by Helen Wu
“You don’t know what front of house (FOH) and back of house (BOH) is? Mario, we have to explain this to her.” Ay grabs my pen and writes the two terms, drawing a line between them to divide the page into two columns.
Mario chimes in passionately: “So the front of house is your servers, bartenders, busboys. All of these people are led by the FOH manager. They are the ones who interact with the guests.”
Ay nods in agreement as I rapidly take notes.
“Your back of house are your chefs, cooks, porters, prep, and dish boys. They are managed by the BOH manager.”
“Bartenders tend to straddle the line between BOH and the guest, we’re in a unique position.” Using his pen, Ay scribbles “bartender” between the divide he’s made for FOH and BOH. He draws a final line at the bottom of the table, with arrows pointing to the bottom of the table. In this bottom section, he scribbles in all caps “GUEST.”
“Even though we’re all working in the same restaurant, it’s like different worlds. The people, energy, vibes, everything is different.”
“Yeah, the FOH are always trying to tell us BOH what to do. They’re pretty shitty.”
“What the FOH people don’t realize is that we BOH people have knives.”
Part I: Guest
“I have a standing res for six people at Double Chicken Please (DCP) with a big cancellation fee. Anyone wanna join?” The group chat echoes with a chorus of yeses, as well as praises to the sender for snagging such a hard reservation. Drawn by the alleged exclusiveness of this bar, I agree to the plans.
On a breezy Friday night, I step out of my Uber and arrive in front of the sleek and demure placard advertising DCP. Amidst a busy street sandwiched by a renowned 24 hour Jewish deli and a smattering of clubs with lines starting to form, DCP blends into the homogenous brick cascade of tenement walk ups. That’s the thing nowadays—big and showy is out, subtle and secret is in. There’s an overused word for places like this: the speakeasy.
Before entering the chic echelons of the bar, I take a little detour into the street corner, where I smoke a joint swiftly, crush it into the ground, and spritz myself with a little perfume. Despite the legality and accessibility of weed, it’s a small secret I keep from some of my friends (read: this particular summer friend group which consists of mostly rich, pretty, international girls) who consider it lowly and distasteful.
Returning to the entrance, I see a few of my friends gathering outside. Taylor cradles her new Louie bag like holding a newborn baby, showing it off to the rest of our friends. I find this distasteful, and I tell her it looks pretty. I hug them, hoping they don’t catch the subtle scent of weed in my clothes.
We try to enter, but we’re alerted by the doorman: “Your entire party needs to be here before I let you in.” Two friends are missing, so we wait awkwardly outside. That’s another thing about these places—they don’t know what walk-ins are.
“There’re a few Harvard students in there,” says the doorman.
“Oh really! We don’t like Harvard students very much,” muses my friend, which sends off a cascade of giggles among us. The doorman seems puzzled.
“Why?”
“Harvard students are kind of pretentious, in my opinion,” replies Daphne. How fascinating. A small bar like this, two groups of Ivy League kids. I can’t even escape the pretentious exclusivity of my institution outside of my internship. After a few silent moments elapse, I interject with my own question.
“What kinds of people usually come here?” The doorman furrows his brows at my question.
“It’s a nice group. People like the Harvard girls. Young professionals. Always dressed well. They’re young. They’re rich. Impressive people with impressive jobs.” He relays this sentiment genuinely, with an air of pride that he works at an establishment that draws such a refined crowd. Ten minutes have passed, and our friends are not here yet.
“Why don’t you girls go inside? I’ll let your friends in when they get here,” he says. I part my lips into a smile of gratitude as we step into the bar.
Sleek wood bar, list of artisanal draft beers and their many origins doodled artfully onto a black board, small groups of young professionals chatting the night away. Nothing too impressive. We follow our host towards the back, where he parts a set of curtains to reveal a sexy, dimly lit room. It’s much quieter here, with plush leather seats, dark wooden armrests, and a warm ambient light absorbing all excess sound, shrouding us in an air of intimacy.
In unison, my friends and I pull out our phones to start photographing the space. We block off the narrow passageway of the backroom, rotating like delicate figures on music boxes, careful not to turn on flash while surveilling the room with our digital devices.
