Imagine the sexiest place on earth, full of fire and tantalizing aromas, heightened senses, warm romantic ambiance, dim lighting. The people who work there are all attractive, bodies glistening with sweat, moving so quickly you barely have time to undress them with your eyes. In this place, the sexiest place on earth, your most primal animalistic urges and gluttonous desires are fulfilled. The staff will do anything to please you. This is a place of decadence. People come from all over the city for it. This place is not a strip club, it is not a sex shop and it is not the Saks Fifth Avenue spring pre-sale. This place is a restaurant. And it is hot. Literally hot. So hot that walls can barely contain it.
In the summer, restaurants pour out from the brick and mortar to spill onto sidewalks all over the city. It's patio season. The servers both dread and eagerly anticipate the patio. A guaranteed full section for eight hours straight. People in naturally good moods dining in an environment that encourages much drinking. What more could we ask for?
But the price we pay for prime covers is the pervasive heat. We are, more than ever, aware of the fire that drives restaurants. Restaurants run on fire; it cooks the food, it cooks our tempers and it draws people closer. The heat heightens our sensations. Every person that so much as looks at us wrong is the worst person in the world. Every minute the person that asks for mayonnaise or wants to know if theres anything you can do about that blinding light known as the sun replaces the last as the worst person in the world. We judge harder than ever. We criticize everyone. We rank people from a scale of 'passable' to 'beastly.' We try to smile as the sweat collects on our bodies and will only pool in the most uncomfortable of places. Fabric clings to us in worst ways. Everyone grows cranky, tired, and hungry.
What may be the sexiest place on earth for the diners is simply the sweatiest place on earth for the servers.
Eventually water ceases to cool us down. The pressure inside builds until we feel ready to burst. There is only one thing to do to release the pressure: complain. We kvetch. It pours out in every direction. We complain about the uniforms being to heavy, we complain about the plates being too hot, we complain about drinks taking too long, tables camping out for hours in prime restaurant real estate.
Also with the heat comes the tropical creatures known commonly as Europeans. The fly in bright colorful scarves clusters with designer eyewear and strong currency. They swoop down upon us every summer to activate our fickle economy by gorging themselves on food, wine, and Louis Vuitton purses. These strange breeds have a unique way of communicating that often involves snapping, waving wildly, and even the ultimate in gauche restaurant gestures, whistling. They give us ample complaining material.
As the kitchen becomes busier and busier the food "downstairs" for the servers and hotel staff becomes an increasingly dire situation. Strange otherworldly chicken balls sit untouched for hours in a hot dish. Chicken hammered and painfully contorted into an egg shape, with a pat of butter enclosed in the center like a yolk, breaded and deep fried on the outside. This confusing abomination is served two to three times a week and will guarantee you food poisoning for the next three hours if you're lucky. If that's not glamorous enough it's served with a side of fries and crusty pizza. This is not so much food as it is a promise of diabetes.
So much for the sexiest place on earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment