped ice cream, worked in a bakery, garde manger, line cook, host, prep cook, and steamer. While I have done them all, I have worked many of these years as a Bartender, which, strangely seems the most interesting to people. I have bar tended private parties for the President, poured beers for Jimmy Buffet and friends, met a host of celebrities, waited on famous artists, watched the Secret Service hold back rabid drunk women when Bill Clinton glides through the bar. And for all the times I cursed the business, swore I wouldn’t go back, I always did. How else can you drink at work, pull thirty hours a week, golf on tuesdays, sleep in everyday, have an ever revolving cast of fiery waitresses to romance and take home a thousand plus dollars a week in cash?

The best part is that you truly get to be yourself at work, you might reign it in table side, but back in the kitchen, or around the corner from the dining room, you get to be you, no matter how vulgar, or inept or racist, or dumb or brilliant, and this is a thing of beauty that I fear may not exist in the same reckless way in the cubicles and boardrooms around the world. I hope this Blog will serve as a place for me to tell some stories about all these years in the business and also a place where I can also cover some happenings in the Bay Area restaurant scene.

A true story:

Back at one of my first jobs, and what may well be my favorite ever, I worked with a man we will call Dan. Dan looked a lot like Meatloaf, so much so, that any trip to or through the dining room inevitably ended with some drunk tourist from New York, blurting out, “Bat Out of Hell,” or something similar. Dan was something of a surrogate Father to me, he introduced me to alcohol and RUSH, as in the band. Tom Sawyer would come on the radio in the kitchen and he would ask me who it was, “I dunno” I would say. Dan had long hair and a real skinny red-headed wife who he would tell me all manner of vulgar stories about. She worked as the restaurant accountant upstairs and occasionally I would have to see her, usually right after Dan told me a particularly disturbing story about the two of them. I would head upstairs and see her about petty cash for something the kitchen needed and try not to think of her tied to Dan’s weight bench in his garage.

Dan was a drinker, some may have even called him an alcoholic. He had a Z24 Chevy Cavalier convertible whose wheel he passed out behind one night and proceeded to run down about 20 folding traffic barricades and eventually ended up in a ditch, and was arrested for DUI. Dan had a couple of unfortunate incidents, or accidents around this same time. Part of his DUI sentencing was many hours of community service, which was picking up trash on the side of the road. One picked up the trash with a broomstick with a nail coming out of then end. In classic dramatic Dan fashion, on a hot afternoon, he was leaping from one piece of trash to another and stabbing the stake into the ground with both hands in Excalibur fashion. He put the rusty barbed nail right through the top of his shoe down into his foot and nearly through the other side. The guy found the humor everywhere, and often at his own expense, he was a real jester.

It was same day that he explained this incident to me that he had another, much worse accident. The restaurant was on Sanibel Island, which had no sewer system, due to the very high water table. Everyone had a septic tank, a huge concrete tank underground that collected all waste water, from sinks and toilets and distributed it into a tile field in the yard. The tile field was a series of pipes with holes. It was a delicate business and most people spotted the tile field and avoided it. But it was the closest route to the tank where Dan had to dump the grease from the fryers. Dan also wore shorts, everyday, which was pretty much crazy in a busy kitchen, but Dan was fairly crazy. Dan left through the back door, a bucket of grease swinging from each hand across the softened tile field. I was back in the kitchen peeling shrimp when I heard the scream. Dan’s leg had plunged through a particularly soft portion of the field and had managed to tear open the back of his calf which was now swathed with waste water, bits of toilet paper and human shit. The wound was gaping and savage. The grease had pooled around him and he was trembling with mosquitoes swarming around him. Strangely, there was little blood. He was helped to his feet by Charley our Haitian dishwasher and Eric, another cook. I don’t clearly remember whose idea it was but after he lit a menthol cigarette, he and Eric poured Clorox all over his open wound. At this point, Dan was sheet white and his chin was trembling violently. Everyone scattered when the bleach went on, and remarkably, Dan bandaged it and finished his shift.

This is when I learned, these people are different. I immediately wanted in. Not because I was a masochist, but I hated rules and these guys broke them all, even the ones that made sense, like say, going to the hospital. Dan’s leg took months to heal, though he did go to the doctor. he only went to the doctor for pills, he later explained. Other kids spent their summers playing tennis and sailing, I spent that summer drinking Mooseheads and eating vicodin for lunch. Learning how to make Bourbon St Pasta and picking blue crabs with Haitian refugees, playing vile practical jokes on waitresses, staying out late, driving my Boss’s Mustang around town and wreaking havoc in general, I never remember being happier. I was 14.

