Ramekins Cooking School and Inn in Sonoma

We pulled up to the quaint Ramekins Cooking School and Inn in Sonoma, and knew I'd like this place as soon as I laid eyes on the spork and spoon handles on the front door.

I was invited by Ramekins to check out one of their many cooking classes and stay at their 6-room bed and breakfast. Cooking classes include both demonstration and hands-on classes, and are geared toward food enthusiasts and home cooks. Well, I'm always saying how I really need to make it up to wine country more often than I do, and this sounded like the perfect excuse!

Joyce Goldstein

Plus, I saw that the esteemed Joyce Goldstein would be teaching a Regional Tour of Italy: The Veneto with this mouth-watering menu:

• Warm Scallop and Mushroom Salad
• Crab and Fennel Risotto with Meyer Lemon Gremolata
• Pork with Chestnuts served with Pumpkin Polenta
• Blood Orange Marmalade Tart

Yeah, let's recap.

1) Weekend getaway in Sonoma. (Check)
2) Adorable B&B. (Check)
3) Cooking class with a culinary legend. (Check)

Right. Sign me up.

Cooking class at Ramekins with Joyce Goldstein

Since this was a demonstration class, there was no actual hands-on cooking by us students, however, there was plenty of Q&A, discussion, and of course, tasting.

Warm Scallop and Mushroom Salad

Joyce was full of knowledge about Italian cuisine, tips and tricks when preparing the dishes on our own, and stories. As we nibbled on succulent seared scallops and gorgeous chanterelle mushrooms, she lectured us on proper and humane tomato care ("once you refrigerate a tomato, you commit murder"), gave us tips on how to select a good salad dressing-quality balsamic vinegar ("if the first ingredient is 'caramel' or 'vinegar', put it down; look for 'grape must' as a primary ingredient"), and warned us against overcooking the scallops ("they should be quivering in the middle").

Crab and Fennel Risotto with Meyer Lemon Gremolata

As we tucked into the brightly flavored risotto made with sweet crab meat, fennel, and a gremolata of meyer lemon zest, parsley and garlic, we learned that the Venetians actually prefer their risotto on the soupy side.

Speaking of Venetians, I asked Joyce, why the Veneto? She replied that while this meal actually borrows from various regions of Italy, she originally wanted to highlight Venice because of its interesting culinary history born from its unique location. One of the first cities in the spice trade, the food of the Veneto was influenced by goods traded by merchants traveling in and out of the port (like Marco Polo, Venice's most famous traveler). The food and drink of the Veneto includes an abundance of seafood, game meat (an influence of Yugoslavia), artichokes, radicchio, rice (rather than pasta), lighter wines, and grappa.

Pork Stew with Chestnuts

All this edification got me hungry. Good thing the pork stew was ready.

Originally prepared with wild boar, Joyce first had this dish at a farro farm in Abruzzo. Farro was the earliest wheat that was cultivated in Europe. It tastes like barley, is sweet and hazelnutty, and puffs up when it is cooked.

With a few adaptations made, our stew featured pork shoulder rather than boar, and a delicious pumpkin polenta rather than farro. The pork stew was rich and hearty, slow simmered with red wine (Pinot Noir and Valpolicella), aromatics, sage, and warm spices (juniper berries, cloves, and cinnamon). It also contained chestnuts, which added a superb sweetness and richness to the stew. They were delicious, and I don't usually even like chestnuts!

We used vacuum-packed cooked chestnuts, but if you're shelling fresh ones, Joyce let us in on a little secret she discovered to save your hands, and time. Cut an "X" on the flat side of the chestnuts, cutting through to the brown skin, then microwave them for a bit. The hard outer shell and bitter inner skin should easily come off afterward.

Pork with Chestnuts served with Pumpkin Polenta

Oh, and let's not forget the polenta. The pumpkin polenta was heavenly. Granted, I may be biased, since as you may already know, I am a pumpkin/butternut squash/sweet potato freak.

But really, what is there not to love about this savory-sweet, rich combination of pumpkin, cornmeal, and parmesan cheese? Other than being utterly delicious, polenta is also pretty forgiving. Unlike risotto, which needs to hit the table as soon as it's ready, "Polenta, you can baby," as Joyce puts it. (Brands recommended for polenta: Giusto's and Gold Pheasant.)

Also, a great trick we learned to avoid lumps in it was to start with the polenta in cold water rather than streaming it into boiling water like most recipes call for. Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that before?

Joyce Goldstein, laying lattice

Now for my favorite part…the course that clinched it when I signed up for this class -- the Blood Orange Marmalade Tart, which needless to say, did not disappoint. It was fragrant, perfumed by the gorgeous blood oranges and Grand Marnier (two of my favorite ingredients of all time), and had a perfectly buttery, flaky crust.

As Joyce so aptly describes, a blood orange tastes different from other oranges, it is really floral, “like an orange mixed with a rose.”

This tart is adapted from a recipe served at the Vineria Cozzi in Bergamo Alta. It is called Crostata di Marmellata delle Suore Trappiste, a tart filled with jam made by the Trappist nuns. The recipe takes a homemade orange marmalade and binds it with eggs and cornstarch. Fitting. It tastes divine.

Blood Orange Marmalade Tart

A few tricks of the trade when making this:
• Use a sharp vegetable peeler to remove all the zest from the oranges. It is the quickest way I've ever seen zest removed. After you have all the peel, chop it finely.
• Remember to discard the bitter pith.
• Blood oranges are small so you don't need to really segment them, especially since it is all being cooked down anyway for the marmalade. Just chop them up into 1 inch pieces.

Other than this tart -- which I've been thinking about ever since -- what struck me was a comment that someone made towards the end of the class. She was a woman who was an old fan of Joyce's restaurant, Square One, before it closed in 1996. She was not alone, as it seemed that the class was filled with devout fans. The woman used to come in from Central Valley for a night out at Square One, and wrote in once after being particularly taken by a certain apple tart. Joyce wrote her back (she answered every letter that came in), and said they make it en masse, so the translation may not be perfect, but nonetheless, here was the recipe. It worked beautifully, and this was the first chance the woman had to thank Joyce personally. The room burst into applause.

Ramekins Inn, apple art

This story got me thinking about food and how our best memories of particular dishes or meals are inextricably tied to the people who made them special. It is not only about the food, but about the stories and the shared experience. Maybe that is why places like Ramekins make me so happy. Places that get it. They get the love of food (it's written on the apple-adorned walls and asparagus-lined railing), and they get that people are looking to share that experience.

Ramekins Inn, asparagus railing

Blood Orange Marmalade Tart (Crostata di marmellata all’arancia)

Recipe and notes courtesy of Joyce Goldstein, from Perfect Pairings.

"Jam filled lattice-topped tarts are popular all over Italy. In Rome they prefer cherry jam. Some tarts are prepared with apricot or berry preserves. At the Vineria Cozzi in Bergamo Alta they serve a crostata di marmellata delle Suore Trappiste, filled with jam made by the Trappist nuns. This recipe takes a home made orange marmalade and binds it with eggs and cornstarch. Blood oranges, now available at our markets, would add their special perfume and color, to the tart."

Serves: 8

INGREDIENTS:

Pasta Frolla for two crusts:
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
pinch salt
4 to 6 tablespoons sugar
12 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter
3 to 5 tablespoons ice water, as needed

Filling:
3 large navel oranges or 5 to 6 blood oranges
1 1/3 cups sugar
juice of 1 lemon
1/2 cup water
3 tablespoons cornstarch
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
3 eggs
3 tablespoons Grand Marnier or other orange liqueur

PREPARATION:

For the Crust:
1. Put the flour and salt and sugar in the container of a food processor or mixing bowl. Cut in the butter and pulse until the mixture resembles cornmeal. Gradually beat in the ice water. Turn dough out onto work surface and form into 2 flattened discs, one slightly larger than the other. Wrap in plastic and chill for at least an hour.
2. Roll out the large disc between very lightly floured sheets of baker’s parchment until you have a circle that is 13 inches in diameter. Carefully ease it into a 9 inch pie plate or 10 inch tart tin with a removable bottom. Chill the crust.

