I don't care what you say, this is not hummus. It is called favosalata. If you insist on calling it hummus, I will persist in telling you that you are wrong, however politely.

Where I work, we are very good at pretending the customer is always right, even when he isn't. I hear our guests make ordering blunders on a nightly basis, which isn't surprising, considering the fact that our dinner menu is in Anglicized Greek. It's downright confusing to the uninitiated. And, of course, un-Greek.

As a server, I am more than happy to offer my descriptive and pronunciation skills to daunted diners. Sometimes, people simply ask me to say the word "kolokithokefthedes" because they find it fascinating that anyone could pronounce it at all, other times they might giggle over the "soutzoukakia." And then there are those guests who are left speechless when I tell them the right way to say "fakes" which, if interpreted as English, sounds more like an emphatic affirmation with an unprintable expletive than any other food I've encountered.

But I draw the line with people who order hummus. We don't serve it. We never have served it. Yet people insist that we do. In fact, some people positively rave about our hummus.

On Yelp and on personal food blogs, I have found people talking about our incredible hummus platter. On more than one occasion, I have read people blogging the praises of our favosalata, but mistakenly refer to it as a feta dip. That would be tirosalata. It's the green one, the one with the cheese in it.

Some of the time, I just let it slide. If you want to call our eggplant dip by its Arabic name "baba ganoush," that's fine. We might be speaking different languages, but we're still talking about essentially the same thing. And I see no need to unnecessarily show up a guest with my (necessarily) superior knowledge of ingredients. But when I see one person at a table point to the pink spread and tell another, vegetarian person, "Oh, that's the hummus, it's my favorite dip!," I have no choice but to step in and sort things out because that pink "hummus" is made with cod roe. And it's called taramasalata.

So many salatas to choose from: tirosalata, melitzanosalata, taramasalata, favosalata, and the ever-present tag-along, tzatziki. No wonder we are required to give a little tour of the dip platters whenever we deliver them to our guests. Sometimes, I have to describe them three times to the same two people. I don't mind really, it's simply a part of what I do. And please notice that nowhere in this paragraph (except here) have I mentioned our delectable hummus. Why? BECAUSE WE DO NOT SERVE HUMMUS, that's why.

I can understand the confusion. Both favosalata and hummus are made from legumes cooked with water and garlic. Both have olive oil and lemon juice. They are near neighbors on the yellowish end of the color spectrum. They do not, however, taste anything alike. Really. And, though hummus can be found in many a Greek restaurant, we choose not to serve it. I sometimes like to tell non-Greek people that hummus is a politically sensitive dish; that it makes some Greek people feel oppressed, since it is a recipe that has Ottoman Empire written all over it. Then again, the Greeks love their baklava and coffee, which were also introduced by the Turks, so there you have it.

Favosalata is itself confusing. The name of the dish would rightly lead one to think that this is a dish made from fresh or dried fava beans. In some cases, a favosalata can be exactly that-- a beautiful, vibrant green purée of fresh favas, with olive oil, a hint of feta, and fresh mint. This particular dish, however, is made from yellow split peas. Ideally, yellow split peas from the island of Thira (aka Santorini), where it is somewhat of a specialty.

I cannot be absolutely sure, but I am fairly certain that there are different recipes using different beans for this dish, and that someone out there in the blogoshpere, more than likely Greek, is going to tell me that this isn't the way they learned to make this dish. Well, gia sou, baby, bring it on. I'd love to hear about it. Seriously.

In the mean time, this is the hummus favosalata recipe I'm sticking to. Enjoy.

Favosalata

I sometimes call this my Friday-with-a-martini dip. Served slightly warm and liberally sprinkled with caper, onion, fresh lemon, and olive oil, it plays nicely with cold, cold gin. Scoop it up with pita, crackers, crusty bread, a spoon, your fingers, whatever.

Like a lot of things in cooking, this is a pretty elastic recipe. The measurement of ingredients is merely suggestive, not final. Want a your dip tangier? Add more lemon and vinegar. Saltier? Go for it. The key is the consistency of the peas. If you undercook them, the result will be unpleasant, if you overcook them, you've got mush. If forced to choose between the two, I would err towards the mush-end of the spectrum.

