By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
I've never forgotten hearing a radio interview with Patrick O'Connell, chef/owner of the Inn at Little Washington, one of the world's great restaurants. He didn't say much about his cooking. He wanted to talk about his philosophy of service. When a customer walks into his restaurant, he said, the staff sizes up the situation. Is the guy impatient, out of sorts? Is the couple having an argument? Is the mood expansive and chatty or peaceful and private? The server's job, O'Connell said, is to leave a customer feeling better than when he or she walked in.
O'Connell equated running a great restaurant with throwing a gigantic house party: "A successful party," he said, "like a great film or work of art, elevates the spirit, makes people feel life is worth living, and enhances a guest's self-esteem."
We've been over this ground before. This year, South Florida Zagat survey respondents sent restaurateurs a resounding message: They mostly hate the service they get at local restaurants. Restaurateurs complain that professional staff is hard to find in such a transient state and that retaining good servers, who can pick and choose jobs that often earn upward of $500 a night, is tough. But I know from my own years as a waitress decades spent on and off at places ranging from coffee shops to upscale neighborhood cafés that beyond the obligatory night of trailing another server, waitrons rarely get any systematic schooling in their art.
Being a waiter is rough work you have to be part psychologist, part clown, part long-suffering wife. Between the fanny pinching and the verbal abuse, to say nothing of the menu tours, the tip stiffing, the dietary restrictions my heart goes out to South Florida servers. But they still need proper training. That responsibility lies with restaurant owners.
We had big-city friends in from out of town recently, and we wanted to take them somewhere really nice special, even. So we booked a table at Mark's City Place. Mark Militello, the chef/brains behind this operation, owns four restaurants in South Florida in South Beach, on Las Olas Boulevard, in Boca Raton, and at CityPlace. I had dinner with my family at the South Beach location last summer, and the experience was perfect from preparation to plating to service. I also attended a chef demo at Sublime last fall where Militello whipped up a blissful four-course vegetarian meal. Militello's cooking has great subtlety and wit. I concur with the chorus of food lovers who've crowned him king of South Florida cuisine.
So I met my friends at CityPlace with great expectations and a full wallet. I knew Militello himself wasn't doing the cooking the day-to-day is left to Executive Chef James Grzybek. My mood was running high. Peter and François, the out-of-towners, giddy with new suntans and a week's vacation, were practically flying.
So what happened? It's hard to put a finger on exactly when our euphoria started to drain away, but it was clear within the course of a few minutes that there was something wrong with our waiter. When I asked if there were any specials that evening, he responded brusquely, "No verbal specials. It's all on the menu."
"And does the menu change every day?" I queried.
"It changes somewhat."
I looked down at my menu. There was indeed a date at the bottom. But no explanation of what might be new and different on this night's spread was forthcoming from Mr. Sunshine. Evidently, we weren't getting a menu tour. If we wanted one, we could just go back and reread Lee Klein's old New Times review the food has hardly changed in five years.
The place was nearly empty at 7:30 on a Friday night. It wasn't like this guy was busy. He just couldn't be bothered to manage any expression more welcoming than a sneer. The needle on my satisfaction index wavered. I was coming down, and Pete and François had plunged precipitously to unhappiness, in spite of the arrival of mojitos and gimlets. Somehow, our server had managed to make us feel that we were annoying him. When he reappeared to take our order, his mood hadn't improved. "Are you ready?" he snapped. "Go ahead."
We placed our order a hefty one. We'd all selected appetizers and entrées. For Peter: pan-seared citrus crab cake with jicama mango slaw and key lime avocado butter ($14), followed by the twin duck breasts with duck confit brie risotto ($26). For François: the tomato and mozzarella salad with grilled wild mushrooms and lemon truffle oil ($11), plus prime rib eye with truffled potatoes and onion rings ($42). I wanted baby spinach and roasted beet salad ($9) and tri-peppercorn-crusted yellowfin tuna with celeriac purée ($30). For my spouse, the margarita clams with tasso ($12) and a jumbo, lump, crab-crusted local grouper with wild mushroom salsify ragout ($34). Let's do the math: With three cocktails, our bill stood at $207. We added a bottle of Malbec ($32) for good luck, but we were obliged to order it by number (610), like on a Chinese menu did we expect our waiter to be a sommelier too?