For the Filling:
1. Wash and dry the oranges. With a sharp peeler carefully remove all of the zest from all 3 oranges and chop finely. Separate the oranges into segments and put them in a medium saucepan along with the chopped zest, 1/3 cup sugar, the lemon juice and the water. Bring to a boil and simmer for about 20 minutes, stirring form time to time. Let the mixture cool to room temperature. The filling can be made a day ahead of time and left at room temperature.
2. Preheat oven to 450 degrees F.
3. Place remaining sugar in a mixing bowl with the cornstarch and mix with a fork. Add the butter and beat until smooth and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time. Fold in the cooled marmalade and the Grand Marnier.
4. Pour the filling into the pie crust. Roll out the remaining pastry between lightly floured sheets of baker's parchment into a rectangle about 9 by 12 inches. Remove the top piece of parchment and cut into strips with a pastry wheel. Moisten the edge of the crust with a bit of water and then arrange the strips like a lattice on top of the filling.
5. Bake 10 minutes then reduce the oven temperature to 350 degrees F and continue to bake the tart for 30 to 40 minutes or until filling is set and crust is slightly colored.
6. Cool and serve with whipped cream.

More Recipes Courtesy of Joyce Goldstein:
Warm Scallop and Mushroom Salad, from Antipasti: Fabulous Appetizers and Small Plates
Crab and Fennel Risotto with Meyer Lemon Gremolata, adapted from Back to Square One
Pork with Chestnuts served with Pumpkin Polenta, from Italian Slow and Savory

Upcoming classes at Ramekins that caught my eye:

03/25/10, An Evening of Food and Wine Pairing (Demo, $85) with Joyce and her son, Evan Goldstein, a James Beard Award-winning master sommelier and career wine educator. Way to keep it in the family.

04/03/10, Top Five Desserts (Hands-on, $85) with Joy Wilson, author of Joy the Baker. Small world, I ran into Joy as we were leaving Ramekins…thought I had smelled something good baking downstairs! She's returning to teach another class in April.

04/29/10, Perbacco Restaurant (Demo, $75) with Staffan Terje, chef/owner of Perbacco. Chef Terje will be showcasing fresh seasonal ingredients and cooking techniques that are the basis of haute cuisine. Which means, you can expect a haute Italian dinner from one of SF’s finest.

Ramekins
450 West Spain Street
Sonoma, CA 95476
Map
(707) 933-0452

Disclosure: Cooking class and accommodations provided by Ramekins.

For more Joyce, check out Check, Please! Bay Area: Season 3: Joyce Goldstein Special, where she profiles three Bay Area restaurants: Medjool, B44, and Da Flora.

2009 was a rough year for restaurants in San Francisco and (if January is any indicator) 2010 isn't going to be a bed of truffles and lollipops either. As a 20-year veteran of the restaurant industry, I cringe.

Have you taken a look at the list of restaurants that closed their doors in the past year? It isn't pretty. Browsing through SF Weekly's SFoodie blog and looking at all of the fallen eateries the other day, I felt like Scarlett O'Hara listening to a long roster of Civil War dead, hoping that none of the old soldiers I truly loved in this city were among the dead or wounded.

Some of the casualties were no big surprise. For example, my reaction to finding out that The Carnelian Room (sorry, Dad) atop the Bank of America tower had closed was like hearing that Abe Vigoda was really, really dead this time. My only surprise was that it had held on for so long.

I am, however, wearing my widow's weeds for some of the other, smaller restaurants that have left us, like Old Krakow, The Palace Steakhouse , and Clementine, just to name a few.

