Steve Barnes is senior food writer at our local daily, the Times-Union. As a subscriber I’m supposed to be able to share a few articles each month but can’t find the referral link for this one. So I’ll cut and paste this recent column and hope they don’t ask me to take it down; in return please read his Tablehopping column and consider subscribing if you live in NY’s Capital District or visit the area.
Steve Barnes had things to say about the lemon slice atop his Bloody Mary.
The bar had been packed for a few hours, and the bartender scheduled to leave first was well overdue to depart. Finally done, he clocked out, said his goodbyes and headed toward the front door, but, having forgotten his keys, pivoted back. As he rounded the end of the bar, the printer burped out a drink ticket. He took it, walked to the taps, poured two pints and came back to drop them off for the waiting server. And then he left.
A tiny moment, it epitomized for me an instinctual level of service. Did he even think about it? Probably not. Was it big deal? Not really. But though there were two bartenders still working — and he wasn’t, after staying beyond what was scheduled — he saw something that he could easily take care of, and did, despite it technically not being his job.
“You can train to a certain a level, create a culture and expectations, but beyond that it’s about who the person is and their attitude about service,” says Jaime Ortiz, owner of Prime Hospitality Group, with holdings including 677 Prime in Albany, Sea Smoke Waterfront Grill in Green Island and Toro Cantina in Colonie.
People in the hospitality business first have to see an issue, not walk through their shifts with blinders on, according to Ortiz and other restaurateurs, general managers and chefs I’ve discussed this with. The lemon pictured above was wedged atop a bloody mary I was served years ago at a since-closed restaurant. What amazed me was that the bartender had to make the drink, recognize it came with a lemon garnish, pick up the lemon, judge it acceptable and serve it to me. More likely: He was on autopilot. Less benevolently: He didn’t care. It was a strong contender for that year’s DNGAF Award, short for Do Not Give a (Frig), which I compile mentally but have never announced.
Ditto for a hilariously bad pickle I received with a bar sandwich. Small — perhaps one-eighth of a pickle, more sliver than spear — it had neither seeds nor crunch. The limp green thing was so ridiculous that I ranted about it online. The next time Ortiz knew I was coming to 677 Prime, he made a thick noodle of pickle juice with gelatin and had staff present it as a new creation, the Floppy Pickle.
While the lemon had only one person involved in not seeing or not caring, the pickle had two: the cook who put it on the plate and judged it acceptable, and the server who brought it to me. Or perhaps the latter never looked at the plate.
“People have to recognize something and feel empowered to do something about it,” says Nancy Bambara, COO of DZ Restaurants in Saratoga Springs, which owns Boca Bistro, Chianti Ristorante and Forno Bistro.
Not seeing and/or not questioning has to be the explanation for how this sludge soup ended up in front of me recently. I presume it had been sitting in a steam table for nine or 10 hours at that point and nobody recognized or cared enough or felt empowered to either add broth or, better yet, refuse to serve it. Ortiz — no, the soup wasn’t at one of his restaurants — speculated that a food runner or server ladled up the soup and figured either, “I guess that’s OK if it’s still available” or, worse, wondered about the state of the soup but didn’t feel it was their place to say, “Hey, this is gross.”
Regardless, it’s probably my 2024 DNGAF.
I’m not mentioning the name of the bartender in the opening anecdote for a few reasons. First, he’d be embarrassed and say it was nothing. Second, it’s more important as an illustrative example than as an individual attaboy. Finally, in a long-ago theater review, to praise an actor, I described in detail one line delivery that to me encapsulated everything right about his overall performance. He later confessed the line delivery developed organically, from his understanding of the character, not as a conscious choice. Seeing it highlighted in the review made him so self-conscious that he felt he’d never been able to deliver it as well for the rest of the run. By focusing on an instinctual moment, I’d inadvertently ruined it.
But I’ll cite by name two examples of extraordinary hospitality professionals who sweated the small stuff even though they could’ve assigned someone to do it. On opening night for Prime at Saratoga National in 2008, the restaurant’s owner, Angelo Mazzone, was standing with an esteemed group. In my memory, anyway, the circle included elected officials, at least one billionaire thoroughbred owner and a sheikh, who was probably a billionaire thoroughbred owner. A server went by about 10 feet away, full bus tray raised high. An ice cube slid off the tray. Mazzone, who could have dispatched an employee, excused himself from the swells, picked up the ice cube, dried the floor and returned. Similarly, around the same time, Yono Purnomo was standing at the bar at Yono’s/dp: An American Brasserie, which he opened with his family in downtown Albany in 2006. When a guest heading to the restroom unknowingly dropped a napkin from her lap, Purnomo retrieved the napkin himself, replaced it with a freshly folded one and resumed his conversation with then-Mayor Jerry Jennings and a state senator.
Where the Super Thick Soup happened doesn’t matter. I know it to be largely an aberration for that kitchen. But I did mention my dissatisfaction to the bartender, complete with a demonstration of the immobility of a spoon stuck into it. He hadn’t served the soup, but he apologized and took it off the bill. I don’t know if he said anything to the kitchen. But I’d hope he’s now looking more closely at dishes he’s serving — and believes it’s his job to question those that look subpar.
-Steve Barnes, senior writer, Times-Union
That lemon was fermented for a reason. Probably not as a cocktail garnish. The sludge soup may have been the extinct Grandma Browns Baked Beans. Perhaps both mistakenly served as both were destined for some sort of exhibit at the CIA?
You nailed it, Chuckeye. And the pickle sliver was a clever homage to a toothpick holding down an overstuffed sandwich.