The Health Inspection

I expected the inspector. She was supposed to make a return visit to check on corrections that she wanted me to have done. They were ridiculous things for as I have learned, the health inspectors in my town are on some kind of crazy power trip and go to real extremes. Every time they come they change the rules.

So far today it's the usual. The day crew is prepping for lunch. I answer e-mails, set up the cash drawer, call the produce company because they are late with the order. I have to hire a new server so I am going through resumes. I then leave for a while to take care of some errands and as I am pulling into my space behind the cafe I get the dreaded call that the health inspector has just shown up.

Now, let me just say that I run a very, very clean kitchen. I am disgusted by some of my fellow restaurateurs- there is some pretty nasty shit out there. My place is new, up to all codes and kept meticulously clean. However, I have learned that that doesn't matter with this particular health department. When the health inspector came last month she got me on all kinds of ridiculous little nits IE- sanitizer must be kept in a RED bucket. So I made a point of correcting all of these stupid little things because I have such pride in my place and I want to score really high.

When I get inside instead of the woman who came in last month I see a completely different person from the health department. He tells me that this is not my re-inspection, but that this is a new inspection entirely (what the f---?). Because they are going to post restaurant inspections on line now, they are going to do them all over again. (I repeat, what the f---?)

So he proceeds to inspect. And if I thought the previous inspector was a nit-picker, forget it compared to this one. I see that he keeps circling things on his paper and it's making me frantic. A server drops a glass behind the bar and it shatters. As I help him sweep I silently give thanks that the ice bin was closed when this happened or I would have been emptying it all out for safety. By the way, lunch service was in full swing and the place was packed when this was going on. Then, my father who is a partner in the business and is 76 years old and seems to go behind that bar like a magnet when we are busy and there is no room for another person, let alone a person who moves a little slowly, proceeds to drop the cover to the ice bin on the floor with yet another big crash. I make a big production out of carrying it to the dishwasher to be sanitized. I keep waving to my father to GO AWAY- GET IN THE BACK! Next the annoying sound of my cell phone- it's my son's guidance counselor finally returning my calls regarding my son's failing his math class. "Uh, health inspector is here, can I call you right back?". One of the cooks forgets to put on a hat. The FIRST thing you do when the health inspector comes is TO PUT ON A HAT.

It just felt like some kind of amateur hour. Every time I turned around it seemed someone was doing something stupid that would cost us another point.
Finally when he was done scoring I sat with him and he had failed us.

This really disturbed me. I try so hard but they keep coming up with new laws, new regulations that they don't inform us on. Crazy, crazy stuff. I said to him, "would you eat here?" because that is the mark of a clean restaurant, if the health inspector eats there. He said, "Oh, of course!". I said "I'll bet there are plenty of places in town that you wouldn't eat at" and he kind of laughed and nodded in agreement.

So now I have more stuff to fix. And pay for . And I am humiliated. In my old town where I ran kitchens I always scored 100. My lowest was a 92. A failure here is 80, which is what we got. If they published any of my violations I wouldn't give a damn because they have nothing to do with preparing and storing food safely. No, my menus don't say "not cooking meat, poultry and eggs to proper temperature may cause foodborne illness", but a -4 points for this crap?? I use a towel to anchor my cutting boards. I always have. I learned this in school. I have never been advised otherwise. -2 points now, must use some kind of rubber matting instead. The inspector didn't even know what the hell the mat is called. Or where to get it for that matter.

He'll be back in 2 weeks. In that time I have to get everything together. Go over safety rules with my staff. Move this, change that, the bathroom door doesn't swing closed by itself. Really, I say yet again, what does this have to do with food safety?

Having respect for food, cleanliness and concern for customer's safety just isn't enough I suppose.