It has been said that the best things in life are free, though anyone who has eaten an Al Pastor taco or bought a pair of Italian shoes knows that this is sentiment is a crock of shit. There are though, great times to be had with little or no money at all in San Francisco

This past week I had the pleasure of going on an adventure in the Mission with my good friend and gonzo journalism ally, SBC. We started with a stroll by Dolores Park on our way to the new Four Barrel Coffee on Valencia near the corner of 15th. The space they have renovated in long and rectangular and with lots of windows at both ends. It is a beautiful open space with lots of tables and this Blogger’s favorite donuts. The absence of WiFi promotes conversations that may be lacking down the street at Ritual, but don’t worry they seem to have the coffee market cornered on cool for the moment. Taxidermy and concrete floors, lot of mustaches, strikes me as a place Tyler Durden would come for a cup and that’s good enough for me. The coffee is just great

I had earlier praised Burma Superstar much to the chagrin of the cool kids that insisted Yamo on 18th and Mission is where it’s really at. In a town that is constantly re-defining cool, where Four Barrel will likely Trump Ritual as the coolest coffee in town, Yamo is a bit cooler and no less busy. Step through a largely unmarked doorway on 18th and grab one of just a few stools. Tea salad, samosas, Black Bean Fish and two coconuts for a mere $19.00. With food as good or better than spots on Clement, and a third the price, this place lives up to the hype. The third worldibe is tangible and the grimy feel adds to the whole experience.

After lunch it was onto Ocean Treasures aquarium store over on Duboce. This place is a great spot to drop by and ogle exotic fish for free. Great for a date or if you have passed the date phase and are into kid phase, even better. From here we headed to Creativity Explored. This place is an art galleryio for developmentally disabled people and has been in operation since 1984. Some great art and a good way to feel less like an asshole if you are a cynic like me. Earn some karma back and hi-five a few excitable artists. Head next door to Needles and Pens. This specializes in ‘Zines and DIY crafts in general. Great browsing and a good way to feel ancient and irrelevant as you peruse literature that covers out of reach punk rock and clever photography from Southern high school kids.

Round out your totally free frolicking with a trip up to X 21 Modern on Valencia and 20th. This place features 8500 square feet of “20th century rarities” and enough nostalgia for any age group. Be reminded of terrifying high school experiences as you walk by a six foot Swatch watch or wax romantic about your short lived porn career as you glow under the bright lights culled from old movie sets. Prop rental available also.

Our last stop was a trip to the hard to find Seward st Slides. Off of Douglas in between Noe Valley and the Castro. A great place for children or drunk people. Bring a McDonald’s tray for real bone breaking potential of just grab a scrap of corrugated plastic that are scattered around. Remember, feet first and tuck in those elbows.

Two Donuts, cappuccino, latte: $10.00

Lunch for two at Yamo: $19.00

Bruised tailbone (slide): free

Retarded art, giant watches and the world’s cleanest aquarium store: priceless

This Burger review is in no way complete. It is based on circumstances and habit. In order to make it relevant I will try and go by mildly interesting categories.

Best Burger on a Date:

Zuni. The quintessential San Francisco dining spot, or so it’s ben called. Great Caesar, lot of oysters and good wine list. Make a reservation or try your luck in that bar seating with either the most bitter waiter in SF or the greenest. Either way the burger is always a hit. Rare with expensive bleu on toasted Focaccia with homemade pickles and ketchup. Pass on the shoestring “fries” which are cut way too thin for my taste and are impossible to eat.

Best Late Night Burger:

Brazen Head. This one is real easy. No sign and in the Marina but still they pack them in. Med-rare with bleu and grilled onion on an eggy bun with mashed potatoes, no fries here. Industry types after work, a few burned up drunks and local lonely dudes round out the bar scene. Jimmy and Mike man the bar and are probably the two best bartenders in town for my money. Cash only, food till one am every night.

Best Old School Burger:

Bill’s Place. All the way out on Clement. This place is a bit of a time warp, the servers are as old as the decor but have always nailed my orders. All chuck ground in house daily, burgers come mid rare and cooked on the flat top. Curly fries and milkshakes everywhere. Lot of burger options here, the best are kept simple, though a lot of cutesy SF lore/49er styles listed on the menu.

Best Bargain Burger:

In-N-Out. Despite the fact that one is in the Wharf and one is in Daly City, you can’t beat the price. A cheeseburger is around two dollars. Fight the mobs of tourists or Pinays, depending on your destination and drink yourself sick on Dr. Pepper. Tip: Daly City location shares a parking lot with Krispy Kreme if you are that sort of person.

Best Euro Burger:

Chez Maman:

Two locations now, though the original on 18th and Missouri is best. On ciabatta, with Roquefort and Roma tomatoes. The secret may be the Aioli, fries are unmatched. Shotgun diner counter, couple tables outside where you can smoke up and be as French as you want. Coke in the can helps get it all down, crepes if you have room.