Makes about 4 cups, which serves about one in my house.

Ingredients:

1 pound yellow split peas (about three cups)

6 cloves of garlic, peeled and left whole

6 cups cold water

1 cup white wine (Optional. If using, subtract one cup of water.)

The juice of three lemons

2 tablespoons of white wine vinegar

2 tablespoons finely grated red onion

About 3/4 cup of extra virgin olive oil,

A liberal amount of salt, kosher or sea salt

Thinly sliced red onion, for garnish

Capers, also for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a medium-sized sauce pan or dutch oven (my preference), add split peas, water (and wine, if using), and a good dose of salt. Bring to a boil, then immediately reduce to a simmer until the peas are tender. I repeat: undercooking them will lead to an unappetizing texture; overcooking them will take you all the way to split pea soup, which certainly does not spell the end of the world, simply the end of this recipe. Cooking time: about 35 to 40 minutes.

2. When peas are done, remove from heat and strain into a cheesecloth-lined colander and gently strain, removing as much of the liquid as possible. Place the peas (along with the garlic they were cooked with) into a food processor or blender while still warm. Add the grated onion, lemon juice, and vinegar. Blend while drizzling in the olive oil. Note: you are not emulsifying the oil with anything, it is merely adding texture and flavor. Stop when the desired texture is reached, which is somewhere in the vicinity of smooth mashed potatoes.

3. Place desired serving amount in desired serving vessel, sprinkle with capers and sliced red onion, drizzle with olive oil and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, and serve warm to those whom you desire to serve.

For most diners, paying one's bill at the finish of a restaurant meal is a simple, uncomplicated process, a no-brainer. Or should be. It never fails to amaze me how many people screw this up.

The ideal execution of bill getting-and-paying should be a near-non-event. The only words exchanged should be those of thanks between the payer and the server, and from the recipients of the evening's generosity to one giving it.

This should be obvious to most of you out there. Hopefully. Sadly, it isn't to everyone.

Here are a few handy tips on how to pay a restaurant bill with grace:

1. In a fine dining environment, when a server delivers the bill to a table, he or she will either place it nearest the host or hand it directly to him/her if the host reaches out for it, or place the bill in the center of the table if the host is not clearly certain (for example, if more than one person orders wine or food for the table as a whole). Typically, we assume that the person paying is the one who asks for the check. If that happens to be you, please proceed to step 2.

2. When you are ready to make payment, place your credit card, cash, cowrie shells, or whatever method of payment is accepted inside the bill folder with just enough spilling out to indicate that you are ready to make payment. This is important. It is most likely (and hoped for) that your server will not be staring at you as you rifle through your wallet. When you have accomplished this feat, place the bill folder at the edge of the table next to you or, if you are seated in a booth, the end of the table nearest the server's approach.

I find it surprising how many people do not understand this small-but-important ritual. The folder could be stuffed with cash, but if it looks as though it has been both untouched and unmoved, it's not going anywhere. Servers are often expected to read the minds of guests, but I think they deserve a little help on this one. Please, make it obvious that you are ready to give payment.

3. When the server hands you back your bill, sign it at your leisure, but when you are finished, please place it back on the edge of the table. Your server may then take it away. He (in most cases) is not taking it away out of greed, but rather to take care of the paperwork, especially if you have paid by credit card. Your bill must be closed with the proper paperwork. Read: the restaurant's copy of the credit card receipt. If, in your wine-soaked joy of the evening, you have accidentally pocketed the receipt (and we've all done it at least once, waiters included), the server might gently ask you for it as you leave. You might expect your server to guess what sort of wine you might like with your pork, but do you really expect him or her to guess the amount of gratuity you've left? I didn't think so.

Isn't that easy? Yes.

Now for a couple of other hints.

You've been Declined

If your credit card is declined, it is not necessarily your fault (credit card companies sometimes put a hold on cards on which an unusual amount of spending has occurred at any given time, etc.), but it definitely is not your server's. As a waiter, this can be remarkably painful. I worry that I am embarrassing one of my guests-- especially one of my guests who happens to be leaving me a tip. Any server worth his salt will just treat it (outwardly) that it's no big deal and, rather than say, "I'm sorry, your card's been declined," will say something to the effect of, "Excuse me, do you have another card? This one doesn't seem to be working." Unless I'm handed one of those black titanium American Express cards. Then I always give a little frown and tell them it's declined. The response is invariably one of, "Uh huh. Sure it is." And then I go away and giggle.

