The Plum Gentleman

Introducing the Plum Gentleman:

Plum poached in Sauvignon Blanc and lemongrass from the garden, with a lemongrass simple syrup, Flor de Cana rum aged 4 years, Campari, and house-made lemon bitters.

Just behind the sunflower room sits one of Eve's treasures: the backyard edible garden that is home to a variety of herbs--including an assortment of basil and lemongrass--organically grown tomatoes and vegetables of the season.

Elements of the garden often inspire new creations, also allowing us to make use of what is readily at hand. In this fashion, Todd Thrasher is at it again, creating a new cocktail inspired by fresh lemongrass grown in Eve's very own backyard. Now that summer is winding down and fall is budding its joyous head, there's a new array of fruit and vegetables to be grown... just think of the possibilities.

Back of the House: Fat of the Land

An Insider's Guide to Navigating the Fine Dining World

By Meshelle Armstrong

“There are definite procedures to ensure a positive dining/restaurant experience. It all begins with this idea: Prepare for good dining karma.”

- Restaurant Eve Service Manual

1957 ad from British Lard Marketing Board

 I love fat.

Bacon drippings. Pork cracklins. And the juicy, precious, sweet goodness that is bone marrow.

For years my mother and I have had arguments on the subject of meat fat:

“Look at the fat!”

“Don’t eat the fat!”

“Skim off the fat!”

My mother is from the Philippines. And most Filipinos—I said most, not all—from her generation usually cooked the bejesus out of their meat; my mother was no exception. Any existence of moisture in her meat was gleaned from the precious remaining fat.

I had many fond memories of food and my mother …

This is about the time where you would expect me to wax poetic about food daydreams: the scent of blah-blah-blah that wafted from my mother’s kitchen. Or how I remember my mother lovingly preparing pies from apples plucked from the garden trees…

Yeah, yeah, every intro to every cheffy cookbook today contains the similar story: Oh, every delicious memory is just so, so … romantic.

Ok, idyllic paradise, we get it. And no, I’m not jealous that some of you spent your adolescence in a foodie Shangri La. Because regardless of how I made it here in the food world, I made it here.

Surprising, really, because I was a SPAM eating kid. How I loved the little key that opened the blue tin jar. It was so magical to me. That hook-bent key could even unlock doors! If it was processed or packaged in Technicolor, it had my name all over it. I was a pink fluffy, Hostess snowball eating kid who thought T.V. dinners were the bomb: unwrapping that shiny pinched foil to find food nestled in perfect compartments was like treasure hunting, especially if I got one with the little, “baked” apple streusel.

Growing up, this was all the “culinary” I knew and yet somehow it prompted food epiphanies in my life.

I would pronounce the glories of fat one summer day when my mother decided we would have steak and she could try a new marinade. She pulled two rib eyes from the package from ‘Blank-Blank’ butchers. I was surprised because normally non-rich kids, with single mothers didn’t shop there. But it was summer, my mother bought a little charcoal grill and wanted to treat me.

That day I learned that my mother’s version of grill really meant = kill it again.

“Well done” was an oxymoron to even a six year old. But my mother was smiling, so I compliantly ate—shoe leather. I cut into the maligned meat and accidentally included a slice of caramelized squishiness charred by the hot coals. Remarkably this bite was less leathery, with a twinge of magnificent.

I had experienced fat for the first time.

We are told that we should not eat animal fat—that it’s bad for us. But many cultures all over the world (from the arctic to the equator) have eaten animal fats throughout many millennia.

When you dine in any of our restaurants, butter and cream are prized, and fat is celebrated. Our chefs—and every chef I know—love to cook with it, so it’s put back in its rightful place: in our food.

Eamonn Armstrong, Meshelle’s son, grinding suet

Biscuits and pastry taste gorgeous and are perfectly crumbly because of lard. Minced pies are made with suet. Roasts are browned with beef drippings. And chickens are fried in duck fat.

But the king of all fat comes from pigs.

It is used for many applications: terrines, pates, sausages. Or simply: salted, cured, spiced, cut thin and adored.

Thank goodness our country has caught the fever of the sensible.
At least I thought we had.

One night at the restaurant we offered the notable, black Ibérico ham (Pata Negra.) If you are unfamiliar with this precious pig—and I’m not being facetious, this is one pricy porker—it comes from a region in Spain where it is truly treasured. It basically runs around freely and feasts on acorns. Ultimately, all that running and feasting makes for one happy, tasty pig.