As for the clientele, most tables in the quiet backroom are occupied with young, attractive, well-dressed Asian people, which makes sense given the Asian-inspired flavors of the cocktails. Many are wearing some combination of corporate clothing (think: blazer, dressy pants, simple black, navy, and white color palette) with their out-of-office wear (think: “fun” shirts, sneakers, accessories). Many of the women have perfectly applied “effortless” dewy makeup, perfectly layered hair that was probably done at some Ktown salon, and probably perfect jobs and degrees to go with their perfection. I imagine taking everyone’s designer bags and piling them in one corner of the room—it would probably create a substantial mound that could be appropriated into a contemporary art piece.
Upon sitting down at our lazy-Susan-esque small corner table, we are handed a menu labeled backroom. Flipping it over, I am confronted by a flurry of $20 cocktails with various food names. Cold pizza. Japanese cold noodle. NYC beet salad. With greedy and mischievous smiles, my friends decide that we should each order one and sample everything. We even got a couple of namesake chicken sandwiches too.
I imagine taking everyone’s designer bags and piling them in one corner of the room—it would probably create a substantial mound that could be appropriated into a contemporary art piece.
The drinks come intricately adorned, with many layers, colors, textures, and vessels, eliciting gasps of oohs and ahs from our table. A cartoon pizza decal sits atop a cheesy orange hued drink in a wide-brimmed circular glass. A cloud of white foam with a sprig of green dill floats atop a beet-purple fluid, which feels thick like a fibrous morning detox juice when swirled in the cup. A translucent brown liquid, light and clear like bone broth flows smoothly down my gullet, accompanied by a perfectly square and crystal clear block of ice gently pressing down on my lips. Operating like a sushi conveyor belt, we each try a sip of each drink and pass it to the next person. After every sip, fingers are pointed, outstanding drinks are identified, flavors are analyzed. This is part of the ritual of going out with rich international girls: substantive conversation is replaced with careful analysis of the flavor profiles of the food you just spent a lot of money on, pretending to care about the cooking techniques and source of the ingredients. It would be blasphemous to let the stunning food become an afterthought.
Instead of spearheading the group’s collective review of the food, I sit back in the comfortable velvet seat. Not a big fan of the pizza one, it was frothy and salty. Not a fan of Taylor’s showy attitude either. I feel a bit frozen in the role I’m obligated to play. To be impressed by the food. To compliment someone’s Louis Vuitton bag or chic outfit. To delight in paying someone’s hourly wage for an excessively embellished beverage. To always enjoy mindless lighthearted company where the setting is more important than the connection. To turn on and off parts of myself in order to enjoy subpar company and expensive food.
Operating like a sushi conveyor belt, we each try a sip of each drink and pass it to the next person. After every sip, fingers are pointed, outstanding drinks are identified, flavors are analyzed. This is part of the ritual of going out with rich international girls: substantive conversation is replaced with careful analysis of the flavor profiles of the food you just spent a lot of money on, pretending to care about the cooking techniques and source of the ingredients.
The drinks and joint are kicking into full force. Warm light dancing amorphously as the room fades in and out of focus. Flying away from the conversation. Making eye contact with Sarah, trying to chew her words in my mouth so I understand. My grasp is too light. Are these drinks really worth $20 each? Why is everyone here rich and Asian? Why are there spaces constructed for people like my friends and me? Are these types of hangouts meaningful? Encircled by my friends in an intimate speakeasy, I grow sick with remnants of the cold pizza cocktail sitting uncomfortably in my stomach. When my mind finally settles from this thought tangent back to the table, they are still talking about the hot NYC spots they want to try. It’s always the same few topics: the food, things to do in the city, what people are up to in their elite NYC summer internships.
Part II: Front of House
On the eve of my birthday, my two friends and I are dining at Irwin’s, a Sicilian style Italian restaurant in South Philly. Under dimmed lights, a slight tinge of drunkenness from some white wine, and a deck of red cards designed to elicit intimacy and vulnerability splayed onto the table, we laugh and dine. That is until our appetizers appear. When our seared scallops, fennel salad, green olives, and eggplant caponata arrive in droves to our cartoonish mustard yellow dining table, we sink our heads and eat. The conversation halts. Voluptuous piles of deep purple and brown eggplant are disguised underneath a hedge of bright green parsley. We scoop the thick caponata onto seared crunchy pieces of bread, savoring the softness and crunchiness in each bite. Then, a bite of tenderly sweet seared scallop paired with a perfect marcona almond. To cut the richness, we suck on green olives and inhale bites of fresh fennel. The appetizers disappear like evidence from a corrupted crime scene. After we finish, conversation resumes for a couple of minutes, and our attentive waitress returns.