I need a van, like the Chinese restaurant man

It's all about the van. That's when you really got it made.
A couple of doors down from me is a Chinese restaurant. We share an alley in the back. This tiny place does a good $3 million a year from what I hear. Here's part of their secret.
Everyday at about 10:30 am a big black Econoline van pulls up. And out jumps the entire work force of that place. The girls and the cooks go inside. The delivery drivers go straight to the 4 compact cars (hereafter referred to as "the fleet"), take light up signs out of the trunk, affix to the roof of the car and plug into the cigarette lighter outlet.
Throughout the day and into the evening I see my neighbors from the far east conducting their routine business. The cooks sit outside in their kitchen whites and paper hats, talk on their cellphones and smoke. The drivers go running to and from the fleet tearing out of the parking lot with a car full of warm Chinese food in their plastic "Have a nice day" bags. Unfortunately I have also had the misfortune of occasionally catching one of the cooks shooting a snot rocket as he wheels his trash toward the dumpster. Overall though, my general observation is that I see the same faces everyday and they work. They work very hard.
At approximately 10:30pm, the fleet is de-signed and parked for the night. The van quietly pulls up and waits at the door. They all exit in their street clothes, perhaps snuffing out that last cigarette or giving one good final spit for the evening and pile into the van. And slowly the van takes off into the dark.
Maybe it's going to Queens? Maybe to Danbury? All I know is it's going somewhere where these folks live maybe all together or right near one another. The boss knows. The boss holds the key to the van. The boss knows that every single day they are getting into that van and coming to work. Those that ride the van don't take "personal days" or "need a day off cause they're feeling a little burned out".
Now, I'm not a proponent of slavery. Not in any way, shape or form. But after being in the business long enough now to know that your whole livelihood has to depend on your workforce- I kind of dig the idea of your labor being a little bit dependent on you. Like for housing, food and being grateful for getting their ass out of China and giving them the opportunity to earn a living working for you.
When you have the van, you are the man.

Viva Mexico!

Aaaaaaaahh, I got one. The gold standard in the kitchen.
As I wrote earlier, my Peruvian prince walked out and gave me the finger. So I put out an A.P.B. for a cook. A buddy of mine sent me a guy. A Mexican cook.
How do I put this without sounding politically incorrect? I have been hoping and praying for a Mexican cook. When I first started in the business they were the predominant kitchen help. They were coming to this country in droves and working their south of the border culos off. And they were good.
These days there seem to be other nationalities that are coming to our shores. Some of these people are very good workers. But they are the Hundais to the Volkswagen Passats.
This guy who has a sweetheart of a name came in here and learned the menu in three days. He puts his baseball hat on kind of low over his eyes, once in a while cracks a smile with these beautiful white teeth (how on earth do they grow up in such poverty and get teeth like that? I've had dental care all my life and my teeth are as brown as the pueblo!). He wears his kitchen whites kind of stylin' with the chef coat over the apron. He gets to work immediately. He's professional. He's pleasant. As per my request he's started making some of his native dishes and I'm introducing them on the menu. And his family meal! On his own dime he's been bringing in items from his local Mexican market, queso fresca, corn tortillas and making us chilaquilles, tostadas, pico de gallo. He keeps his cool on the line. He just does the job, cleans like a demon and when we joke with him he flashes that killer smile.
Oh- but woe is me. For I fear my Mexican with the sweetheart of a name will be short-lived in our kitchen.
First of all, he lives in a neighboring town over the state line. He has to take a train and an ineffective bus system to get here. It's not only expensive but he sometimes has to wait on the platform for an hour and a half for a train. He does not drive. Usually someone will give him a ride to the train but it's still a lot of money.
Second, a guy like that- a well-oiled machine needs to work. This was a part time job I needed to fill. This thorough-bred of the kitchen will work 60 hours, easily. That's what he's in this country for. He will stand on his feet and do the marathon- hour after hour, day after day and make some bucks.
How can I keep him? It's like having a race horse in the pony-ride. I rack my brains how I can get more hours for him. How I can make his commute easier. Perhaps my son could share a room with him? I throw him every shift I can, but alas I fear the Mexican, the Volkswagen Passat, the gold standard of line cooks will soon say adios- and ride his train off into the sunset. Never to flash those pearly whites and make burritos for family meal again.

You like me. You really, really like me.

Sometimes it just gets so discouraging. You work your tuchas off and you just don't see anything. Money, growth. All you hear on the news is how bad things are and how much worse they are going to get. It starts to feel hopeless.
So tonight I go and do a cable access show. Before I go I send a server home and figure it will be another slow night. After the taping maybe I'll stop by a friend of mine's restaurant and have a drink. No need to rush back.
After the taping I call in and my cute French waitress says only "I need you!!". So I fly back to the cafe. My baby (the restaurant) needs me!
The place is almost full. The lights are still on the bright setting and no candles are lit because she has been too busy to dim and light. The kitchen is moving along, humming in the rhythm of a well-oiled machine. Luckily these were all very competent people left here tonight. I throw my hair into a ponytail and get cracking- waiting on customers, bringing them wine, cleaning and busing tables. And in between I talk to them. They love this place! Three women are having the best time drinking wine, chatting. They tell me they have not seen each other in 8 months and how great a place this is, that they will have to meet here on a regular basis. One of them works in a company that has meetings where they rent a space, would I be interested? (would I? Would I do George Clooney? Are you kidding?)
The people are laughing and talking. They love to call me by my first name. They might know me from tv or just from coming in and seeing my face. But it's good. The feeling is good. With all the crap going on in the world sometimes you just need a good glass of wine, a plate of short ribs and a smiling warm face to serve it to you. They like me, they really, really like me.

