Oh How the Tables Have Turned

It has been less than one week since my last shift at Cafe Confidential and I eagerly await orientation at my new job in the coming days. As I sit on the plane flying away from the corn and soy bean fields for the concrete jungle of my adopted NYC, I'm forced to recon with the fact that I don't do well when unemployed. Over the last three days, today in particular, I have become one of those borderline rude customers that drew my ire, but for different reasons. Honest person that I am, this entry will serve myself up as the annoying customer.

My problem began two days ago during a celebratory dinner at Bacaro in Champaign, IL, easily the finest restaurant in town, no doubt a result of the NYC influences of its executive chef/owner. The meal was superb, exactly what a restaurant experience should be. The bartender, who briefly worked with with my best friend at another restaurant in town, started us off with glasses of Prosecco followed by one each of the two drink specials. Neither disappointed. Next, we were treated to complimentary amuse bouche, a savory smoked shrimp with orange and fennel before our appetizers and entrees arrived. We shared a slice of pumpkin cake for dessert complemented by a fine glass of Riesling. I was in culinary heaven, made that much better by the personal connection my friend shared with the bartender and server and I with another server and the executive sous chef who prepared our meals. I felt connected to the restaurant.

Sounds like a good thing, right? Wrong. The next day, I encountered two customer service professionals before going for dinner at the award-winning BBQ restaurant, Black Dog where, as I discovered, I knew two of the cooks and one server. With each customer service pro and then the Black Dog bartender and host, I found myself obnoxiously trying to help them manage their stations more efficiently, on the one hand, and making demands based on expectations for speed and multitasking held for myself, that were unreasonable for people accustomed to working at a slower pace. I could clearly recognize the bartender's contempt for me and could hardly blame her. Although I will maintain that it is not unreasonable for a person to take two separate drink orders at once.

Today, I reached my low point boarding the plane to Atlanta. Already frustrated by the deliberate (read: ungodly slow) pace of the passenger ahead of me, I interrupted him to request that he reverse the direction of his duffel bag, even as he was reaching to place it in the overhead compartment. Yes, I could already recognize that his duffel placement would be inefficient and decrease the available space for my bag and simply could not suffer the inconvenience of moving it myself. Needless to say, the passenger in 18A is not my biggest fan. Nor is the flight attendant that expressed frustration when I tried to assist his colleague in delivering a beverage to the person sitting next to me. No, I don't know her. But the young woman ordered a drink and shouldn't be expected to wait that long.

My lesson? First of all, sometimes I need to chill out and remember that I am in no way perfect. Second, I can recommit to the notion that line cooks and servers have a special kind of genius for organizing tasks and working efficiently. After three years as a cook, I am not at genius level yet. But I will always do my best to show appreciation to the people that prepare and deliver my food at a restaurant. There is such amazing mental agility to go with physical prowess and culinary knowledge. I am proud to be among them.

She Just Might 'Liquor

Who says you need to work with customers to get a daily dose of buffalo-chicken moments? This ex-cafe line cook hit the road today, leaving my beloved NYC on a jet plane only I know when I'm getting back again. Returning to my most recent roots where my cooking career began, I took a mid-morning flight to Champaign, IL. No, that's not a misspelling... trust me, there's little bubbly about this corn and soybean town. I had some good times in Champaign where I spent four years working on my PhD in Communications, one and a half of those years working on full-time in the evenings as a grill and fryer station cook at a local tapas restaurant. I also met my best friend - a brilliant professor/grad student who happens to have an accomplished resume as a server in NYC - thus my reason for returning.

But I digress. I arrived at LaGuardia in the morning on an empty stomach and made it through security by 10AM, where I found myself in line at a breakfast/lunch cafe and bar feeling overwhelming sympathy for the line attendant. There were three customers ahead in line: two high school or college aged kids (their maturity level gave me no indication either way) and a woman I'm guessing in her late 60s with comically red hair. The kiddies engaged in a spirited commentary bemoaning the cost of the $3.00 hot dog, laughing about the possibility of eating lunch food for breakfast (ever nurse a hangover, kiddies?). No real buffalo-chicken moment here... just a couple people that have probably never worked a day in their life complaining about food cost in A) New York City and B) an airport. I'm sorry, but are they new?