Many restaurants that have survived the 21st century economy thus far have resorted to luring guests into their dining rooms with 2-for-1 specials, happy hours, and (sigh) coupons. Even the once-mighty Aqua and The Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton are offering 1,000 Open Table points if you would just pretty-please come for a visit. That's pretty much the online equivalent of begging.

In terms of restaurant workers, I'm one of the lucky ones. I work in a place that is still (author makes a hurried sigh of the cross) going strong. And there are fortunately several other venues in this city which are doing the same. That doesn't mean, however, that my fellow waiters and I are not feeling the pinch like everybody else. Like maybe you, for example.

These days, a lot of diners are cutting corners where they can. Some of those who do come into our places of business are either coming less often than they used to or are simply spending less. Often, I see couples either sharing one main course or foregoing them altogether and sticking to appetizers. If wine enters the picture, people are drinking more wines-by-the-glass than they are bottles. On the weekends, I see almost as many guests bring in their own wine as order from our wine list. And, of course, those wines aren't usually the ones listed on the reserve menu. As a result, our sales our down. Just like everyone else's, with the possible exception of pharmaceutical companies, undertakers, and bank executives.

Yesterday, for example, I overheard a very well-dressed business woman who works for a high-profile company mention to her lunch partners, "I don't go out much anymore. I've started brown-bagging it at work. I even stopped getting my Starbucks every morning, for God's sake, so today's a real treat!" It's a sensible, Depression Era mindset and I can't say that I blame her one bit.

What I do blame her for is leaving me a 12% tip. And I blame the business guy sitting ten feet away from her discussing how his children don't appreciate how expensive their ski weekend in Aspen really was who gave me even less. And, no, I wasn't having an off day. I was clean, neat, welcoming, informative, prompt, and all the dozen-or-so other good things I have to be to each and every table I take care of. I happen to see it as a trend-- and an ugly one at that.

Don't worry, you won't be hearing violins and I promise not to go all Sally Struthers on you today (though we do share the same birthday, Sally and I). But it is a bit of a rant.

I've said it before and I will say it again, if you leave a (expletive) tip to a server, there had better be a good reason for it. If she is rude or hostile, don't leave one at all. If he screws up your order and blames everyone else, then disappears for a cigarette when you need to pay the check so you can get to the airport like you said you needed to at the beginning of the meal... stiff him-- he deserves it.

But leaving $20 on a $500 bill to a waiter who has orchestrated your meal, told you when you are ordering too much, selected a wine for you that you absolutely rave about, and who makes you look good because your guests are all raving about their experience is an outrage. All the more so because that waiter can't say or do anything about it without losing his job. There is a special dining circle in hell reserved for just this kind of diner.

Not that I feel very strongly about it one way or the other, of course.

Nearly a year ago, I explained in detail exactly what happens in such an extreme case of (undeserved) bad tipping. I mention it again because I've just witnessed another co-worker be treated in the same manner on a similarly-sized check.

Granted, the above is an extreme case, but people are leaving $3 less here, $5 less there. It's alarming to those of us who earn our living depending upon the unreliable tipping habits of strangers. $3 might not sound like very much, but it is. If a server waits upon ten tables in a night and they all sought to save a little money by leaving $3 less, that's $30 out of a server's take home pay per shift. If a server works five shifts per week, that's $150 less. Per month? Around $600. Per year? I think you get the picture. I'm being conservative in my estimates. And remember, sales are typically down all over town, so a server's losses are frequently more when you consider that tips are based on sales.

If you do need to cut down your dining expenses, don't take it out on the good servers. Of course, if you come into my restaurant and want to spend a lot of money, make no mistake-- I'll help you spend it. You'll have a great time doing it, too. But if you come and don't want to blow your whole pay check, I will go out of my way make sure you don't. I'm not going to make you feel like a cheapskate and you'll have just as good a time as the Fat Cats sitting next to you (if not better because, hey, you're more relaxed since you haven't just spent your rent money trying to impress your date).