Gesturing at our empty plates and dirtied utensils, she says, “I want to take all the little things and give you new little things.” This statement tickles my mind. I revel in the literalness and elegance of her words.
As she gracefully clears the little things from our table, I tell her: “I loved the way you said this.” She beams at my compliment.
“I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and during that time I’ve been learning the right things to say.”
“I love that your statement was somewhat assertive but not condescending.”
“Yeah, that’s something I think a lot about. Over time, I’ve practiced and accrued a list of some of the best transitions I can say to customers.” Her answer surprises me—it’s never occured to me that waitstaff need to practice and hone the types of things they say to customers. As I probe more about her job, I feel uneasy due to the absence of a barrier between us. She answers every question freely, like we’re friends, not server and patron.
“Thank you for answering my questions! I appreciate it.”
“Anytime!” She finishes clearing the table.
Gesturing at our empty plates and dirtied utensils, she says, “I want to take all the little things and give you new little things.” This statement tickles my mind. I revel in the literalness and elegance of her words.
Our smiles burst with delight upon her return. She carries a whole pan fried branzino and half a roasted chicken with sweet orange. Onto another round: we pause our conversation to focus on the flavors of the food.
When she comes back again, I ask, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I’m a writer working on a piece right now about the restaurant industry. Irwin’s is one of my favorite restaurants in Philly and I’d love to learn a bit more about the ins and outs here.”
“Of course!”
“Do you like working here?”
“I love it. Do you know Res Ipsa?”
“No.”
“Well, the team here at Irwin’s used to all be at Res Ipsa, which closed, and this is our new project. Most of the people here I’ve worked with for almost ten years. This is a family restaurant for me. I used to work at FCM Hospitality, the parent company that owns Concourse Dance Bar, Rosy’s, etc. in the city. I quit my office manager job to work here.” This sounds too good, but it sounds true. It was not the gritty response I expected. But why would someone lie about enjoying being a server? I look at my phone. It’s almost 11pm, all the other customers are gone. Front of house staff are zipping around the place, wiping away the last remnants of the night from the tables. We haven’t had dessert yet. We can’t not have dessert, so I have to hurry with my questions. But she seems relaxed. She’s not rushing me, and I feel grateful for her continued attention; I’m not violating her time.
I ask her one last question: “What is something surprising about working in front of house?”
“Well, you expect people to be a lot nicer than they are. You’d think that after COVID people would have more empathy for those in the service industry. That’s not true actually. People somehow got worse.”
“In what way?”
“Well, you get a lot of people here who read Bon Appétit articles and show up to the door with a bad attitude. They’re not particularly inquisitive about the food or nice to the waitstaff like you guys. You know you’re a little doomed the moment you meet them if they’re distracted or have a frown on their face. Thankfully the Irwin’s crowd tends to be pretty decent.” I process her observations, thinking about whether I am a good patron. Earlier in the night, another waitress who served our drinks told us that she was delighted to see that we were so happy to be at Irwin’s. My friends and I were in the midst of cackling loudly at a joke; I laughed an unusual amount, perhaps wearing the sheen of someone about to turn 22. But I know I’m not perfect either. I am someone who indulges themselves in food magazines a little too much, going to great lengths to snag a reservation to try a new spot. There’ve been times when I’m hangry, or I don’t realize that the imperfect dish on my table is not the fault of the person serving me. But I always have the luxury of not thinking too much about the service. When it’s your job, you probably can’t tune out what your customers say to you.
“I’ve noticed that service in Philly restaurants tends to be pretty decent. I was in NYC over the summer and I felt like the dining experience there felt so much more detached. People at good restaurants felt more like the Bon Appétit crowd you described. The waitstaff also seemed less happy. They were rushed and distracted.”
“There’s a reason for that. We actually operate on a full house system here, which makes the work so much better.”
“What’s that?”
“Basically all our tips go into the same pool and we split it all evenly after the night.”
“Oh wow.”
“Yeah. People help each other out a lot more. If I’m serving an unusually large amount of tables one night, my coworkers will help out with small things like serving my drinks. It helps a lot.”
“I’ve never heard of that before. It sounds like a good system.”
