Waiter Rant (15 page)

But I think that the Bushido kitchen code, if it ever existed, has been supplanted by something far less romantic and much more cynical—there are almost never any sick days in the restaurant business. If you don’t work, you don’t get paid. I’ll concede that higher-paid chefs might drag themselves into the kitchen because of old-school work ethics and fat paychecks, but those of
us operating on the lower end of the totem pole come into work sick because we need the money. A busboy with a kid to support isn’t going to stay home and miss out on $100 because he’s got a case of strep throat. What’s more, he’s probably fearful he might lose his job. Fluvio’s good when his staff gets sick, but other, less-scrupulous owners will just fire that dishwasher with pneumonia and get a new one. Why not? There are plenty of guys waiting to take his place.

Most restaurants do not offer health insurance to their employees. Some waiters like me
might
have coverage, but among immigrant staffers, it’s practically unheard of. So when people get sick, they don’t get the medical attention they need, and whatever’s sickening them gets worse or lasts longer than it has to. When cubicle warriors fall ill, they have insurance to cover their prescriptions and doctor’s visits. They have sick days to subsidize recovering on the couch while watching Nigella Lawson’s breasts bounce as she bakes a pie on TV. Bus people, dishwashers, and most waiters, however, don’t have that luxury. And don’t kid yourself; in America, health insurance and sick time have become a luxury, not a right. It’s a vicious circle—staff member gets sick, can’t afford to go to the doctor or take time off, he gets sicker and can’t work and is forced to pay for a doctor he can’t afford; now he has to work harder to make up the shortfall, straining his already tapped reserves of strength and setting him up for more illness.

And these are the people cooking and handling
your
food! You shouldn’t be surprised. Let’s face it: economics, politics, and lack of proper access to health care are creating a nation of potential Typhoid Marys that is going to weaken this country with disease from the inside out. Uninsured restaurant workers are just the tip of the iceberg. There are many lower-and middle-income Americans in the same boat. Go to a hospital. See how many of the outsourced nurses’ aides who do the bulk of patient care have access to sick days and quality health care. Not many. Sure, if you’ve got money and resources, you have health insurance,
but the people serving at your favorite restaurant might not. You see, it’s back to that Potemkin village thing I was talking about earlier.

Luckily, at The Bistro hand washing is practically a religion. There are soap dispensers, antibacterial cleansers, and plenty of paper towels at every sink. We may come into work sick, but at least we are trying to use universal precautions. Safe food handling, like using gloves when making salads and resisting the urge to recycle old produce, helps keep the customers safe—most of the time. But sometimes the threats don’t come from human beings. Sometimes they come from God’s little creatures.

The day after the tuna incident the restaurant’s packed and people are waiting at the door. Fluvio and I are arguing over the seating chart when Saroya interrupts us.

“Guys,” she says, “I’ve got a problem.”

“What’s up?” I reply.

Saroya leans forward and whispers, “We have a bug.”

“What?” Fluvio says a shade too loudly. “Where’s the bug?”

“Quiet!” I hiss, looking around nervously.

“Where is it?” Fluvio says, his voice dropping several decibels.

“It’s crawling along the wall by table twelve,” Saroya says.

“Did the customers see it yet?” I ask.

“I don’t think so.”

“I just had the place sprayed,” Fluvio groans.

“They see that bug, and it’s free dinners for everybody,” I say. “For your sake, I hope they’re eating pasta.”

“Always bugs when we’re crowded,” Fluvio stammers angrily. “Never when no one’s around.”

“I guess they like Italian,” I say.

“So what’re you guys gonna do about it?” Saroya asks.

“Just kill it, sweetie,” I reply.

“And how am I supposed to do that without attracting attention?”

“Think of something.”

“You’re the manager,” Saroya replies. “
You
think of something.”

“Great. Throw the manager thing in my face.”

“Kill it, you big sissy.”

I give Saroya a dirty look and walk toward table 12. I glide by casually, furtively scanning the walls, trying not to look
too casual.

There, in all his fat, glistening brown glory, an example of the species
Periplaneta americana
—the American cockroach—defiantly clings to the wall. It’s as if he’s shouting “Screw your pesticides and delicate sensibilities. I’ve been around for three hundred fifty million years. I was here before you, and I’ll be here after you. I can survive a nuclear holocaust, a month without food, and a week without my head. Sorry to disturb your dinner, but nature doesn’t stop because you’re paying thirty bucks for an entrée. And don’t worry, I brought friends.”