When the bill comes, be kind. Remember that I found you that beautiful bottle of wine from a region you've never tried before that was $20 less (and much better) than the one you were asking about. It made you look adventurous. Do keep in mind that I suggested our rib eye steak was big enough to feed the both of you. That made your dinner a little more intimate, didn't it? And when I served it all out table side? Ah, that was a nice touch, wasn't it? And when I sent you that dessert for no other reason than "just because," well... perhaps you might bear in mind that I just cut about $50 off of your tab when you are leaving me a tip. Great waiters are worth their weight in gold.

My assumption here is that most of you reading this are savvy enough diners to not make your servers take one in the shorts. You are more than likely sophisticated enough to know good service when you experience it. Why do I know this? Because you're reading a food blog, that's why. I'm not saying it's you. Really. Except those of you who are invariably going to comment that I am being whiney or that I should "get a real job" (I've heard that one before). I'm saying it might just be your mother, or your husband, or your best friend, in which case I hope that you might pass this post along to them after you've given them a nice big hug and told them you love them, even though they are embarrassingly cheap.

The next time you go out to dinner and you've had a great meal and and even greater server, make sure he or she is taken care of. In the words of the mortal Canadian (and you know how Americans make fun of their tipping habits) pundit Nicholas Demeda, "If you can afford to dine out, you can afford to tip well."

Tipping for good service is the one place you should never cut corners.

Watch This Week in Northern California tonight, Friday January 29 at 8pm to see Leslie Sbrocco, host of Check, Please! Bay Area in a new segment on local food and wine trends. This week, a conversation about restaurants and the recession and underground food markets with Bay Area Bites bloggers, Michael Procopio and Stephanie Rosenbaum.

"Never touch a customer (#32)." "Do not curse (#45)." "Never refuse to substitute one vegetable for another (#20)." "Do not play brass bands (#93)."

In late October, as part of his start-up chronicle for the New York Times's You're The Boss blog, Bruce Buschel posted what he called "a modest list of dos and don'ts" for servers at the Bridgehampton, N.Y. seafood restaurant he's opening on April Fool's Day. He included the above nuggets, along with 96 others. Far from "modest," the list, laid out in two parts, touched off frantic comment-slinging in New York Times-land. Interest grew as links to the article and rejoinders from far corners of the food and business blogospheres ping-ponged through Twitter and Facebook. I first saw Buschel's piece on Facebook. The morning of the second part's publication (a week after the first), a friend posted it to his profile and dissed it hard ("what an asshole"). A former bus boy at Per Se and the original Momofuku as well as a third year law school student, my friend is familiar with both the industry in question and argument as a general preoccupation. He brought both strands of experience to bear on his brief take. Combing the comments to Buschel's posts, I found that reactions were typically extreme and severe, running the gamut from similarly negative ("Who died and made this guy the bossy know-it-all?", for example) to laudatory ("This should be a must for every server and restaurant employee to memorize."). Comment-writers are a special breed. A certain kind of person has the time to read widely, strong opinions on most subjects, and a compulsion to dive into whatever fray they sense forming. Comment-writers rarely stand in for the larger population, just a subset of opinionated comment-writers who happen to have read the same thing. This is especially true when the piece provoking debate appears in the New York Times, a journal of record frequently accused of catering to an elitist readership.

In this case, some of the entries -- a hearty portion, actually -- concern a wee wafer of the food and hospitality universe -- nice restaurants for dates, expense accounts, vacations, and special occasions -- specifically, the sorts of places I imagine the writer frequents with more regularity than me. After all, the proprietor of a barbecue restaurant in rural South Carolina would not be compelled to offer olive oil as well as butter with bread (#19), and if some asshole from New York skated through and dumbly asked for it, he'd have to send him on his way -- maybe to Olive Garden, where bread and oil are endless. Buschel anticipates that critique: "I realize that every deli needs a wisecracking waiter, most pizza joints can handle heavy metal, and burgers always taste better when delivered by a server with tattoos and tongue piercing(s)." Aside from his frail and stunted knowledge of delis, pizzerias, and burger places, Buschel's advice ostensibly only concerns plans for his own restaurant, an organic vegetable and fish dispensary with nary a hoof nor a feather on the menu; yet the act of publishing his list suggests he thinks it has universal value.