Red hair, on the other hand, is a different story. Actually, more of a muffled conversation. Truthfully, I couldn't hear much of what she had to say. But I caught every eye roll, forced smile, groan and response from the line cook. The exchange went something like this:

Lady in Red (Hair): Garbled sounds resembling any adult voice in the Peanuts cartoons.

Line Cook: The bar is separate ma'am. And it doesn't open until 11:00 AM.

Lady in Red (Hair): More garbled sounds, leaning closer to the line cook in a desperate attempt to emphasize her point.

Line Cook: I understand that ma'am. But I'm sorry, I can't open the bar early. The bar opens at 11 AM.

Lady in Red (Hair): Dejected look, pays for her food, turns toward the bar and then returns to the line cook, speaking in Peanuts voice again.

Line Cook: No, ma'am. The bar never opens before 11 AM.


Points for effort, I suppose. But here's a word to the wise. Asking the same question over and over will not inspire a new answer. It might, however, get you a phone number and address for a local AA meeting.

I'm Back

Hello dear readers! Did you miss me?

I know, probably not. But let this begin my second attempt to share the trials and tribulations of the line cook. But first, an explanation for my absence.

In spite of my best efforts at creating an entertaining, but professional, record of my bizarre and frustrating experiences at Cafe Confidential, this blog rubbed the wrong way a few important members of the parent company. Whoops. In an attempt to diffuse conflict, Buffalo-Chicken-Moments took a short vacation. Their concerns are legitimate - could a blog that serves up many of its customers be bad for business? Perhaps although I thought not likely. Still, I respect their concerns.

So, what's changed to make me bring the blog back? Big news for this lowly line cook - I'm moving on up to a new opportunity with an amazing culinary staff. A very exciting opportunity to say the least, one that will not involve any customer interaction. After finishing my final two weeks, I am gainfully unemployed until I begin my new venture next week.

So what does this mean for Buffalo-Chicken-Moments? For now, not much. I have plenty of stories that have yet to be told and I will happily share them two or three times per week until they run out. After that, I may explore a change in direction to focus more on food and nutrition while offering up classic buffalo-chicken-moments that I might observe during my own dining experiences. It remains to be seen.

But know this, dear readers. I've missed you and I'm happy to be back. Check back soon for new entries.

On Hold

Dear Readers,

For reasons that will become clear at a later date, this blog is going into the proofer for awhile. I'll be back.

Go Giants

Dear Readers,

I've done my best to write only about food in this young blog - that certainly is my commitment. But, as a native Californian who grew up a Giants fan, attending hundreds of games in Candlestick Park and AT&T Park before and even after I began my travels, I need to give a shout out to my favorite sports team. The San Francisco Giants have won the World Series, 4 games to 1 over the Texas Rangers.

Kitchens are often a rag-tag collection of characters. So was this team. To Giants fans all over the world, join me in celebrating misfits gone right!

Back to food tomorrow, I promise.

*** On second though... I want to add one more thing. I watched the final four innings from the bar next door to my apartment in the Bronx. Do not be mistaken, this is Yankee country. But the bartender turned the volume on the TV for the last inning and didn't charge me for my beer. I walked out with congratulations from the waitstaff and bartender. I believe that this is unique to food service. They are special people. So for everyone at Jake's Steakhouse, thanks for sharing this special moment with me.

Best Wishes, Val

I said goodbye to one of my favorite co-workers (and regular Buffalo-Chicken-Moments reader) today. Val, a fantastic prep and line cook is moving on to new and exciting opportunities and I really wish her the best. She made my rare vacations or midweek days off possible and I always knew that I would return with the line in good shape. Her humor, work-ethic and calm will certainly be missed. Thanks for all you've done for me, Val and good luck with the next step!

I'm Begging You... Stop the Squawking!

