Shift Drink

My Dinner With Frank

Every server dreads the inevitable experience of waiting on a food critic. These days everyone has an opinion about food and no one feels under-qualified to print it—even teenage food bloggers have their own fucking URL’s. And then there’s Frank Bruni. As the maitre’d was about to seat Mr. Bruni and his guests in my station recently, my life flashed before my eyes. Every table I had ever waited on in my illustrious career slinging all kinds of overpriced hash had been in training for this moment. I was about to have my skills as a server tested by a critic for the New York Times. The only problem was… he was no longer the critic for the New York Times. He was just a normal guy named Frank who once had the most influential job in the New York food world. Now, he was just position #2 on Table 22. I was at the top of my game, and his pen was out of ink.

In past restaurant jobs, management has had all kinds of convoluted “fire drills” and contingency plans in preparation for important food critics. Bootleg pictures downloaded from the Internet would be plastered on the walls of the employee locker room like notices of neighborhood sex offenders. Only a visit from the health department might instill a similar degree of fear. If the critic was spotted, dishes would often be made in triplicate and waiters’ stations would be gerrymandered to ensure the “chosen” waiter would devote all of his/her attention on the critic’s table. It was different tonight, though. No Hazmat suits. No Defcon Five. Not the usual call for “All Hands On Deck.”

I greeted Frank and his guests with menus and a knowing smile. It felt a bit like approaching a washed-up, retired sports hero for an autograph at a memorabilia convention. As I offered wine or cocktails, Frank shyly averted my gaze. (Was he gun-shy now that he had been denigrated to the status of pedestrian foodie, ashamed of slumming it in coach with the rest of the suckers?) At first he seemed distracted—perhaps by the impending release of his memoir—but after I began describing some of the evening’s specials, he seemed to relax and enjoy an evening unencumbered by journalistic responsibility. One thing’s for sure, the guy really loves food.

At my suggestion, Frank ordered a pasta dish with sweet corn. It’s one of my favorite summer dishes, which I told Frank—careful not to impose myself too much (which I know from reading him he hates). When I checked back, he thanked me for the suggestion. Happy with my success, I confided in him that I sometimes dream about this dish in the dead of winter. (This isn’t true, of course, but we waiters sometimes have a penchant for pandering.) He suggested therapy might be in the offing. I agreed, joking that anyone stupid enough to seek employment in the restaurant business should hire a full-time therapist.

Dreams of my witty remark appearing on the front page of the Dining Out section—forever indoctrinated into the Hospitality Hall Of Fame—would alas never come true. Sadly, it was just a friendly exchange with some random table, another canned client/server moment designed to boost my tip like a million others shared in mess halls from Battery Park City to Bed-Stuy. Of course, we still went through the rudimentary protocol for a critic’s visit. We showed the plates to Chef, but not with the same amount of mortal dread about his reaction if one of the dishes returned unfinished.

Our restaurant had been one of the first reviews handed down by Mr. Bruni in 2004 when he took the helm at the Times. We were very nervous then. In fact, I was supposed to have waited on him on his final visit, but he ended up being seated in another waiter’s station at the last minute. I felt like a minor league baseball player who never got a taste of The Big Show. Years had passed, Frank had become a globally-renown food maven and I had become… well… just a better waiter. Now, Frank and I were finally meeting face-to-face, mano-a-mano—both powerless to impact each other’s lives in any meaningful way. Unless, I suppose, if I read his book, or, less likely, if he reads this article.

—Warren Peace
Senior Editor


Click here to buy Frank’s book.

About the Author

Warren’s feet are sore from too many years in the restaurant business. He lives in New York City where he is working on his first novel, Getting Lucky, a coming-of-age story set in the seedy underworld of Greyhound buses and late 90’s porn. He has no wife, no kids, and does not work lunch.