Of course, Bruce Buschel doesn't even know what he's doing. He's a novice, you see, a dilettante, something he made sure to lay out in his very first post, a question-and-answer session with a hypothetical naysayer. He's never taken an order. He's never been tipped worse than a washroom attendant. His experience with restaurants is limited to dining in them. He's unfettered by an intimate knowledge of the industry. How refreshing! His do's and dont's reflect his own preferences, and perhaps those of his friends; when they're pressed into service at his own establishment, he's assuming diners will feel the same way. I'm not hating on #5. "Tables should be level without anyone asking." Oh god, yes -- shaky tables are the pits. No one wants to spend the first five minutes of any meal anywhere trying to fold a paper towel under a wobbly leg. Others are absurd. For example, if a guest "goes gaga" over dish, no server should have to ask the chef for the recipe on the excessively complimentary guest's behalf (#97). The guest should be told to chill out and come back soon.

I eat out a lot, both recreationally and professionally, and I have my own preferences too, though I would hesitate to open a restaurant and impose them on guests and employees. I'm a wreck, basically. I send mixed signals. I like to be left alone, for starters, but I hate having an empty glass. Fill it frequently enough and I'll fall asleep before dinner is over. I dread the sight of a beaming server approaching to check in with me. I am sensitive, and I anticipate condescension well before it happens, and I know it happens all the time. Excessively nice servers make me feel bad, like I should go get my food myself and share it with them, maybe feed it to them, bite by bite. I don't like anyone acting like they're catering to my needs, but I don't mind them being catered to just a little bit. I don't care how fine a dining experience is supposed to be; I like to hang my own jacket on the back of my chair and put my napkin in my own lap. And I don't like to have anything to complain about because I can't stand the possibility of conflict -- at least with strangers. I have seen people pitch fits in restaurants over service. Interestingly, my friend who hated Buschel's column is himself a very demanding consumer. In college, hung-over, at a breakfast place, he once sent back a ham-and-Swiss omelette because it came topped with inauthentic white American cheese instead of Emmentaler. A year or two later, he cleared a booth at a Manhattan diner to exchange screams with a waitress after he refused to pay for fries he received and ate but didn't order. He had points to make in both instances, but neither situation would have riled me. A white American omelette is authentic in northern Ohio, and fries are always nice to have. He should have ordered them in the first place and saved the waitress the trouble of guessing he'd probably like eating them.

Food and service are two very different things intertwined in the dining experience. I'm food-focused, and apart from my admitted quirks, rarely find that service rubs me the wrong way unless the food also sucks. Four years or so ago, I had a strange, sneering server at Perbacco, but I turned the other cheek. It was full of coppa. On several occasions, my girlfriend and I shifted nervously through meals at the lovable and lamentably late Vogalonga Trattoria. Our regular waiter was capable and friendly to me, but strangely, when he took her order, he refused to look at her. He would stare into my eyes awkwardly and ask her what she wanted. How weird, I thought every time it happened, but we still went back. Another time, we waited for a table at The Front Porch for over 45 minutes, and then, upon finally sitting down and ordering, waited once again for an hour before the first scrap of food arrived. I didn't give a shit about the fried chicken by the time it came; I just wanted to bail, which was why it was annoying that the server kept trying to make us eat dessert.

Restaurants love to offer free dessert when something goes wrong with your meal. The idea is to soothe you, and send you off with a sweet taste in your mouth, instead of fuming over the under-cooked chicken you sent back. I don't get it. If I want dessert -- which I usually don't -- I order it. If I don't order it, I'm full. Buschel should add a #101 on the subject: when someone screws up something, comp cocktails instead of dessert. Then again, my lady and I dined at Delfina the night before Christmas Eve, and at the conclusion of our meal, received a free dessert -- a lemon panna cotta, I believe. The food that night was great, if a little less stunning than it's been in the past, but this made it better -- even though we'd already had plenty to eat. We had no idea why we'd been selected for such a treat. We saw no quivery cylinders squishing across other plates in the vicinity. They must have known my status, I joked on the way home. Was our server's generosity a random display of holiday spirit? Had we failed to notice something terribly amiss with our meal? We could thing of nothing. Buschel, take note: comp something even when no one screws up -- even if its dessert (#102).