Seriously though, it is superior. And if it is served at room temperature (never cold) the key part of the flavor is (to me, anyway) the mouth-feel—the way the fat melts away, and tells the story.

That night, a luscious slice was given to each guest in the tasting room. Everyone did their thing and enjoyed it properly. With the exception of one couple. Though they were as verbally delighted as the others, they fastidiously pulled all of the succulent, white fat from the meat and placed it on the corner of their plates in a tragic heap.

Jamon Iberico

When we proceeded to take their order, all questions were about nothing else than fat. “Is there butter in that? What about cream? Can have it without the bacon? Oh, I can’t eat that I’m on the (blank, blank) diet.”

WHAT!!??

FAT belongs in a celebration.

First of all, when you make reservations in a fine dining restaurant—especially for a special occasion—leave the diet at home. I understand you want to eat healthy. Do it every other night of the week. But when in a fine dining restaurant, where the very purpose is to indulge, splurge.
Order the terrine, the sausage, the salted pork and a great bottle of wine. You’ll be alright; death’s winged chariot is not coming for you.

And please remember not only is animal fat not the villain it’s made out to be, it’s good for you. If you are eating high quality fats, such as pasture fed, non-medicated, organic eggs, dairy, poultry, and meat, you are doing your body good.

There, I said it.

I’m going to make it even clearer. If you are eating conventionally/industrialized raised poultry and meat, then, yes, it is a good idea to cut off the fat—as the medications, hormones and pesticides consumed by the animal will be concentrated in the fat, which will in turn be concentrated in your fat.

That’s right: all fat is not created equal.

If you can understand the difference, I am hoping I can turn you into one of us, a fat evangelist, to go and spread the good word.

Fat is not a dirty word and fat does NOT make you fat.

Fat is natural. Do not fear it. The hydrogenated vegetable oil (HVO, AKA trans fat) companies took over and convinced you lard was the villain.

Fat guarantees taste and succulence. Simple. Without it, meat will be dry and tasteless.

Fat has lots of good fatty acids that fight disease and lower cholesterol.

Fat helps the body make better use of fat-soluble (the operative word, look it up) vitamins (A, D, E and K; carotene; omega-3′s) and minerals. This is the reason why proteins naturally come paired with fat: the protein in egg whites is paired with the fat of the yolks, muscle meat is marbled with and attached to fat (this food was not engineered in a factory). Generations not too long ago, intuitively knew this. Hence the reason classic vegetable recipes are cooked with fat – potatoes mashed with butter and cream, collards stewed with salt pork, etc. (No, we did not wise up, we got ‘target marketed.’)

Fat is flavor and just makes everything better.

Sadly, not everyone is ready to embrace the sublime. On a daily basis we still battle with the stigma, “Why is there so much pork in everything?” (Um, because it’s delicious) Children are taught that “lard-o”, “fats-o,” doesn’t mean you are yummy and tasty. My mother still lectures me, and my own children trim their meat. With outstretched forks they just “pass it to mom.”

Did the fat love skip a generation? Will my grandchildren side with grandma Meshe?

The drug companies (who won’t make money if you are healthy) and the junk food industry have done a bang up job convincing the American public that fats are bad for us. But too much of anything is bad for you.

I am not a nutritionist. I am a restaurateur whose most favorite activity is food.

You might disavow the truth about fat. But I’m hoping there’s no escaping the voice of reason in your own head. God is a brilliant designer. He knew exactly what he was doing when he gave us his bounty.

And while my mother just yesterday sneered that I didn’t pat my bacon, I think she would have to agree with me.
___________________________________
I could continue to blab about the virtue of fat but if you really want to know what’s what, read the book by Chef Jennifer McLagan: “Fat: An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient, With Recipes.” She is brilliant and one of my culinary heroes

–Meshelle Armstrong, co-owner Restaurant Eve, Eamonn’s a Dublin Chipper, PX, The Majestic, Virtue Feed & Grain, Society Fair.

IN THE KITCHEN: Antelope Scrapple

Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, the scrapple at Restaurant Eve is embellished on a bed of hash brown and with a poached Polyface Farm chicken egg -- and of course a drizzle of Path Valley Farms maple syrup to honor the sweet and savory balance that one would expect before the afternoon (or any time in the day for that matter).