Remember the 1995 Castle Rock Entertainment romantic comedy Forget Paris, starring Billy Crystal and Debra Winger? I'm a fan of both actors and many of the pro basketball players that made cameos but I'm the first to admit that this isn't exactly Casablanca. There is, however, one character that enters my mind every day I work at the CONFIDENTIALITY CLAUSE Cafe... Winger's senile father-in-law played by the outstanding character-actor William Hickey. In a complain sequence, Crystal bemoans his father-in-law's irritating habit of reading aloud every sign that he encounters. Here's a clip:



You are probably asking yourself, "What on earth does this have to do with food or the line cook experience?" Allow me to introduce you to the latest cafe character:

The Parrot - Unlike its portrayal in popular media, the cafe parrot is neither amusing nor lovable, and it's reasonable to question its overall intelligence. This creature insists on reading every item on every menu, to oneself or one's entire party. Sometimes this is a mother or father reading to a child but, more often than not, this is one half of a middle-aged couple that is just way too excited to be in a cafe, on the one hand, and questions their partner's ability to read, on the other. Whatever the reason, I can say that the endless drone of this customer's voice is enough to make me want to leap across the line and deck the person like Lawrence Taylor after a QB.

Adding insult to injury (to my patience), the parrot is far more likely read the entire menu item name and description upon ordering. This isn't really a big deal outside my growing irritation of having heard our menu transformed into a treatise about why I should hate people. Let me break it down: I know what the entree is... and the quesadilla, the soups, the special appetizer, you get the idea. And I want orders placed as quickly as possible. Rather than repeat every world encountered and then spell out the entire dish, give me a simple "Entree please" and let me get my cook on. Don't make me listen to all of the entree components like I'm learning new and secret information. I got it. I'm not a dufus. And here's the thing... neither is the person with you. Channel this enthusiasm into a nice quiet hobby, like knitting or underwater basket weaving.

Dear Jebus, It's Just Not that Complicated!

 Picking up with my theme from Monday, I will continue to share the most common characters that enter the cafe. Like great literature or film, my day-to-day life at the CONFIDENTIALITY CLAUSE Cafe is made of up about 10 types of people that find old and rarely unique ways to make me regret all of my life decisions leading up to this point. We've already met the field mouse and the rat, so let's move on to the next two animals:

The Ostrich - Most commonly a man (although I use the term lightly), the ostrich appears incapable of making simple decisions on his (or rarely her) own. The cafe caters (pun intended) to a broad clientele but we do have more than our fair share of couples or varying ages or families. Children under the age of 12 are my easiest customers - often polite, sometimes sweet, always absolutely sure of what they want to eat and commonly confident enough to place their orders. Men, especially when traveling with a partner, are the opposite. Too frequently I ask my regular follow-up questions ("Would you like cheese?" "chips or salad?" "small or large?") only to receive a blank stare, followed by a look of panic and then the inevitable turn to the mate and the question, "Dear?" Common foods for the ostrich are the hamburger, a side order of french fries or whatever his mate tells him to order.

The Vulture - The vulture may sound like a terrifying creature, strong and swift, maliciously feasting on the decaying remains of any vulnerable creature in sight, but the cafe vulture is more pitiable and less disgusting. First of all, the vulture is neither neither strong nor malicious... he or she is just naive, lazy, uninformed or downright stupid. And the vulture doesn't pray on decaying remains, no no. Rather, the vulture feasts on someone else's tasty meal with a healthy dose of my patience on the side. You see, I've come to realize that most people don't know anything about food - the food they order or the food they eat. The vulture is a person that waits in line, places an order, and then takes the first plate of food sent their direction regardless of what's on the plate. Here are a few examples:

• This week, I called out an order for and placed on the counter a cup of soup while finishing the previous customer's shrimp quesadilla. This is pretty simple. A cup of soup takes no time for me to serve while a quesadilla requires approximately 4 minutes of prep and cook time. In case there is any confusion, a cup of soup (in a to-go container) looks like this:

And a quesadilla looks like this:

When I finished the quesadilla and called out the order, placing the plate on the counter, I looked around and couldn't find the customer. Meanwhile, there was an impatient customer glaring at me. I asked what she was waiting for and she replied, "My large cup of vegetable soup." What happened? Well, my quesadilla customer either forgot his order or is so amazingly stupid that he doesn't know the difference between a cup of soup and a quesadilla. The answer to this age-old question matters not. This was just another example of a vulture swooping in and feasting on another person's food and, not least important, my patience and that of the irritated customer.

** For anyone wondering about the title, Jebus is a reference from one of the funniest Simpsons episodes that I have ever seen.