I'm a sucker for a great Caesar salad. Call me old school, but there are few things that can beat it in my book. Garlicky, lemony, cheesy, and anchovy-y, if there is such a word. If there isn't, there should be.

Sadly, a great restaurant Caesar salad has eluded me in San Francisco.

With the possible exceptions of Zuni Café and Tadich Grill (both old school and old guard), I have been bitterly disappointed every time I order a Caesar salad in a restaurant. And the above venues merely create good salads, not, in my opinion, great ones. Yet I keep on ordering them everywhere I go. It's like forgetting the pain of childbirth or the tragedy of falling in love with a crazy sadist-- I fall blindly and hopefully back into bed with the salad section of the menu and think, "This time, it's going to be good. This time I am going to find the one I've been waiting for all my life." Invariably, I am served a Romaine salad with either a flaccid, mayonnaise-like dressing, or an underdressed, uninspired one with croutons like ship biscuits that leaves me asking my server for a little extra lemon and another napkin with which I might dry my tears.

Perhaps I just live to be disappointed.

And then, when discussing the demise of this salad with a friend over a lunch that included a particularly sorry looking one, I understood what all of these salads were missing, good and bad:

Drama.

The Caesar salad is a dish that cries out for table-side service. It is, in my opinion if not in fact, the ham actor of the salad world-- a fact none too surprising when one considers that it was first created in a pique of impromptu by Cesare Cardini, an Italian man living in the once-glamorous town Tijuana, Mexico. Fortunately for us, Cardini had the good sense (or delicious folly, depending on your point of view) to seek out his fame and fortune in Hollywood, dressing recipe in hand, where the salad soon became a favorite among the local movie stars and luncheon élite. Cesare's salad soon evolved into Caesar's salad and, somewhere along the way, the apostrophe "s" was lost, and Caesar salads were being dramatically created in front of and for delighted diners in leather banquetted dining rooms and Danish Modern living rooms across the country.

Sadly, Cesare's salad is going the way of Banana's Foster, Cherries Jubilee, and the dodo, thanks to the demise of table side service. There is little room in most restaurants today to manoeuver the necessary salad carts, and diners (with the possible exception of brief fads like the Benihana's craze of the 70's, and eating at chef's tables in the 90's) seem less interested in having a server who entertains. Lastly, and perhaps most sadly of all, those venues who do still provide table side cooking are often so old-fashioned and unchanging that they have become a sort of dwindling, petrified forest. And those diners who habituate them are either equally as fossilized or, at best, there solely for kitsch.

So what can one do?

I, for one, have started making my own damned Caesar salads. Or Cesare salads, as I prefer now to call them. I can make them as obscenely garlicky as I like and can toss them as high and dramatically as my ceiling and physical abilities allow. I'm a professional waiter, after all, and one with a strong dramatic bent. Just ask anyone. Just don't ask me to make one for you at my restaurant-- there is no way in hell I could ever get that rolling cart past the drunken cougars hovering at the bar.

Lyle's Muy Fuerte Cesare's Salad:

Serves 2 to 4

At my birthday party last summer, I had decided that my own contribution to the buffet would be my favorite old-school salad, since I was now, officially (according to some people) old. It was then that I realized that I had never actually made one before. The one's I had known and loved were always made for me by people who understand gusto like my friend Shan or my ex-boyfriend Paul, who was about as theatrically dramatic as they come.

When I confessed this salad-tossing inexperience to my friend Lyle, he told me he would walk me through the entire process. Being my birthday, I let him take over, while I poured myself another glass of wine and watched him do all the work.