WHY WE LOVE IT:

While traditional scrapple is made from a blend of pork, Eve's scrapple is made from ground antelope, sauteed, and seasoned with white pepper, cayenne, onions and garlic, bound with a cornmeal slurry. It is then sliced and panfried. It's the rustic staple of Philly revisited

PAYING HOMAGE:

Often referred to as "Philadelphia Scrapple," the dish actually originated in the Eastern Pennsylvania farmlands of German settlers (and is it any coincidence that our chef de cuisine, Jeremy is from Pennsylvania...). Scrapple was popular among the Pennsylvania Dutch because they needed a way to work hard and reward themselves with stick-to-your-ribs food on a budget. They coined the name from "scrap" or "scrappy," meaning they made their scrapple from odds and ends of leftover pig meat ground with cornmeal and spices.

Antelope scrapple takes the concept from the farm to the four star dining table. What better way to get the note of history with a modern twist?

Back of the House: Working It

An Insider's Guide to Navigating the Fine Dining World

By Meshelle Armstrong

“There are definite procedures to ensure a positive dining/restaurant experience. It all begins with this idea: Prepare for good dining karma.”
- Restaurant Eve Service Manual

Staffing a new restaurant is rough business. I know; we’ve just opened one.

There are 12 million employees in the restaurant industry in the USA, which makes it the second largest employer in the nation after the government.

With those numbers you’d think that the staffing pool would be pretty plentiful. And it is. But the good ones are hard to find. Really hard to find. Normally, when a restaurant is already in operation you don’t really notice how many people apply for positions. The restaurant industry is just like a revolving door, swooping in, swooping out–someone’s either coming from Miami or moving to Miami.

So, with the one-in, one-out scenario you forget what it’s like to interview en masse.

Hours were spent interviewing the open call applicants for our new restaurant, trying to find those few people that can be molded to our ways–to see the hospitality light.

Throughout the lengthy interview process our managers had organized I would wander in from time to time, nodding here and there at the few hopefuls that I thought were possibilities: good body language, attentive, taking notes, asking the right questions because they did their homework per the ad–“Know who we are as a restaurant group before you apply.”

Then there were the others: unkempt and slouchy, “Uh, are you all like part of {insert restaurant group, clearly not us} ?” Many answering our questions with “Um, yeah,” and my favorite, “So, how much money am I gonna make here?” This particular lot got the immediate, “Thank you for coming–now out, out, out.”

But the one that sticks out in my mind was the 20-something girl who arrived in a super short, denim skirt (one she really should not have been wearing, never mind to an interview).

She chewed and cracked gum the whole time with a beyond laissez-faire ‘tude.

“Yeah, I wanna be a bartender. It’s a good way to meet dudes.”

Following her triumphant interview, she untwisted her coke bottle top (while it was cradled between her legs)–sssffftttt–put her wait-a-sec finger up and took a long, gulping swig.

Ok, Miss Two Scoops of Crazy, amusing but ah, no, we shan’t be needing those very apt services.

I did actually think about telling her the truth as to why she would not be hired. Instead, I just smiled and sent the hot mess on her way–to someone else. While part of me wanted to pass on a few tips on how to get hired, I realized she wouldn’t even have a clue what I was saying–she was already too far gone.

Attitude, I cannot teach.

We hire all our people first based on attitude. We look for that very special mix of humbleness and confidence. Everything else after that can be learned.

Skills, I can teach.

How to properly host dinner for various services: silver, American, Russian. How to properly clear a table. How to properly decant wine.

But before even all that, there is a very simple list: our own personal collection of what NOT to do when waiting on patrons. It’s a compilation of 100+”no-no’s”. Many were gathered and passed on by my peers before me, others I’ve collected while in the moment of processing voids, comping, and sweet-talking my way out of my staff’s why-didyou-say/do-that fiascos. And one I’ve added on as recently as yesterday.

While I am already thrilled with many of our newest “restaurant family” members, I know some of them will not make it. Regardless of restaurant style, fine dining or a casual tavern, diners are tough, and many downright mean (Coming soon to Back of the House). So I have to give our doe-eyed hopefuls that home team advantage. If they can at least remember most items on this list, it will extend their serving career and even more importantly make you, the diner, happier.

