The art of pouring ice water

I probably shouldn’t have left you all with such a cliffhanger at the end of my last post. Now I’ve set expectations too high, and you’re waiting to hear that I’ve been offered a job as the San Francisco Chronicle food critic. Sadly, that is not the case. Not even close.

Here’s what happened: last week, I was working as usual in the gift shop when the kitchen manager came in, freaking out slightly because they were missing a server for the next morning’s class. I offered to do it, my boss agreed to let me out of my retail shift, and Bob, the culinary manager at Ramekins, took me out in the back courtyard with 8 glasses of water and helped me learn the basics of carrying a tray. That night as I was leaving, my sister mentioned that they were also short one server for the class that was currently in progress (Jay Harlow’s Dungeness Crab Party, in case you care). I offered to pitch in.

So that evening and the next morning I got a crash course in what is essentially low-level waitressing. I set up the bar area in the demonstration kitchen, served people water, tea and coffee, brought them their dishes and cleared their plates. I guess my initial elation at being “promoted” to the position of server (albeit temporarily) only serves as more evidence of just how boring it is to work in the shop. Now I’m kind of embarrassed that I was so excited to learn serving; a few of you who I’ve spoken with have pointed out that it is patently ridiculous and pathetic that I should be so overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a server. And you are absolutely right, and I thank you, because I need to maintain perspective on my long-term goals and my potential, and not content myself with something other than what I am angling to achieve out here.

But, on the other hand, serving in that capacity was kind of fun. It was much, much busier than working retail, and I actually felt like I was contributing to the success of a cooking class.* I liked meeting people, gaining exposure to the lessons offered in the class itself, and because I’ve managed to avoid waitressing my entire life, it provided me with a feeling that I can only describe as the thrill of the dilettante. If you watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, you will be familiar with the episode in which Larry David decides to spend a few days selling cars at a Toyota dealership. Sometimes I get that feeling in the shop, too, as if I’m a little kid playing with a plastic cash register and a wad of fake money. Except it’s, you know, real and stuff.

By employing that analogy, I by no means wish to imply that I am somehow above being a server, or that I am "slumming it" by trying out this position. Far from it. I am way too whiny and out of shape to make a good waitress. Being on your feet all day is damn hard. I have always had respect for waitpeople, mostly because I think I would make a terrible server and also because it is my belief that people generally act evil to those who work in such positions. This experience has only increased my awe of anyone that boasts tray-carrying abilities, and given me a taste of just how hard it is to work in these types of jobs.

My favorite part of serving last week was meeting a few ancient ladies that came to the Soups, Stews and Chowders class on Wednesday. They all sat in the front row, clucking approvingly whenever I offered them samples, and were having such a good time chatting with one another that people nearby complained because they couldn’t hear the teacher. One of these old biddies wore enormous, round black-rimmed glasses, and another was sucking down black coffee like it was going out of style.

I think I got through this experience successfully in large part because I traded heavily on my (perceived) status as a young, wide-eyed innocent. These classes are comprised mainly of older people, so I think they enjoy being served by someone who reminds them of their granddaughters. At least, I hope that’s what they were thinking about, and not nervously wondering whether I was likely to pitch piping hot seafood chowder down their blouses thanks to my sweaty, shaking hands and clattering tray.

Now that a week has passed, my initial elation at being allowed to serve people has dissipated.

Let’s just take a moment to review how preposterous that sentence is. I don't think anybody, ever, should be elated at the prospect of serving someone else. But that's just me.

Ok. Moving on.

* Although, I have to say that the class itself was pretty painful, and no amount of iced tea could fix it. It went on for hours and hours into the night, and the participants were left hungry after being served only a few very small crab-related dishes. The worst was doling out the stir-fried crab. Some people only received a tiny little leg, and no way to access the meat inside. It was kind of heartbreaking, in a Dickensian-gruel sort of way.