Essentially, if you are planning on taking people out to dinner, have a back up payment method. If you see no reason your card should be declined, your server will be happy to make a call for you and look into it. Remain calm.

Fighting Over the Check

One of the most irritating things about waiting tables is guests fighting over the check. Suddenly, the food-and-alcohol-induced peace and harmony at the table is shattered by diners grabbing the checks and credit cards out of each others' hands in a seriously misguided effort to pay for the meal and be "hospitable." Or they're just trying to play Alpha Dog. There is a certain ritual to this that must be followed:

One of your dining parters grabs the check and insists on paying. You then say, "Oh, no, I just couldn't let you do that." Then they counter with something like, "But I'd really like to treat you to dinner tonight. Really, it would make me very happy to do it!" You are then supposed to respond with something to the effect of, "Well... alright, if it will make you happy, but I'm taking you out next time."

And then you're done.

Do not, I repeat, do not drag the server into this. At my tables, I have in most cases been spending the previous two hours making sure that everyone in my charge is as comfortable and happy as possible. I am not there to referee. Taking sides is not in my economic interest. If I am approached privately by a member of a dining party who hands me his or her card and insists on paying, I will: a) run the credit card and hand back at the end of the meal, run and ready so that he or she is one step ahead of arguments, or b) if the card-giver is not the clear-cut host, I will hand the card back uncharged. To the host.

In extreme cases, when different people start shoving cards or check presenters in my face (it happens) saying everything but "Pick me! Pick me!" I am polite, but firm. And mildly, chidingly sarcastic. I tell the contenders something akin to, "Oh, you're all just so wonderful to want to pay for dinner, I wish I could pick all of you!" I then take a step back from the table, saying, "I can't wait to see who wins!"

And then I walk away.

I have a problem with the word "moist." Anyone who knows me well understands that.

For me, it's right up there with the words "classy" and "slacks." Upon admission to another person of my distaste for these words, the three are invariably strung together in a sentence, as in "Did you get of load of the moist, classy slacks on her?" It never fails. In fact, I expect it. Still, the mental images these sentences produce are just too jarring.

So perhaps it was in the spirit of irritating me that my friend Lyle, who has made several blog topic suggestions, ask that I write about moist towelettes. He is mildly fascinated by them.

"Well, why not?" I thought. It seemed like a good time to take on this personal difficulty of mine and tackle the towelette, however moist.

And then I promptly forgot about it.

One day about two weeks ago, I received a small envelope in the mail. No return address. I could feel a small, square packet underneath the outer paper. It had the telltale squishiness of an individually-packaged prophylactic. "Who the hell just sent me a condom?" It was near Valentine's Day, after all. I thought it was either a gesture of bonne chance or a creepy offer from some as-yet-unkown admirer.

But no, it was just a moist towelette from Lyle. A simple reminder, not an offer of safe sex. So, Lyle, this one's for you, though I warn you it's more about the moist and less about the towelette.

Take a look at the adjective "moist" for a moment. According to Merriam-Webster's dictionary, the word is derived from the Middle English moiste, from Anglo-French, perhaps from Vulgar Latin *muscidus, alteration of Latin mucidus slimy, from mucus nasal mucus.

It is currently defined as:
1. Slightly or moderately wet.
2. Tearful.
3. Characterized by high humidity.

Not a very promising start. In baking or cooking, moistness is typically a quality to which we aspire-- it is the general goal of most cakes and chicken breasts, for example, to be moist. If they are not, the more sensitive cook will himself become moist around the eyes, as in the second definiton of the word.

I have often attempted to avoid the word "moist" altogether, with tremendous awkwardness. To compliment a dinner hostess on her cake by saying, "That was a wonderful carrot cake, Mrs. Baker. It was so wonderfully not dry." implies that this is something out of the norm, in terms of her baking skills. Saying that you are delighted to find the cake delightfully undessicated would fare no better. Instead, I have learned to say, "It's really good."