I won’t share the whole list, for fear of sounding like a tyrant and getting booed out by one of those 12 million restaurant employees. If you want to know the rest, you’ll just have to apply.

They are not listed in any particular order or level of ‘badness.’ And Restaurant Eve’s list is a bit more involved. But this will give you an idea of what you should expect from (I can’t speak for everyone else) most floor staff. And promise me this: if you ever see any of our people–new, old, the fine dining captains, or even the counter kings (the gents that work Eamonn’s chip shoppe)–performing any of the following ‘no-no’ hi-jinks, send me an email.

But remember, my newbies are still learning; after a month of being open, then we can rant.

And if there are any restaurant employee actions that you find particularly egregious–send me an email. I may or may not already have them noted but I’d love to know if my list is complete.

Oh, and here are a couple of those preinterview tips I really wanted to share with Miss Chug-alug.

Remember:

Chances are you won’t be hired (but you’ll certainly make me laugh) if a well crafted resume full of your passions for the food industry is sent from an email address such as: hottotrot76, boytoy, or the best ever, u_a_lzyfkr (yes, these are some I have received). Better to refrain from sending any of those handles.

Chances are you won’t be hired if your answer to “Why did you leave your previous job?” is: “I couldn’t get along with the the manager.”

Chances are you won’t be hired if in the interview you are given a schedule of the shifts and your reply is, “Oh, that won’t work for me, is it possible to come in later?”

But that’s just me.

Ok, on to the follies:

Never call a table of women, guys, or anyone “dude.” (This rule should just apply in general terms.)

Never say “no problem” or “uh huh” to a guest’s “thank you.” The only appropriate reply is “you are welcome.” (Again, this rule applies to life skills.)

Never try to pick up or make moves on anyone while you are waiting on them. (If you don’t get the date, you still have to wait on them.)

Never compliment one person at the table. (You’re basically telling all the others that they don’t pass muster.)

Never say or ask a single diner, “ Oh, you are alone tonight?”

Never interrupt a conversation to recite specials. It’s like saying, “Excuuuuse me, I’m in a hurry and what I have to say is way more important.”

Never make comments to a conversation you’ve overheard. (“Oh, sounds like a scary movie.”) They could be talking about their lives. And anyway, no one cares. “Go get my drink” is probably what they’re thinking.

Never say “I don’t know” to any question without following with, “I’ll find out.”

Never touch, pat or dust a guest. Even if they are regulars, hands off.

Never say, “Still working on that?” (Work?)

Never use profanity even if the guests do. You are not cool, you’re just rude.

Never clear plates from a table if someone is still eating. (No one wants to be the last one eating while the others are looking at you and thinking “hurry up.”)

Never bite your fingernails, scratch your crotch or run fingers through your hair. Gross.

Never stand idle or chat to your fellow staff while empty or full tables are covered with dirty dishes. (If I see you, trust me, I’ll give you more work.)

Never have a personal conversation with another waiter within earshot of customers. (They do not want to know what you did over the weekend, they want attention.)

Never hustle the most expensive items– “You should have the lobster, it’s my favorite and the most popular.” The lobster is not the prom queen, and you sound like you’re pumping the check.

Never drink alcohol on the job, even if invited by the guests. “Thank you, but not when I’m on duty,” is the proper response.

Never say, “Good choice.” What? The other choices are bad.

Never blame the kitchen, bar, host, runner or the weather for anything that goes wrong. Just make it right.

Never overly turn on the charm at tip time. Be charming throughout. And anyway, everyone knows “the rub.”

Never pick up or clear dirty glasses with “the claw.” Finger fungus does exist. Enough said.

Never say–and boy I know this because I personally made this mistake, in my early days–never say, “Would you like a third, (or fourth, or fifth) glass of wine?”

And the one I added (and it’s been a long times since) after overhearing a conversation between a guest and one of our now Ex staff members–Never answer a question with an idiotic reply:

Guest: “What’s served under the scallops?’
Waiter: “Oh, some white mushy stuff.”

It was risotto. And I think his head was full of white mushy stuff. If you don’t know the answer, don’t play cute or stupid. Go find out and study your menu. This is your job.

So there they are, ‘The Nevers’. Reading them again brings back so many fond memories. Here’s hoping they stick–to serve you well.

