Tell her, I'm sorry I don't have any duck apple sausage. I can substitute it for the Italian Robiola. Who is it for? Oh yeah, she'll want that more probably.
Last night we did over a hundred. There was no executive sous chef because he was at a fair or disney world (aka his mother's funeral). Fisher was on the line at grill, Fred and I split duties so that I could expedite and fill in every available hole in the place. I pulled groupers from the walk in, I ran glasses to the bar, I ran myself until I couldn't run anymore. But there was a distinct difference in the way service was ran and for the first time I caught a glimpse of what it would be like to run the show. "So all day I need, 2 cob, 3 specials, a honey soy, and a five cheese. Knock out those salads first and I'll start the creme brulees." Instead of hearing, "For fucks sake can I get a god damn cobb!" cooks and servers alike heard, "Great job, Freddy are you ok? I just need a cobb to sell, big boy. Spot on. Caroline, I pulled your silverware it's on the line all you need is the vinegar water." The tickets rattled off like machine gun fire. I was calling out five tops and four tops at the same time, it felt like we weren't catching the break that we deserved. There were no newports smoked behind the fence, no carrots tossed at the back of dishwashers heads. The boys were focused on feeding the hoards that continuously lined our door, craning their necks for a bar table. What the fuck is going on out there? Where are these people coming from? By the time we heard that it was over and the cleaning up could begin, my body ached and my throat was sore from yelling. Jason and I sat outside on the cooler with our heads against the wall in defeat or victory, at the time I couldn't tell. But the truth was the night went as smoothly as it could, and everyone was happy- back of the house, front of the house, customers, and bar flies. We killed ourselves to do it, but in the end it was worth it.
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