Have You Dined with Us Before?

No? Well, welcome! Since you’re first-timers, I’ll walk you through what’s happening.

That booklet in front of you on the table is the “menu.” It lists all the food options available, as well as the prices. Select what you want from the list. Then I’ll tell the kitchen, and they’ll make the dishes you’ve chosen.

The kitchen’s behind that door. Craig, our cold dishes chef, will sulk if you don’t order any salads. He probably could have landed sous chef at another restaurant by now, but he expects several good positions to open here when the psychosexual tension between our head chef, sous chef, and pastry chef finally explodes. If you’d like to keep Craig feeling calm and useful, I recommend the vichyssoise.

If you order a meat dish, Louis, the head chef, will get on Ginny’s case about the timing. Ginny’s the sous chef. A few weeks ago, one of the line cooks (Ernest) was slightly over-cooking meats. It’s been resolved, but ever since, Louis has been treating Ginny like she can’t handle managing the line cooks. Louis is in love with Ginny, but rather than giving her special treatment, he overcompensates by aggressively, publicly criticizing everything she does. Ginny claims to hate the toxic work environment, but Louis’s negging attracts her, in spite of herself. She’s admitted this contradiction to Alex, the pastry chef. Alex is also in love with Ginny, so he’ll let her vent for as long as she needs.

In other words, as those who’ve dined with us before know, if you order the lamb shank, the pork chop, or the filet, it will be cooked to perfection, but there will be a slight delay on your dessert because Ginny (again, the sous chef) is complaining to Alex (pastry chef) about Louis (head chef).

Whatever you select, the moment your mouth is full, I’ll return to the table to ask how everything came out, standing by awkwardly while you frantically chew enough to be able to answer a hasty “Great!”

After you finish, I will bring over dessert menus. One of you will say, “No, thank you, we’re stuffed,” but the other will say nothing. I’ll look pointedly at the silent one and set the menus on the table. You’ll resolve to share a dessert between you, but you won’t be able to decide which, so you’ll end up with three desserts for two people.

You’d think this would please Alex (remember: our lovelorn pastry chef). But he’s not the kind of person who can experience joy because patrons have ordered his desserts—or rather, if he’s honest with himself, maybe not a person who can experience joy at all, at least not in the present. That’s why Alex chose a career as a pastry chef: dessert represents the promise of something more, the notion that a pleasant experience is not quite over yet. Ordering and eating dessert is the one act that forecloses on possibility: it signals the end. It’s his passion, but Alex finds dessert tragic. If you detect a hint of brine within the sweetness of your dessert, that’s from Alex’s tears.

Unless you order the caramel brownie: that’s supposed to be a little salty.

After you finish, I’ll bring you the check. The total, even before tipping, along with your incipient indigestion and knowledge that everyone who’s prepared your meal is desperately miserable, will make you wonder why you go out to dinner at all.

Then Frank and Eric, our dishwashers, will wash your dishes. That is why you go out to dinner.

Any questions before I take your order?