And to the would be snarkers, yes, I also have a detailed list of the “do’s”. But for some reason the dont’s are far easier to remember.

I adore our staff, they work very hard. But make no mistake, they know very well what they are getting into when they punch the clock in ‘our house’. Our expectations are high–they have to be.

–Meshelle Armstrong, co-owner Restaurant Eve, Eamonn’s a Dublin Chipper, PX, The Majestic, Virtue Feed & Grain, Society Fair.

IN THE KITCHEN: Maryland Soft-Shell Crab

If you're a fan of biting through a crispy exterior to discover the succulent, soft, flavorful interior of the Maryland soft-shell blue crab, now is the time to get it (in season April - September).

WHY WE LOVE IT:

A delicacy that requires the appropriate handling and care, our soft-shell crabs are local. Marylanders are in for a treat; Maryland's colder waters and estuaries produce a blue crab that's higher in favorable fat. There are actually only a few species of crab that can be eaten in this form: the soft-shell of a blue crab is reminiscent of the crispy layer wrapped around an egg roll.  Chef prepares it fried in powdered starch with an organic young basil pesto, topped on house-baked bread.

PAYING HOMAGE:

Callinectes sapidus, the scientific name of the soft-shell blue crab, reveals a poetic reverence to this delicacy. Derived from Latin and Greek, calli  means beautiful, nectes - swimmer, and sapidus - savory.

So the next time you're trying to order off the menu, just go ahead and ask for the beautiful, savory, swimmer -- we'll know what you mean.

Bread: My Morning Friend

It's this smell I look forward to most on mornings I arrive at Restaurant Eve. As soon as I pass through the swinging door beside the bar, the smell of freshly baked goods, with a hint of sweetness, like warm cookies, reaches me and I find myself taking a deeper inhale through the nose. 

The first morning I ever walked through that door I was alert once the smell reached me - there always seems to be a few seconds delay - and immediately needed to know where this smell was coming from: Where are the cookies? Is someone baking? Do I get some? Green as I was, I of course asked the first person I saw about the smell and he pointed down to a brown paper bag holding loaves of freshly baked bread, like babies, packed close together for warmth. 

It didn't take long for me to learn that all of the bread for Restaurant Eve, The Majestic, and Eamonn's is baked by the in-house baker at Eve, Nathan Hatfield (Jr.). Chef kindly informed me that Eve offers 7-9 different types of bread daily, 3 for the bistro menu, 3 for the tasting menu, a brioche, a special bread for cheese platters, even crackers for soups. It all makes sense to me now: bread, the perfect compliment to any dish, the sponge for sauces, dips, or anything left over that just can't be left alone on the plate. 

Now this smell is my morning coffee, getting me ready for the day. But, not long after I discovered this olfactory stimulant, I learned that once the new market, Society Fair opens, the baking for all the restaurants will be done there, where the freshly baked bread will also be sold. I'll savor the smell while I can. Then, I can buy loaves to stash in my kitchen and write more about not only the smell, but also the taste.

Back of the House: Quit Fronting

An Insider's Guide to Navigating the Fine Dining Restaurant World
by Meshelle Armstrong

“There are definite procedures to ensure a positive dining / restaurant experience. It all
begins with this idea: Prepare for good dining karma.”
- Restaurant Eve Service Manual

~
How to Give (and Get) ‘Good Phone’ • Part II

“. . .Brrriiiiinggg . . .”

“Good evening, thank you for calling Restaurant Eve. How may I help you?”

“Yes, I need a reservation for this Saturday night for a party of four.”

“Oh, my apologies sir, we are fully committed this Saturday, may I check another date for you.”

“Um, well, perhaps you should check again. This is Mr. Ralph, I am a good friend of Chef KethelArmstrong and my dinner companion is a notable blogger from Boston.”

The die was cast.

There are a few unwritten rules when it comes to acquiring a hard-to-get reservation.

Remember back when I said you might not always like what you hear?

Depending on your reservation habits, this might be that time.

An entire section of DON’Ts could easily come across as negative or snarky, especially since the hospitality industry is basically designed to be, well, hospitable.

You don’t go to a fine dining restaurant to have the waiters tell you how you should use your utensils or listen to the chef tell you how you should eat your food … So who am I to tell you what you shouldn’t do when you try to make a reservation?