I sigh. The cockroach’s a big motherfucker. I have to get rid of it.

I take a linen napkin out of my apron and approach the table. The customers are drinking white wine. The wine bottle’s in an ice bucket. I pull the bottle out of the ice water, wrap the napkin around the wet bottle, and pour a little into everybody’s glass. I may be acting like a courteous waiter, but my tactical goal is to maneuver close to the bug. Fluvio watches anxiously as I play commando and use my body to block the cockroach from the customers’ view. Any second someone might shout, “Eeeck! A bug! FREE DINNER!” The stakes are high.

No one freaks. I put the bottle back in the ice bucket. Now the bug’s positioned directly behind me. I unfold the napkin and transfer it to my right hand. In my mind’s eye I have an idea of my target’s position on the wall. I raise my napkined hand and prepare to turn on my heel. I have to strike swiftly. Everyone’s counting on me.

“Thank you, waiter,” one of the patrons says.

“My pleasure, sir,” I reply.

Engage target
.

I spin around and, in a natural fluid motion, pluck the cockroach off the wall. I do it so smoothly no one thinks anything’s
up. As I depart from the table I feel my prisoner struggle inside the napkin. For a moment I wonder what karmic sins it committed to deserve coming back as a cockroach. Maybe he was a concentration-camp guard, a serial killer, or a politician. Maybe he was a chef.

I crush the bug inside the napkin. It dies with a satisfying crunch. I drop the napkin into the trash. Fluvio looks relieved.

“Good job,” he says.

“Double O Waiter,” I say proudly. “Licensed to exterminate.”

“Why do you think they’re back?” Fluvio asks.

“I don’t know, Fluvio,” I reply. “Those critters can soak up radiation and not breathe for forty-five minutes. They’re invincible.”

“Great.”

“Let me check something.”

I head to the basement and go to the fuse box to test out a theory. I heard on TV that cockroaches are attracted to electromagnetic radiation. When I open the box, dozens of brown bugs scatter for safety. The things are everywhere. The fuse box is covered with brown flecks of cockroach shit. Lovely.

I head back upstairs to tell Fluvio the problem’s worse than we thought. I try looking on the bright side: I always knew watching Animal Planet would pay off one day.

Some of you might think The Bistro’s a health hazard, a disgusting place you’d never eat at. Well, I got news for you—there’ve been cockroaches in every restaurant you’ve ever eaten in.
Every single one!

All restaurants (you hope) have contracts with pest control companies to keep their bug and varmint problems under wraps. Think about it. You’ve seen ants, cockroaches, and the occasional mouse scurrying across
your
kitchen floor. They’re after the food in your pantry, the wet sugar you forgot to wipe off the counter, and the crumbs on your floor. Now imagine your kitchen’s a whole lot bigger, pumps out hundreds of meals a day, has dozens of people tracking through it and tons of food lying all over the place. Even with the most conscientious bagging, sealing, and
sweeping, one of God’s creatures is going to come crawling in. Sometimes they hitch a ride in a produce crate, crawl in through a crack in the wall, or secret themselves in the customers’ clothing. Yes, people sometimes bring their own bugs into restaurants.

You just can’t stop the most successful species in the world from making an appearance. I read somewhere that if you took all the insect life in the world and placed it on a scale, it would outweigh all other life-forms on the planet
combined
. That includes the elephants. You’re gonna run into them from time to time.

Of course, that doesn’t mean you give up and let them run all over the place. The Bistro has a contract with a pest-control company. Every month the exterminator puts his John Hancock on a form that the health inspector had better see hanging in a prominent place. But pest control’s expensive. Some restaurants that are hurting financially will cut back on some niceties—like the exterminator. That’s when trouble starts.

Just behind the cockroaches are the mice. And right behind the mice are the rats. Think of cockroaches as force recon, the mice as light infantry, and rats as tanks. Throw in some flies for air support, and you’ve some serious shit and awe on your hands. And fecal matter is bad news, people. I don’t think I need to explain that there are some nasty parasites in that stuff. And fleas on the rats and mice? Bubonic plague, anyone? Yummy.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. I don’t think anyone’s gotten a dose of the black death at Per Se, but there’s likely been a mouse or two in that kitchen. Conscientious cleaning and pest control keeps the critters under control, but believe me, it’s only that, under control—not eliminated. As you’re reading this, you’re being watched by a dozen pairs of eyes peeking out of the dark corners of your house. There are mice under your floorboards right now! Sometimes, however, something larger than your ordinary mouse finds its way into a restaurant.

It happened during the Sunday lunch rush a few years back. A commotion broke out by the front tables. Plates started smashing to the floor. A lady began shouting unintelligibly.

Perched on her table was an American gray squirrel. He didn’t look happy.

“Holy fucking shit!” I shouted. In retrospect, it seemed the most professional response at the time.

The squirrel, frightened by the patron’s shrieking, tried to escape through the plate glass window. Mistake.

The rodent smacked its head on the window. Dazed by the impact, he leapt on top of the frantic woman, elevating her screams to a new degree of urgency. The squirrel bounded onto the floor and scurried under the hostess stand. Another female customer, an obvious animal lover, ran over crying, “It’s just a baby! Don’t hurt it!”

The squirrel started hissing malevolently at its erstwhile rescuer. I’m thinking, This lady gets bitten, this lady gets rabies, this lady sues our asses off.

“Madam, please let me handle this,” I said.

“Oh, I’ll get him,” she cooed. Here’s where watching Animal Planet gets you into trouble.

“MADAM, STEP AWAY FROM THE SQUIRREL!” I yelled.

With a hurt expression the animal do-gooder returned to her seat. Tough shit, lady. This is a restaurant. Not a petting zoo.

A busboy rushed up with a broom, and we tried sweeping the little bastard out the front door. The rodent dashed from under the hostess stand and made a beeline for the back of the restaurant. After he succeeded in horrifying most of our customers, he sought refuge underneath a four top sitting on one of the banquettes in the back. I was in hot pursuit.

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” I said politely to the four top, “but a squirrel has run under your table. Could you please get up?”

I will never, till my dying day, forget the look on their faces.

“What is a squirrel doing in here?” one woman said, performing a rapid egress from the table.

“I assure you, madam,” I replied, “he is not on the menu.”

When I got under the table, I discovered that the glorified rat had crawled through a hole under the seats. I could hear him
scuttling under the banquettes. He’d taken up residence, and he wasn’t coming out.

With the exception of one very cool couple, the back of The Bistro had to be evacuated and seated at other tables. The giveaway-free-shit parade was in full swing. After dispensing drinks and desserts gratis I called the police and asked them to send an animal-control officer.

“Somehow a squirrel doesn’t seem to fit the ambience of a Tuscan bistro,” the desk sergeant said. I could hear other cops laughing in the background.

“No kidding,” I replied.

The cop gave me the number of an exterminator and I called him. The guy came over in twenty minutes with a trap and instructions on how to set it. Later, when all the customers left, I was on my hands and knees rigging the filthy device. I wanted to ask Fluvio when animal trapping became part of my job description.

Of course, the squirrel didn’t take the bait that night. The next day we had to pretend like he wasn’t there and seat the back section anyway. I spent the whole night waiting for him to reappear. I dreaded hearing, “Waiter, there is a squirrel in my soup!” I feared he might bite some yuppie on the ankle and give him rabies. With my luck it’d be the food critic from the
New York Times
.

That night I reset the trap and had better luck. Fluvio called me at home after midnight. The squirrel set off the motion-detector alarm, springing the trap. When Fluvio entered the premises with the police in tow, our little buddy was freaking in his cage. The next morning the exterminator picked him up and released him in the woods. Problem solved.

Later that day a curious customer who witnessed the rodent incident popped his head in the door and asked, “Whatever became of the squirrel?”

“We had him for lunch, sir,” I replied.

Then there’s the stuff that falls into the food. I once had a customer hand me a plastic pen cap and ask if that was a standard
ingredient in tortellini en brodo. Occasionally a staple from a wooden produce crate or a button that popped off a server’s shirt finds its way into a salad and results in a broken tooth. Errant hairs, of course, are my favorite.