Let it Rain

After a day like yesterday, frustrating for so many reasons I can't number (but will attempt later this afternoon), I am thrilled to see a rainy day. Nothing keeps the most potentially awful customers away like some drizzle so keep fingers crossed that I can have a "get-well" day. If not, Wednesdays are often among the most packed with Buffalo-Chicken Moments so check back this evening.

What's the Quesadillio with Dumbass Tortilla Mispronunciation?

This post has been a long time coming; in fact, the subject was part of the inspiration for this blog. After the lunch service that I experienced today, I could wait no longer. I have to ask: what is the quesadillio with my customers' inability to pronounce "quesadilla"?

For longtime readers of this still-young blog, you might remember a story that I shared about a customer  ordering a quesadillio. No, this customer was not P Diddy. It was an elderly woman who struggled to answer her friends' question about her order.

Customer: "I ordered a quesadiller... quesadill... quesa... I ordered a quesadillio!"

Remember this story? It's etched on my brain. But I won't be presumptuous. As a courtesy and to make sure we're on the same page, please observe the diacritical pronunciation and definition of the word quesadilla:

quesadilla |ˌkāsəˈdēyə

tortilla filled with cheese and heated.

Are we good so far? Fantastic! Before we move on, a confession. My Spanish language skills are abysmal, almost comical to hear in person. Some of my native Spanish-speaking coworkers are kind and patient enough with me to speak the language and try to teach me words, even sentences. Patient is the key word here because I am just so embarrassingly awful, especially considering I enrolled in classes from middle school through my first year of high school. That said, I have successfully ordered this cheesy treat since my tenth birthday. What was my secret, you might ask? Language lessons? Infused with a secret knowledge by aliens? Simple... I watched my first Taco Bell commercial. And I've been set ever since.

Unfortunately, it seems that an entire population of cafe visitors has never dined at or seen a commercial advertising my favorite fast food restaurant. What a shame, too! Does anyone else miss the chihuahua commercials? Me neither. But the food is very tasty and the commercials provide a valuable public service. Bronx and Westchester (mostly Westchester) counties are missing out.

It comes down to this. Quesadilla is not a new word. It's been around the good old US of A for a long time now. The concept shouldn't be new either. But, for my customers, it is. Some could not identify a  tortilla in a police lineup. And many have to ask me if it is a hot or cold sandwich. Dear lord, it never ends! Here are some of the bizarre pronunciations (with the diacritical pronunciation marks) that I have encountered since it was added to the menu last fall:

• Quesadilla (kāsə dilə)

By far the most common, I used to have a horrible attitude about this one but now I respect it a bit more. At least customers are trying to pronounce the word phonetically, which is more than I can say for most of these verbal disasters.

• Quesadillio (kāsəˈdil ēy ō)

I've already talked about this one. It makes me shake my head and want to cry.

• Quesadiller (kāsə dilər

Really? Because it's not even close. Where's the "R? and what's with the soft "D"?

• Quesado (kasad ō)

Go back and look at the actual word and then look again at this monstrosity. How many letters need to be removed and/or changed to get from Quesadilla to Quesado. I don't know if this is laziness, foolishness, or both. Your idea is as good as mine.

• Quesadilia (kāsəˈdil ēy ə)

Very close to Quesadilio but not quite as funny because I can't make my standard P Diddy joke. The customer has to shorten an "L" and add a dot to get from the real to the mistake. Seems like a lot of effort.

• Quesadiwa (kāsə dēwä)

Again, I shake my head. My best guess is that this customer is way too big of a fan of the priest from Princess Bride and purposely finds the letter "W" in every word (check out this link if you don't get the movie reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sbqv3MwwVd8).


I heard four of these gaffes today alone. And yes, I did have fantasies of bludgeoning these people with whole wheat baguettes until they got the word right. Oh, a cook can dream...

But let's not stop there. I am compelled to share the most ridiculously culturally narrow-minded comment I have ever heard about a quesadilla. Four well-dressed, guessing mid-fifties women stepped on the line and, after perusing the menu, one said to the other, "Oh look, Mary. Quesadillas! They have ethnic food here!"

Even sadder than the comment? Even that woman got the word right.