Waiting For The Last Ticket

One eye on the swinging door that leads into the kitchen from the dining room, I distractedly wipe down the stainless surfaces. I sent out my last plates about 40 minutes ago, but there is one more reservation on the books. Their reservation isn't for another 10 minutes, but I am hoping that the first outfits they put on were just right for the occasion, that all of the stoplights were green. Perhaps they found a parking spot right out front and are now walking up the path leading to the restaurant.

The door swings in and the sommelier passes through. He walks directly to the wine cooler and a sigh comes from the cooks on the line. If he had come to report that we were “all in”, he would have walked right up to the pass with a big smile. He has a family at home waiting for him, so he understands the desire get started with the last table more than anyone. All I have waiting for me is a gin and tonic, a cat who wishes I worked 9-5, and a pair of old sweatpants.

Sometimes I wonder how a night of service would go if we couldn’t speak, and could only react according to facial expressions. When the servers enter the kitchen from the dining room, their customer service smiles fade to what is actually pressing. Eyes are wide and look directly to the line if they are waiting for plates. Eyes are averted, looking down, if they forgot to write “no mushrooms” on the ticket for the plates they just delivered to an unimpressed table. A long sigh if they need to tell us that their new arrival is allergic to gluten, soy, and dairy. No, it wasn’t listed in their reservation.

But tonight, everyone is simply minding their own business. It is a slower night, early in the week. We are all trying to get side work done while we wait, knowing that some or all of it will come undone with the arrival of a new ticket in the window. But we do it anyway.

Finally, “we are all in” spreads through the kitchen. The last table has arrived. Yes, they will be having a cocktail before ordering dinner. And a cheese plate later. This is great for the restaurant, so I feel guilty about wishing they would just order the duck to share and then head to the movies or a show at The Paramount.

I find these moments of frustration to be fleeting. Once their order is placed, I put as much love into cooking their meals as I did the first. The truth is, beyond my constant pressing desire to get out of work early so I can get an extra hour of sleep, I would prefer to be here cooking for people. Why would I want the extra sleep anyway? It would be to have more energy to... yep, get to work early to work on menu ideas. It is never so that I can take up crocheting again, or to start a book that is gathering dust on my bedside table. Unless, of course, that book is about curing meat or has pictures of interesting plate-up designs.

So what is this sense of urgency? Next ticket, next project, hurry hurry hurry. Is it a lack of control that I am trying to corral? I feel like a young child all over again, wanting to know how things are going to turn out. I feel like I am Caroline trying to prepare for a winter on Little House on the Prairie. I wonder if Laura ever got to snack on a cheese plate before bed in January.