Read on.

My day is far more pleasant when it’s spent assisting nice people who trust that I’m going to do my best to make their dining wishes happen. But sometimes it’s waaay easier to deal with a jackass.

Doling out the bad-news-blow to someone who took five minutes of my life away dispensing bombastic “But don’t you know who I am?!” drivel is on the spot fun. (“Oh, I do have one at 7:30 p.m. … oh no. I’m so sorry, I was mistaken, the 9 looked like a 7.”)

Especially, when Mr. “Jacques Haas” even had the nerve to swear a bit.

Now, it still troubles me when I can’t find a table for the genuine sort: new parents trying to squeeze in their anniversary dinner or that anxious but charming gentleman trying to plan his honey’s birthday. I know it sucks, been there.

Most of you—and I do mean most (somewhere in the 95 percent area)—will find the following what notto do instructions laughable. You’ll probably even have a “Nah-uh, people do that?!?” moment.

The other 5 percent—well, you know who you are.

DON’T lie.

Never, ever, ever.

Some people are so desperate in their quest to get a table that they tell loopy whoppers. I can’t tell you how many calls I get from “close, personal friends” of my husband, Cathal, who don’t know how to pronounce his first name. His name is Cathal (silent ‘t’) not Cathay, (he’s not a woman) Carl (“but isn’t that the American version?”), or my favorite, Chatall (which puts me in stitches because it somehow reminds me of the fabulous movie, The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, whose plot is based on the journey of three drag queens).

Or, the most hilare is when they are “close, personal friends” of mine and they are talking . . . to me. Caught in the BS! But of course, I then have to pretend not to be me:

“Oh, I’m sure she would have been so upset to have missed you, but unfortunately 9:30 p.m. is still the only availability .”

And, here’s a good one: Saturday night tables filled with guests eating, chatting, proposing—you know, the usual—patrons spilling out of the bar, waiting for their reservations, and me at the desk (when it was my gig) chatting with guests and sending my hosts to far corners of the dining rooms for the in-house status reports.

Two gentlemen present themselves for a 7:30 p.m. reservation in the Tasting Room. Immediately I tune out all the chatter from the bar and dining rooms and focus all of my attention on the gentlemen and the booked-solid floor plan in front of me.

Something has gone very, very wrong.

We never ever have a Saturday 7:30 p.m. reservation for two in the Tasting Room (It just doesn’t work out—the table can never have a second seating, so it’s reserved for four).

Panic sets in when I cannot find a record of them or their reservation anywhere in the computer or in the “Black Book” (the actual book of written floor plans and timing—we have a double-entry system, sort of as a backup; it’s easy to spot errors this way).

Anyway, in these situations I always give guests the benefit of the doubt. I know that mistakes and miscommunications happen, and wherever the fault lies, it’s my job to make it right. I begin to explain the situation and invite the gentlemen to relax with a cocktail while I sort everything out.

Internally, my brain is in hyper drive: think, think, who’s on dessert? Who looks fine drinking at the bar and can I give their table to the two standing in front of me?

But I am cut off when the “gentlemen” in question proceed to throw down the Veruca Salt tantrum.

To drown out my apologies and offers of a solution, the “gentlemen” get louder. Guests in the bar start to notice that there is drama brewing, (you know how everyone loves drama) so soon we have an audience—dinner and a show, everybody!

The “gentlemen” notice the on-lookers and begin to really lay it on, dropping details about Restaurant Eve’s unprofessionalism and how they should have gone to the “other restaurant.”

Then they strike:

“Listen, we made this reservation last week with a young man who seemed pre-tee flaky over the phone. Maybe you should train your staff better, because this is just ridiculous.”

My insides begin to churn and my sympathy, gone.

Big fibbers.

We didn’t have a single male host at Restaurant Eve (at the time), and the servers are not permitted to answer the phones, so I know flaky reservations boy is either totally invented or employed at another restaurant, probably annoyed that his 7:30 p.m. two-top is late. But my gut serves me well, as when I inform them (in the slowest speech I can manage to really draw it out) that a 7:30 p.m. never existed and all hosts are female, they quieted down real quick (still a show, remember) and slinked off into the night, one whispering to the other, “See, now where do we go?”

The moral of this story: “Big fat liars, tried to embarrass us into giving them a table.” So don’t lie.

DON’T book a reservation you KNOW you can’t make

Here’s a tip for all of you spontaneous types: if you can be flexible, it’s worth calling on the day you’d like to dine. Generally restaurants call to confirm reservations at least a day in advance. On Thursday mornings I know we’ll have a few cancellations for the weekend, and if we can’t reach anyone on the wait-list we open those tables up for new callers.

I can’t guarantee that you’ll be able to hitch one of those last-minute tables, but I do know I can count on those cancellations. It seems like one of the laws of the universe. Those cancellation calls even all sound the same, like the guests and I are reading from the same script:

“Hello Dr. Ralph, this is Restaurant Eve calling to confirm your 6 p.m. reservation for two this Saturday.”

“Oh, hello. Anything open up at, like 7:30 p.m.?”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but we are still fully committed at that time.”

“Then I’m just going to have to cancel.”—Click.

This is why reservations are so hard to get. Every time you book a reservation you have no intention of keeping, someone else can’t get a table. You know in your heart when you are resentfully making your“ugh, who eats at that hour” reservation, you aren’t going to keep it.

Go on, let it go. Leave it for someone who will.

DON’T name-drop yourself

This isn’t lying so much as overstating. Dropping a title without explanation as you try to imply that you are someone the host should know makes all of us roll the eyes to heaven.

When you start your conversation with, “This is Dr. Ralph and I need a table for four,” or “Congressman X wants a table on the 3rd,” the host starts racing through her mental Rolodex:

“Dr. Ralph? Is that Chef’s doctor? No… one of his cousins? Guy on T.V show? Crap!”

As you carry on a seemingly normal conversation, she starts furiously looking up guest records—“Dr. Ralph, Dr. Ralph, which Dr. Ralph? Fred? Thomas?”—until she realizes that the reason she doesn’t recognize your name is because this will be your first visit to the restaurant.

Hosts hate this because it makes them feel like you think they won’t do their jobs unless you’re a VIP. Or even worse, that you are trying to trick them by making yourself sound highfalutin.

There is no need to lean on your title.

Gucci, Pucci, Hoochie. As long as we have the table, you like to eat (and can pay), it’s all good.

To us, everyone is a VIP. Until proven otherwise.

Like in my daughter, Eve’s, class: everyone starts with an A. It’s what you do that can lose it.

So avoid earning yourself that un-VIP-able status. (Refer to the first DO in part one of this column.) It’s our job to make you feel special, to make you feel cared for. We will try every bit as hard to fit in a straightforward ‘Miss, or Mr.’ as we will a General.

And my personal bête noir: If you mention that you’re a frequent Yelp-er or Chowhound-er as a scare tactic to acquire a reservation or to gain special treatment you should be officially forced to carry the scarlet fork. It not only makes you sound like a real git but you give a bad name to some of the really good, committed to food and dining blogs out there, who call for reservations like everyone else. During dinner as we engage you, who you are and what food scene jazzes you will naturally emerge. And we’ll be thrilled that you’ve chosen us.

In the viral age, many have the “I eat – therefore I review” mentality, unfortunately the power of the slapdash keystroke has gone to some of their heads:

“It’s reeeally too bad you don’t have anything this Saturday—I was planning on reviewing you. Have you heard of fudiefan.com?”

Seriously, if this is your behavior on the phone, imagine what we have to fear when you actually arrive.

I’d rather give the table to the person who won’t write about us, and take my chances with the good ol’ word of mouth critique. I can’t speak for others but strong-arming me with a “are you sure you want to say ‘no’ to me” tactic won’t work.

To us, everyone is a critic.

——————————————————————————————————

So there they are, a few unwritten reservation rules, written.

Whether or not you get that one available table is up to you.

But I promise you, if you mind the “don’ts” and practice the “do’s”, you will notice a significant upgrade in your reservation karma, and your personal ‘guests notes’ (notes given to you based on your history) will be flagged by hosts everywhere to read:

“(Insert your name) . . . a first-class diner.”

–Meshelle Armstrong, co-owner Restaurant Eve, Eamonn’s a Dublin Chipper, PX, The Majestic, Virtue Feed & Grain, Society Fair. *Thoughtfully guided by her darling and faithful ex-reservations manager, Kate Ahner*

____________________________________________________________

Original article published in Northern Virginia Magazine