The word's synonyms are far less attractive. To hail someone's roast chicken as damp, dank, aqueous, steamy, clammy, humid, vaporous, dripping, boggy, or swampy would fare you no better in the diplomacy department than trying to use its antonyms.

Sadly, "moist" is the least offensive word choice available. And, don't worry, I won't look into the word "towelette." Not on this blog, anyhow.

The Moist Towelette

There is so much to say on the topic of hand washing, both before and after meals, as a social ritual or an obsession with hygiene, that I will merely direct you to someone who can tell you about all the various customs and taboos related to the subject. If you haven't read Margaret Visser's The Rituals of Dinner yet, I will hound you until you do.

There is precious little for me to say on the actual topic of moist towelettes. My phone call to the Kleenex Hotline yielded nothing. As to where and when they originated, I can tell you nothing.

They can be found in numerous places: fried chicken eating establishments, rib joints, automotive centers, casinos, airplanes, possibly even The Lusty Lady Theatre. Moist towelettes are nearly always offered to customers free of charge, often with a company's logo and business information printed on the package. They are, in a real sense, viewed as sanitizing business cards.

There are numerous aliases for the Moist Towelette: sanitary handwipes, wet wipes, wet naps, moist wipes, fresh wipes, etc. They are, by and large, the same thing. On wandering the aisles of a Walgreen's recently, I discovered with little surprise that they are very similar in make up to Baby Wipes, Feminine Wipes, and Toilet Wipes. Just add a little baby powder, springtime, or pine-fresh scent, slap on a different label, and you've got yourself a brand new product. It's just genius.

If there is more you'd like to know, good luck. However, if you'd like to make contact with a few people who are obsessed with moist towelettes, or would simply enjoy playing a quiet game of moist towelette Concentration, please visit ModernMoistTowelette.com.

Homemade Moist Towelettes

I know it sounds rather odd-- even a complete waste of time-- but you can, in fact, make your own. And without Polysorbate 20, Methylisothiazolinone, or Sodium Lauryl Glucose Carboxylate. They are gloriously, mindlessly easy.

Imagine your home made moist towelettes at your next outdoor or utensil-free eating event. At first, your guests will wonder what the hell you are offering them. If you have no problem at all with the word "moist", your explanation will be a simple one. If you're anything like me, you can just say, "They're for wiping your hands." People will thrill at your ingeniousness. And your thoughtfulness.

You can be just as clever as the folks at Kleenex or Proctor and Gamble, changing the scent of your wipes to suit your needs. Having a Moroccan Feast? Scent your wipes with almond oil. Persian? How about a bit of rosewater? Barbeque? Who cares? Just soak the towels in warm beer for all I care. The point is that the possibilities are endless.

Ingredients

1 cup Witch Hazel
1 tsp Glycerine
20 squares of good quality paper towels.
Fragrance of your choice (as much as you dare)

Preparation

Fold paper towels into non-threateningly-sized squares. Combine witch hazel, glycerin, and fragrance in a small container with a lid. Like one of those free cruets that would come with your packages of Good Seasons Zesty Italian dressing mix. Shake well, and pour over paper towels. Let towels stand for a few minutes to absorb the liquid.

Serve with a set of grilling tongs at arm's length because, you know, they're moist.

Things are tough all over. This isn't exactly news. I can't think of a single person I know who hasn't been hit on some level by the mess our economy is in. Everyone, it seems, is scaling back on spending.

And who can blame them?

In a city that prides itself on its food scene, San Francisco's restaurants have taken a very hard hit. With fewer people lunching and dining out these days, many places in the city have either laid off staff or cut their hours. Some once-favored haunts have decided to close their doors for lunch, some have chosen to to hang out the "Now Open for Sunday Brunch" sign (which is usually an indicator of fiscal desperation), some have been forced to shut down permanently.

As a professional waiter, I consider myself very lucky to be working in a popular and (blessedly) busy restaurant. Hell, I consider myself lucky to have a job. Period.

