The Man Who Ate Everything - Jeffrey Steingarten [55]
The course at the New York Professional Service School ran for seven weekly three-hour sessions, each one brimming with information and practical exercises. Some of my twenty-seven fellow students worked at admirable New York City restaurants—Metro, the Post House, Manhattan Ocean Club, Sofi, Smith & Wollensky, Remi—and some were looking for jobs at places like them. Each week we learned about table and plate service, or flatware and its uses, or wine and dessert service, from Karen MacNeil, codirector of the school. Then there was a guest lecture by somebody in the restaurant business—the owner of Union Square Cafe or Lavin’s, the general manager of the Four Seasons, or a captain at Aurora. At the end of each lesson we had a wine tasting and sometimes a sampling of fresh herbs, wild mushrooms, or foie gras.
Captains and headwaiters at expensive restaurants in New York earn seventy-five thousand dollars a year from their share of the tips, so the curriculum puts at least as much weight on teaching techniques to increase your tips as on the techniques of service. The moment I opened the school’s brochure, I realized that I would soon be initiated into the secret stratagems that waiters use to infuriate us, ruin our dinner, and take us to the cleaners. These are some of the topics that caught my eye:
• How to Increase Tips through Professional Selling Skills
• Handling Difficult Customers
• Controlling the Customer Instead of the Customer Controlling You
• How to Increase Tips through Conversation and Selling Skills
• How to Increase Tips through Wine Sales
• Creating the Right Last Impression—Timing and the Check
The guest lecturer at our first lesson was an expert in all these disciplines. He is a captain at the most illustrious restaurant in New York, and one of the most expensive. We will call it La Clique, and we will call him Philippe. He is dark, handsome, charming, and articulate. As soon as Philippe begins to speak, I know that I am in the hands of a master:
“Don’t pour them water, you want to sell them water. If I could sell the bread on the table, I’d sell the bread, but I can’t. Maybe someday.
“I want you to underline this,” Philippe continues. “I am against pouring water. Make them ask for water. There is a water glass on the table, and they wait for the water to come. Eventually nothing comes, and they’re getting thirsty. Then five minutes later, you say, ‘Would you like some mineral water?’ It’s a very important sale, especially these days, when people drink fewer martinis and a lot more Evian and Perrier. New York tap water, as far as I’m concerned, is much better than Evian and much less expensive. But do you know how much profit the house does on water? Bottled water is about the price of a cocktail—three dollars and fifty cents for a Perrier. It’s no work, no production at the bar, and the customers can pour it themselves. This is fantastic! This is the way you want it to be.”
Philippe’s goals at La Clique are to help his customers spend as much money as possible and make them come back for more. “I take advantage of my strong French accent,” he confides. “If you use the fact that you are very handicapped with the language, they feel they have to give you a break and buy whatever you are selling them. It’s almost a handicap not to have an accent.”
Two students volunteer to act as customers, a doctor and his wife from the suburbs. Philippe explains that although he knows their table is ready, and although he would like to turn it over as quickly as possible, he wants them to buy a drink first. So, as they