“In NYC, everyone is kinda on their own.” I don’t know if she means the servers or the diners. Probably both.
Part III: The Bartender
Coppelia’s is the type of establishment whose energy reverberates into the street. The wood framed glass doors reveal a bustling interior with filled bars, booths, tables, zig zagging waitstaff, and the occasional swinging open of the door unleashes gusts of lively chatter upon passerby. I enter timidly and make eye contact with the host.
My lone upwards finger elicits his question: “Table or bar?”
“Table, please.”
He tucks me into a small table, next to a grumpy Latin man fidgeting with his phone. The bar, tables, and booths are filled with groups of friends, hardly any lone diners like me except for a select few men drinking solo at the bar. The dark, moody interior stretches beyond my line of sight, into a mysterious but assumed back room filled with just as many, if not more, people that I can see. The blue and white checkered floor tiles put me into a scene from Alice in Wonderland, where I am a small girl in a large room filled with bites of Cubano sandwiches and teacups of alcohol.
After the summer, I find myself in NYC again in October. Rather than gathering with the summer friend group, I am alone and in search of material for my experiential longform article. My idea involves visiting a 24 hour dining establishment and taking it from there.
The moment I sit down, I realize choosing a table is a mistake. There is no way I am making conversation with this man, who seems annoyed that they sat me down on the table next to him, meaning I can probably reach my hand and grab a morsel from his table if I wanted to. Sweat pools on my neck, as I contemplate my dire lack of content for my piece.
My eyes focus on the bar in front of me, where I make out small cohorts of men drinking with each other. I make eye contact with a friendly woman eating alone. When the waiter comes with my food, I ask to be moved to the seat sandwiched between her and another solo diner fixated on his food. I make small talk with her, clumsily asking her about her life. She amuses me for ten minutes before getting her check and departing to catch her train home.
I glance at the man who’s been solemnly eating a plate of mystery meat piled high on a tortilla to my left this whole time. A Latin American man, mid 30s, glasses, small tight braids clinging his hair behind his neck. I look around to others at the bar, mostly still older men in groups. He’s my best chance, but it still feels a little weird. I imagine the point of view of the stranger sitting at the other end of the bar, what they will think of spotting a young Asian girl talking to an older Latin man. It must be a bit odd. But this is NYC, and I’m looking for a story. Fuck it.
He finishes his meal and gestures to the bartender to order a drink.
“How was it?”
“It was delicious.”
“You come here often?”
“Been coming to Coppelia’s for years. First time back in a while since COVID. This is truly an institution.”
“Are you from New York?”
“Yeah. Born and raised. My dad was one of the original people who built the NYC railways. He literally built the city.” It didn’t take too much to get him to talk, he was naturally inclined to monologue. I guided him with my questions, pen flowing freely. His generous answers suggested to me that he enjoyed being interviewed.
“May I ask what your name is?”
“My name is Adam. You can also call me Ay.”
“Nice to meet you, Ay. I’m Helen. I’m a writer working on a piece about late night establishments like this in New York. My goal is to stay here for the whole night to gain a sense of the operations here and meet people. Why did you come to Coppelia’s today?”
“I just got off my shift at my bartending job. Always come here for a reliable bite to eat and some good drinks. I like serving people good drinks, so I like drinking good drinks too.”
“Where do you work?”
“I work at Genesis House. It’s an upscale Korean restaurant and bar. How much do you think I make?” I am caught off guard. A few seconds elapse as I ponder. He looks at me, raises his eyebrows, as if taking last offers in an attempt to tantalize me into guessing his social status. I remain quiet.
“Around 100K a year. I’ve been doing this for twelve years now and I’ve really honed my craft. I’m not just any bartender pouring beer from a tap.” Damn. Maybe I should become a bartender, it sounds lucrative. His bar sounds strangely similar to some of the bars I went to this summer. I never imagined that the bartenders could make that much. Maybe the $20 cocktails are not mispriced after all.
“Wow, that’s respectable. How long have you been working at Genesis House?”
“I just started. Burned out of my last gig.”
“Why did you burn out of your last gig?”
“Well, it happens. You start a new gig, burn out, switch, and work at a different place.”
“Is this common in the industry?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Can you tell me about what happened in your last job?”