Would you like extra foam in that, Ma'am?

A young man who works as a server for me reported that one afternoon during the slow time between services he had two ladies at sitting at a table having a late lunch. First they came in right as lunch was ending which always pleases the cooks a whole lot (not), but that's too bad because that's their job. After lunch they sat and relaxed in the pleasant atmosphere of the cafe. The young waiter approached them occasionally to check on them. Would they care for anything else? May I take your plates, etc.. Not wanting to be a nuisance, he took the cue to stay behind the bar and wait to see if they needed assistance.
At this point nature called to him, so he took about 5 steps over to the men's room and closed the door to do what he had to do.
Now the ladies suddenly had an overwhelming need for assistance. He hears a pounding on the door and hears the woman scream out "Hey- can we get a cappuccino?"
I wouldn't have believed him but a line cook looked up when she heard the commotion and is a witness.
People really do this stuff. I would at least have waited to make sure he had washed his hands.

The Regulars

It has occurred to me that I complain a lot on this blog.
I realize that the concept is kitchen bitch'n but ok,ok, you get it by now. I work hard.
For all of the hours and sweat I put in, the fact is I do pull a little joy out of this place.
The regulars.. that's what it's all about.
The people who think my cafe belongs to them. Because it's their Friday night place. Or their girl's night out place or quick lunch place or their Sunday morning hangover brunch place.
For all the crap I put up with- these folks make it worth my while.
Everyday there's a least one person who calls me over to the table and tells me how much they are enjoying their experience here. How wonderful the food is, how beautiful the place is or how terrific their server was.
These little snippets are the payoff.
And as they return they become regulars.
In the year and a half since I opened this business I have met so many people. So very many people who have made my little dream a regular part of their lives. I welcome them, we talk, I get to know a piece of their lives- little bits about them. They are the jewels in my crown.
They bring friends, family. The newcomers are impressed by how their friend is welcomed and treated by me, the owner. Everyone knows me by my first name. They can always talk to me if there is a problem or just to say hello.
As much of a tired old crab apple as I am, every day I am lifted when I go to the front and greet my guests. I have a smile for everyone. I believe in manners, treating others with respect and never letting them walk out the door without thinking what a great place and that they must come back. I try to teach my help that no matter what happens, they've got to turn a bad experience around and fix it before the customer leaves. Really, all people want is just to be heard. Own your mistake and move on.
In this very difficult financial climate which we are in, we cling to anything that brings us comfort. My regulars cling to the knowledge that when they come to my place I will take care of them. And every day I get up with the belief that they will take care of me too.

The Evil Bicyclists

My place is located next door to a very successful bagel shop. And sometimes on Sunday mornings it is not unusual for us to stand around twiddling our thumbs, looking longingly over at the line streaming out their front door. Hey, they're nice guys and they were there long before I was, so power to them. Only thing is their place is kind of old and could use some remodeling. Mine is all brand spanking new with two handicapped accessible bathrooms. (Such a waste of space, I could literally seat a table of six in each!) Sometimes bagel customers use my bathrooms.
But one sunny summer day there was a pack- a pack of bicyclists, all sweaty and nasty. Used to be that people rode bikes, got a little fresh air and exercise. Now they have to have helmets with points on them, spandex shirts, padded shorts and special shoes. Oh- and the gloves of course. Now it's like skiing, with expensive equipment and an elitist attitude. They tend to get aggressive on the road too, annoyed that you, a driver of an automobile would dare be impatient trying to get around their spandex wrapped ass on their road.
Anyway, I digress.
First, they parked their 2 wheeled versions of a Lexus along the sidewalk making it impossible for my already non-existent customers to park and enter. Then, one female bicyclist walks into my empty cafe and asks to use the bathroom. Next another one, without asking. Also, I might add, without buying so much as a Poland Springs to help her rehydrate herself. Then, another one! Whoa, I said at this point. No purchase, no bathroom.
So the lady bicyclists got all huffy and insulted. "Well!!", they exclaimed, now that they would have to find somewhere else, perhaps not as clean to empty their very athletic bladders. I saw them conferring outside with their male counterparts, gesticulating wildly and pointing at me.
After they finished buying their bagels and power-ades they all sat under a tree outside across the parking lot sipping and staring. With those ridiculous helmets, beak like on their heads they looked like a pack of evil birds, watching and plotting.
I do have one regular customer who comes in on Sundays. He's a large man with long-ish hair, a beard and a girlfriend. He too is a cyclist with a uniform. The cycle is a huge Harley, and the uniform is a well worn leather jacket that says "Hell's Angels" across the back of it. He is polite and well-mannered.
He can use my bathroom any time he wants to.