This is a recipe muy fuerte-- extra garlic, extra anchovy, extra everything. Brash and unsubtle. In other words, just the way I like it.

I would suggest preparing this dish with at least one other person in the room when you first try it. Talk the entire time you are mashing, whisking, and tossing. Remember: you are the entertainment. If you don't have anyone on hand to chat with, I suggest, chatting up your pet. If you have no pet, bring a houseplant into your kitchen and talk to that. If you are lacking a house plant, you are more than likely not the type of person who would ever make a Caesar salad and are therefore not reading this.

Ingredients:

Two heads of Romaine lettuce, well washed, outer leaves removed, and torn into bite-sized pieces.

About 1/3 cup Parmesan cheese. Please use the good stuff. Nothing that comes out of a shaker will do no matter how good a deal you got with that double coupon.

Whole anchovies for garnish are entirely optional.

For the Dressing:

1 coddled egg. Yolk only.

3 anchovy filets (spanish, preferably)

2 cloves garlic, crushed

A pinch of coarse salt (kosher is excellent)

The juice of one half lemon

4 to 5 drops Worcestershire sauce

4 to 5 drops Tabasco sauce

1/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard

6 tablespoons (approximate) of extra virgin olive oil

Coarsely ground black pepper to taste.

For Croutons:

For two cups of croutons (it is always a good idea to make extra):

2 cups of day-old bread (french, sour, white-- take your pick), dried out a touch and cut into 3/4" cubes.

2 tablespoons butter, melted

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

a heavy pinch of salt

Preparation:

To Coddle an Egg:

Coddling the egg yolk lends a richer texture to the dressing by thickening it slightly, in case you were wondering. If you want a better scientific understanding of this process, ask a scientist. I prefer to live in ignorance and call it a miracle.

1. Bring your egg (which should be very fresh) to room temperature by placing it in a heat-proof glass of warm water for a few minutes. When this temperature has been achieved, drain water and cover egg with boiling water. Let stand for exactly one minute. Drain. Run cold water over egg. Egg has now been thoroughly traumatized and is now ready for use in your dressing.

Making the Croutons:

1. Preheat oven to 375F. Drizzle butter/oil mixture over bread cubes while tossing cubes with your free hand (if you have no extra hand available, use someone else's.) Coat evenly but do try to avoid an absolute drenching.

Place a single layer of bread cubes on a baking sheet and pop into the oven on the upper rack. Peek into oven at around 7 to 8 minutes into the process, shake and turn cubes. Remove from oven when cubes have become golden brown and therefore have officially attained crouton status*.

*To my mind, croutons should be very much like Lou Grant from The Mary Tyler Moore Show-- hard, crusty exterior, but soft and warm on the inside. They should, however, not smell strongly of bourbon in the middle of the afternoon.

To Make the Dressing:

1. Place kosher salt, anchovy, and garlic in the bottom of a wooden bowl. Mash these ingredients together with the aid of two forks until a rough paste is formed.

2. Next, add mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, and lemon juice. Trade in the two forks for a wire whisk. Whisk until well-blended.

3. Add coddled egg yolk to the mix and whisk with gusto for about one minute to allow the citric acid from the lemon to "cook" the yolk a little.

4. Slowly drizzle in olive oil from as great a height as you dare, for theatrical purposes. Pause occasionally to taste with a clean finger. Make dramatic noises as you do so.

5. Let the lettuce leaves rain down into your dressing-drenched wooden bowl. Do not add any sound effects at this point. With the two forks you had earlier cast aside or with larger, more festive, salad utensils, begin to toss the salad. Sprinkle in a little cheese here, a little there. Hum as you sprinkle. Something lilting and hopeful.

6. Add your croutons, tossing and humming all the more.

7. Now add cracked black pepper to finish both the tossing of your salad and the incessant humming.

8. If serving directly from the salad bowl, sprinkle with a bit more cheese to garnish, if serving individually, divide equally among chilled plates, then add more cheese. Whatever you do, serve and eat immediately.

Enjoy.

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.