Instead of answering directly, Ay says: “I do interviews for podcasts by the way. My friend and I just recorded one. And I wanted to say, I appreciate the line of thought behind your questioning. It’s very good.” Ay’s a little bolder than the usual subject. He’s good at asserting his expertise, writing his narrative as my interviewee. I don’t mind his gentle brags, though. They make for good stories. Ay waves over the bartender and orders something. He drinks it quickly, so quickly the liquid covers only half of the large square ice cube when he puts it down. I wait for him, patiently writing notes in my battered book.
“It’s always the management. You take a little one day. Then a little more the next day. Then one day you just can’t take it anymore. So you burn out, leave, and you find another job the next day. Restaurants are always looking for people.” As he finishes his drink, my ever-curious mind doles out more questions.
“How did you get into bartending?”
“My dad brought me to the diner where he worked. I watched him serve food and alcohol to his customers, the delight in their faces when they would try the food. It looked immediately gratifying, something I never got when I was an audio engineer. I got a job as a bartender and loved it. I love it when customers like my drinks. Actually, do you want to try some of this?” He reaches his hand into his bag and pulls out a quart container of translucent blue-purple liquid, swirling it around as he shows it off.
“It’s a component of a new drink we’re experimenting with. The blue comes from steeping it with butterfly pea flowers. It’s delicious.” I stare at the effervescent juice in the quart container. In a different presentation, the would-be $20 cocktail seems rather mundane. I never thought I would be served a drink in this circumstance.
“I’m okay, I’m writing my article, so I’d prefer to stay sober.”
“Oh yeah, you’re on the job.”
“Do you want to learn more about the restaurant industry?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Why don’t you come to McKenna’s with me? It’s the industry veteran bar down the street. I’ll introduce you to some people.” I freeze and ponder my safety for a millisecond, but I nod quickly. I don’t trust Ay enough to down his purple concoction, but I do trust that he will lead me into a rich experience. I also acknowledge the delicate and fleeting situation at hand: a privileged and sheltered college kid being offered a rare opportunity to cross the boundary and understand the life of back of house restaurant workers.
“Yes. I’ll come! Thank you for offering.”
Ay makes eye contact with the bartender and gestures a swift pen motion with his hand. I want to be as suave, but I wait for him to approach Ay with his before I verbally ask for mine.
“The mezcal was good! Reminds me of Oaxaca.”
“Did you go to the retreat?” asks the bartender.
“Of course! It was a life changing experience. The mushrooms too, but more the mezcal.” Both erupt into deep hearty chuckles. Ay’s mention of his Oaxaca trip piques my interest.
“Did you go to Mexico?”
“Yes. I was just in Oaxaca. I go pretty often actually. Once every few months. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.”
“Oh! That’s cool. I’m going to Mexico City actually. I need some recommendations from you.”
“Oh yeah. I have plenty. What kind are you looking for?”
“I don’t have any categories, really. Just anywhere you like to go. Restaurants, bars, cool places.” I flip a new page in my notebook and write down CDMX recommendations. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Ay looking at my notes.
“Here, gimme that. I will write them down for you.” He takes my pen and starts scribing as he narrates.
“I’m a bartender, so of course I have to recommend you some nice bars. Baltra is one of the coolest speakeasies I’ve been to. If you go there, you should ask for Manny. He will take care of you. Order the “Diente de Oro” (golden tooth). And remember to make reservations. It’s a hard place to walk into. A bit pricey but worth it. Some of the best mezcal in CDMX.” He says “CDMX” not like see-dee-em-ex, but the Spanish way of pronouncing the letters, which sounds like se-de-mex. I make a mental note of this for my trip, so as to appear like a cultured tourist. In addition to Baltra, he recommends many more bars, restaurants, museums, and clubs. I see his handwriting, thick, twirly, like black rubber snakes, splay onto my pages, next to my wimpy cursive.
Before we leave Coppelia’s, Ay drags the manager of the house over. You can tell he’s the manager because he’s dressed in a nice shirt with a tie, a big belly, and a proud smile.
“This is my friend Helen, she is a food writer for the New York Times, and she wanted to ask you a few questions.” I choke down a cackle at Ay’s generous introduction. I ask him a few questions about his manager position, the type of people that come to Coppelia’s, and how the restaurant changed during COVID. But I don’t really care, to be honest. I’m thinking about McKenna’s.