Tipping Down

The current trend in dining these days seems to be downsizing-- from the price tag of the wine purchase to the amount of food ordered. Perfectly understandable. Not a single server I have talked to about the situation was unsympathetic to the current, collective economic plight. People are ordering fewer bottles of wine, and more are going for what some refer to as "non'trées"-- the ordering of appetizers in lieu of main courses. It's a hit to our wallets, of course (I have personally seen an average 30% decrease in my own sales), but we know were not the only ones. It's been openly discussed at our staff meetings that the guests who were dining with us in the fat times are still here with us in the lean ones, and we should be ever mindful of that. Which, for the most part, we are. The goal is to keep them coming back. We are making less money, of course, but we are working harder for it.

And that's fine.

What isn't fine is the much more alarming trend that seems to be running apace with the downsizing of dine-out meals-- the downsizing of tips. Along with decreased sales, servers are seeing a general lowering of their gratuity's percentage. And this is not okay. Not at all.

Tipping Out

I've always wondered if people who have never worked in the service industry know how restaurant tipping actually operates. It's a subject that most people probably don't give much thought to. You tip your server, she pockets the money, and goes home with it at the end of the shift.

But that's not how it works.

In a recent phone interview with a reporter from a major national newspaper, I was asked about the current economic situation and how it was affecting San Francisco restaurants. In relating my own experience, I told her roughly what I sell on an average night and what my tips are like. When I told her where exactly that money went, how I am taxed on my sales, and what I actually walk out the door with, she was surprised. She explained to me that, in all the years she had been covering restaurants, she had never even thought to ask about the process of tipping out. I respected her for that admission. And it dawned on me that, if she didn't know, how many diners do?

If I am given a $50 tip, on a $250 bill, that's wonderful, but it's not exactly all mine to keep. In most restaurants, especially high-end places, a server is not simply working for his own tips. In my place of business, the gratuity I receive from any given table goes towards supporting nine other employees. Ten, including myself.

Here's an illustration of what is occurring with ever-increasing frequency in our restaurants. Possibly just a bad turn of luck, but it illustrates what really happens when a good server receives a bad tip:

I'll use the example of a fellow waiter who took care of some regular guests and four of their friends. The waiter in question is extremely professional-- fun and chatty at the right moments, formal and efficient at other times, or any combination of the above-mentioned, as each case necessitates. And, above all, he actually cares about what he's doing. He puts his heart into his work.

The regulars and their guests were treated to a few complimentary appetizers and were well taken care of, as usual. When the bill arrived, it was not the regular guests who paid, but one of their tablemates. On a $500 check, the guest left the waiter a $20 tip. Needless to say, the waiter was upset, but could say nothing, except to his co-workers and manager. Vent it, shrug it, face it, let it go. Hopefully do not repeat-- that is often our sanity-saving mantra.

His tip may have been $20, which is insult enough, given his high level of care and service. The financial damage, however, is far worse in such cases.

The Break Down

Granted, the "tip out" (what a server tips out to his support staff) varies from restaurant to restaurant. Some houses pool tips, others ensure that the kitchen staff receives a percentage. The permutations are endless, but all enacted with the goal of supporting the other, no-less-important members of the service team. This is how it works at our place of business:

Tip outs are often based on sales, not the total amount of gratuity.

On a $500 sale, the waiter must give, at the very minimum:

Busser: $15 (3% but usually closer to 4% since a busser is a server's chiefest ally)

Food Runner: $5 (1%)

Hostess: $5 (1%)

Bartender: $6.25 (1.25%)

Our stocker receives $5 per waiter as a flat fee every shift, our barista receives $10.

We do not ever decrease the amounts given to our support staff.

Having been given $20 for his services, the waiter actually lost about $12 taking care of these guests. And that's just on the surface. The IRS calculates roughly 8% of a server's sales as taxable income, owing to the variability of tipping. 8%, in this instance is $40-- more than twice what the waiter was paid.

Clearly, I am biased. I have a vested interest in people tipping properly. And by properly, I mean 15% at the very minimum for basic service. Good service deserves 20%. That is our custom.

The goal of this post isn't to shame people into tipping more. My readers are, by and large, pretty savvy in these matters. I just have the feeling that, if more people understood where that tip money goes and what the consequences are to those who bear the double brunt of lowered sales and lowered tips, they might think twice about saving that extra few dollars by leaving less money to the people who take care of them.

If you are well taken care of, take care of your caretakers.

Amen.

And pass it on.