Part IV: Back of House
Ay and I walk down the street. There’s a pulsating awkward tension between us. From me, a small emanating fear that I am following a stranger to an unfamiliar place at 2 AM on a random NYC street I don’t know well. Him, perhaps suddenly aware of the weirdness of the situation— a thirty year old man inviting a college student to a dive bar for industry veterans.
“Let me let you in on a secret. McKenna’s has one of the best burgers in this neighborhood. For $8, you get a nice patty, good brioche bun, all the fixings. No better deal elsewhere.” He holds up a brown takeout bag in his hand, with the alleged burger.
“I got this earlier but I forgot to eat it cuz I was drinking and catching up with my buddies so I let it get cold. And I ain’t eating a cold burger after a hard night’s of work. So I came to Coppelia’s to eat. Do you want this burger, Helen?”
“I’m not sure if I’ll eat it since I had two dinners today, but I can ask the people I’m staying with.” Ay hands me the bag.
“Here you go, Helen. If you or your friends don’t want it, give it to a homeless person or something. Don’t let it go to waste, okay?”
“Okay.” I’m a bit snobby; I’m not a fan of leftovers. Apparently Ay is not a fan either.
We arrive at McKenna’s. There’s a little outdoor area with people smoking cigarettes, and a big doorman. Ay hugs the doorman, and gestures towards me.
“That’s my friend Helen. She’s a writer!” The doorman sizes me up and down for the small, backpack carrying, Asian woman that I am. I would’ve been mistaken for underage if not for Ay. Despite the doorman’s skeptical gaze, we enter the bar.
McKenna’s consists of a dark and narrow passageway behind a relatively well lit bar. Most of its clientele are middle aged Latin American men like Ay, either jostling with their drinks behind the counter, standing and catching up in the congested passageway, or smoking cigarettes outside. Ay greets many like brothers, grasping them with a tight hug with one hand. He dutifully finds us seats at the bar relatively near the door. I feel safe being able to see an exit for whenever I need to leave. I notice that there are hardly any groups or parties. Everyone seems to be here alone, but everyone seems to know each other.
“Why don’t you come to McKenna’s with me? It’s the industry veteran bar down the street. I’ll introduce you to some people.” I freeze and ponder my safety for a millisecond, but I nod quickly. I don’t trust Ay enough to down his purple concoction, but I do trust that he will lead me into a rich experience. I also acknowledge the delicate and fleeting situation at hand: a privileged and sheltered college kid being offered a rare opportunity to cross the boundary and understand the life of back of house restaurant workers.
“This is where we industry veterans come to wash off the scum of the day.” He leans over the bar making eye contact with the beautiful bartender and gestures for her to come over. She asks me what I’m drinking, and I politely decline. She greets Ay with a flirty and familiar smile.
“This is Natalie. She’s the best. One vodka soda for me. Nothing for her. She’s on the job! She’s a writer.” Natalie looks at me with her steady state seductive smirk and pours me a glass of water.
“Helen, wait here for me for a bit. I’m going to find a friend for you to interview.” Without my company and drink, I sit awkwardly on my seat, twirling my pen in hand, pretending to write notes. No point in pretending to fit in. A few minutes later, he drags over a timid Latin American man, around his same age.
“This is Mario, he’s a sous chef!” I greet him, introduce my project and intention. Ay drifts away to his other friends in the bar, leaving us alone.
“What do you want to interview me about?” Mario averts my eye contact, speaking in a small voice. He fidgets with his pint of beer, taking a large gulp.
“I don’t want to just ask you questions. Let’s just chat.” He nods hesitantly, and I start off with some questions to ease the tension.
“Can you tell me about what you do and where you work?”
“I’m a sous chef. I work for a company called Hanover Marketplace Ventures.” Unlike Ay, his answers are brief and to the point.
“How long have you been cooking?”
“I’ve been cooking for a while now. I got promoted to sous chef when my son turned five. That was an important moment for me and my family.” Mentioning his son, he starts beaming proudly, taking out his phone to show me a picture of a young boy.
“Would you say you’re a good cook? Do you spoil your family with good food?”
“I would say so, yeah. I would say I’m a decent cook. I make a great steak.” Phone still in his hand, he scrolls to an image of a large hunk of steak sitting on a grill. The piece of meat is sizable and intimidating, clearly a beast that needs to be tamed by a knowledgeable trainer. I imagine the smoke and fat rendering from the steak into the grill, sizzling violently and evaporating into the air, covering me in a meaty scent that weaves its way into every thread of my clothes. That’s why steaks and large meats are quintessential restaurant food. It’s always somewhat unpleasant to be enveloped in the evaporated smoke of blood and finishing your steak still smelling like your meal. At this moment, Ay rejoins us, with a new drink in his hand. Mario, realizing he is a little behind Ay, finishes his beer and gestures to Natalie for another one.
“How are things going?”
“Good! How do you and Mario know each other?”
“Damn. We’ve known each other for years. Mario and I have worked together at so many restaurants. Which ones, Mario?”
“The Palm in Tribeca, Soho House, Pastis.”
“You worked at the Soho House? What were the customers like?” My ears perk up at the mention of this exclusive social club that is frequented by celebrities and other people with considerable clout. With the rise of many more member’s clubs in the city, Soho House has lost much of its charm over the years. Despite not being the coolest of the cool venues anymore, it still carries cultural weight to be invited to join a place like this. I wanted to learn more about the people who go there. How does it compare to the people at the places I go to? More white? More involved in complex social circles? More international? Like a shopper strolling by a tantalizing window display, I desired a peek inside.
“You really wanna know? You can probably imagine it.” Mario scoffs at my question, conjuring a concerned and doubtful expression, the kind of expression one makes when recalling uncomfortable memories that they now have to decide whether or not they want to divulge.
“Mario, you did meet some cool people though.” Mario nods excitedly and pulls out his phone again. He brings up a picture of himself standing next to Chris Hemsworth by the grill of the kitchen. Despite Chris’ imposing presence, I enjoyed seeing Mario’s area of the kitchen, the magnificent grill where he cooked at and wielded so much power in designing the centerpiece dish of many guests’ meals.
“I met so many celebrities! Bobby Flay too!”
The conversation reaches a natural stopping point. I feel a tension within me to dig deeper, perhaps ask something uncomfortable, despite Ay and Mario’s skillful conversation in leading my question somewhere cheerful. For some reason, Ay’s assertion at Coppelia’s that it was normal to burn through one restaurant and hop to the next intrigued me. How do restaurants deliver consistent quality? Why is job stability so poor? I also felt my budding interest piqued by the fact that Mario and Ay worked at some of the most renowned and exclusive establishments in the city. No critically acclaimed restaurant is immune to bad culture. I wonder if there is any correlation.
“So Mario… Ay told me earlier that in the restaurant industry people tend to leave their jobs and move around a lot. Would you say that is true?” Ay perks up at my question.“Oh hell yeah. I can’t count the number of restaurants I’ve worked at in the past five years.” Ay, at least five drinks in (by my count!) and red in the face, leans over, ready to give me a straight answer.
“There are many ways you can burn out. Bad hours, bad culture, people treating you real shitty.”
“The front of house managers too. Always trying to tell us back of house what to do.”
“Who’s the front of house manager?” Ay and Mario look at each other in a grand moment of recognition. Ay takes my pen. Mario, previously timid and reserved, starts explaining the FOH and BOH dynamics. I see this picture that they are painting come alive before me. This separation is so easy to understand, so obvious, yet something I’ve been oblivious about all this time. Every time I dine at an upscale restaurant in NYC, I am not thinking about the fact that the person grilling my steaks might not be an Italian chef but a thirty-something Latin American man. I am unaware that the FOH staff typically occupy a different demographic than the BOH staff. Glancing around the room, I realize that everyone who comes to this bar are people like Ay and Mario, BOH restaurant workers seeking relief from the day.
When my friends and I are the last group at a restaurant around closing time, I always watch the FOH staff zip around the restaurant, closing out final tabs and clearing their tables. I pay attention to their facial expressions, the speed of their gait, whether or not they interact much with their coworkers. These factors are very revealing of the culture of the restaurant. I am aware of their attitude towards me as one of the last remaining diners in the restaurant, the only barrier between them and the dissolution of their tense service personas. I’m pretty used to the check being slapped in my face in a desperate attempt to get me and my friends to leave. I’ve never seen the back of house staff leave—not that I’ve paid attention to look or would be able to notice them in the dining room. Being in McKenna’s feels like quite a leap in my understanding, from not being aware of the existence of BOH to being at a dive bar haven for BOH.
“How do you y’all survive in such a hostile restaurant environment?”
“MENTORS!” Mario exclaims. “You need them. If not, you will drown. It’s like getting thrown into the water without a lifeboat.”
“Can you tell me about your mentors?”
“Oh yeah, I have so many. I would say the first one is Joel Franco. He’s a corporate chef at Hanover Ventures Marketplace. Worked under him at Ulysses, La District, Dead Rabbit. My second mentor is Brian. He was so great. Always getting to know me as a person, building good rapport with the BOH staff. My last mentor was Mark Simon. He was exec chef at the Palm. Mentored me in how to use the grill and trusted me with it.” I respect the way that Mario readily rattled off these names with reverence. Mentors are everywhere in society, from classrooms to kitchens and beyond. Despite their diverse skills, they garner the same warm fuzzy feelings of being seen in a challenging environment.
“Are you a mentor to anyone, Mario?”
“Yeah, I have a mentee named Esmeralda. Young, small, Latin girl. She works the grill at Pastis. It’s quite amazing, actually. Seeing her control so much fire, heat, smoke. She grills the big steaks.” I made a mental note to not always imagine the BOH staff as men, despite the skewed demographic of the bar.
Mario is loose and open. I notice his attention departing from our conversation. He seems to be looking back into the depths of McKenna’s, noticing a friend. Satisfied with his answers, I thank him for his time and let him depart so he can join his friends and unwind. Ay, my ever attentive host, takes Mario’s vacant seat.
“Hi, Ay.”
“How’s it going Helen? I hope you’re getting some good stuff for your article.”
“Thank you so much. Mario was really helpful. I learned a lot.”
“I’m glad.”
“It’s so cool seeing you and Mario’s bond. Would you say the people make your job and this grueling industry worth it?” Ay looks at me intensely. Did I step out of place? Why did I ask him that? So cliché. Minutes seem to pass as he contemplates his answer, lips parsing a myriad of answers, until he finally finds the right one.
“Helen, fuck the people. This is the nuclear core of the industry. Nobody does it for the people. I do it because I love hospitality. I love serving people good drinks. I wish I could tell more people what I told you today. Serve it to them like I would serve a drink. But I don’t write like you do. That’s why you need to write this article, okay? My craft is making drinks, your craft is writing. I look forward to reading your article.” I’m surprised by his statement, but I quickly realize his point. Ay is buoyed by passion, not people. Much like I am enamored with the creative act of writing, but not necessarily the publishing industry or the people within it. What Ay and I have in common is simple joys corroded by complex industry dynamics. I thank him profusely for his kind words and time, assuring him that I will send him the article when it’s ready.
“May I take a picture of you for my article?”
“I look kinda crusty right now. You should come to Genesis House. I can serve you some mean drinks, and I’ll be all dressed up so it’ll be a good photo opportunity.”
“Thank you for the invite! I’d love to come someday and take nice pictures while you’re at work. I will let you know the next time I’m in NYC. Just for the memories, may I take a selfie?”
“Yeah. That I can give you.” Ay smiles with his teeth, putting a thumbs up in the air.
As I exit the space of our conversation, I notice that McKenna’s is getting rowdier. A woman seems to have lost her purse and is accusing Natalie, the bartender, of not watching it when she left her seat. A loose crowd has gathered around the bar to watch the spectacle. Ay and I look at each other perplexed.
“Maybe this is a good end of the night.”
“Yeah, I would say so. Lemme get my Uber.”
“Sounds good. I’ll wait with you.” We run into another one of Ay’s friends outside of the bar.
“He lives on a boat! Doesn’t pay any rent at all! Wish we could visit your boat, man.” Ay points at this friend. I chuckle.
“I’m not sure how we’ll get there.”
“That’s the only way I can think of extending your adventurous night.” As my Uber pulls up, I imagine myself embarking on an adventure with Ay. It would be fucking fun. Spontaneous detours into hidden digs filled with various characters. Ay’s smooth charisma and extroversion, my introspection and observation. We would make the perfect duo, connecting with people that run the gamut of industry, from the writing world to the food world, introducing each other to friends from seemingly disparate social groups. We could create a restaurant with one unified space containing a dining room, kitchen, and bar with no walls in between. Everyone would be seen, everyone would be acknowledged. Labels and walls dissolve. A beautiful hodgepodge of people mingling, cooking, chatting, eating, drinking, creating meaningful discourse about food and learning about each other.
