It’s been over two years since I stepped into that Restaurant in Steakhouse Row. That two mile suburban strip that had more steakhouses per square mile than I would personally would’ve liked. But, obviously, Texans loved their steak and variety. Or what they considered as that.
When I started working there, I promised myself that one day, some day I would come in as a customer.
One weekend lunch service, a co-worker from the hot kitchen, went in for lunch. Everyone cheered and clapped as she, all dolled up outside of her kitchen uniform, made her way down the hallway between the kitchen and the in-house bakery. The head chef sent out extra treats, complimentary plates for the hard working, well-deserved restaurant worker.
I need to work at least 7 to 8 hours to afford the legendary holiday brunch buffet my husband and I were now there for. The buffet plus standard issue brunch bubbly, a mimosa, of course, and a generous tip. A day’s worth of work for an hour’s meal.
Scanning the face of each server in their uniform crisp collared black button down, denim, cowboy boots and, at times, a cowboy hat to boot, each cook in their dark denim button down and trucker cap, each busboy, head down, through the swinging doors to the dish pit all in black to be the invisible hands who kept the tables clear and clean despite the brunch frenzy, I struggled to recognize familiar faces. It’s been over two years with an ongoing pandemic, so that is more than enough for one’s looks to evolve. Weight gained or lost. Hair style and color changed. Piercings or tatts. I didn’t recognize a single person. Everyone I knew by face, or by name…gone.
Restaurant in Steakhouse Row looked the same though.
Past the receptionist on the first floor, up the shiny concrete steps with wrought iron balusters, to the second receptionist that would usher us to our table was the open kitchen, where one could see all the cooks work magic on your orders, that once left me in awe and wonder.
Subway tile still lined the walls of the bakery with “This is how I roll.” In cursive over the two-level convection ovens and stainless steel hanging shelves with mason jars filled with spices, baking powder and yeast all in a row. I used to climb up the counter to get to them. Everyone in the bakery did. We were all well below five feet and a half.
The plexiglass barrier, where I used to peer through while I was banging the rolling pin on the half-frozen pie dough as big haired Dallas brunch ladies that paraded with their Louis Vuittons, now removed. A large side of smoked salmon, an ice box filled with pink boiled shrimp swimming with lemon wedges and a tray of buttered crostini fronted by bowls of cowboy remoulade, cocktail sauce, capers, red onions and boiled eggs replaced it.
The pass in the hot kitchen, where finished plates sat under the heating lamp, ready to be picked up by servers, was now one of the buffet stations - hot and hearty breakfast scribbled in cursive on a blackboard. Hungry guests were corralled into the area with red carpet leather ropes to a spread of cast iron pans heaping with curly, crisp thick cut bacon, slices of jalapeño cheddar sausages, a gloopy unidentifiable potato casserole, chubby French toast rolls, creamy, not dry, rubbery scrambled eggs, mini cinnamon rolls, cream gravy with chunks of sausage and chilaquiles - scrambled eggs and soggy, day old tortilla chips topped with bright salsa verde and pico de gallo. Peering past the dishes, you could see the cooks’ deft hands in action, chopping more meats to fill the steam tables or more parsley for garnish.
The garde manger station, where I regularly restocked the whipped cream in the mini fridge underneath the black granite slabs and where the plated desserts were finished was now a dessert and pastry station. Wooden crates draped in black tablecloth, platters holding an assortment of cookies, danishes and muffins, balanced on iron stilts and bowls of billowy whipped cream and honey cinnamon butter.
“I used to make these.” I told the husband, pointing to the dessert squares on my plate. My wrist flicked at the repetitive motions of gliding the offset spatula against the cake batter on the bake tray to ensure the cake comes out even, rapping in against the wooden counters for good measure to avoid any air pockets. Then measuring an inch per square with a ruler, hovering over with a gorged pastry bag to pipe a knob of icing over each slice and topping each with a single, whole honeyed pecan. And finally, plating over a wooden slab to serve.
The center table that used to house all the utensils now converted into a salad station. The bar now heaving with lunch favorites like mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, pork ribs, chicken fried steak, chicken wings, fried catfish and grilled Texas gulf snapper. Plus the bloody mary and mimosa bar. In front of the vinyl record library was a carving station and a taco bar. Your choice of meats to go with your rolls or corn tortillas.
I wouldn’t call it a classic Texas brunch. Maybe it is. I’ve not had that many Texas brunches under my belt to confirm. But the spread was indeed Texas sized.
Would I spend a day’s wages for a meal here?
I used to dream of being that restaurant worker to be cheered on by her colleagues, treated like the queen that was so rightly deserved. If all I had were bills to pay for a roof over my head, gas for my car to get to work and all the other trappings of living a basic modern life, definitely no. I’d need two more jobs for the indulgence.
Now, I could afford the meal without the guilt, without the pressure of the lack of resources. But why was I underwhelmed? Why did the dream suddenly lose its shine?
Thinking back on my then wages, should not the staff be able to actually afford eating at the restaurant they work at? Should it be worth a day’s work? What experience should a restaurant make?
As the new variant rages on, I hope that you continue to stay safe and healthy through the holidays. It’s been challenging especially that people are just itching to spend time with loved ones face to face. But it is what it is. Please get vaccinated and boosted if you’re already qualified.
Love from Kickapoo country / Tejas,
Didi
What I’m reading:
I just finished reading Austin Kleon’s Keep Going. I actually listened to the audio book, but nothing beats flipping the page and seeing the art that comes with the paper book. I got some valuable tips for sanity in today’s wired world. One which I started doing is not waking up to my phone.
I also recently finished Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun. No friends or feeling lonely? In this world, you could actually get an artificial friend or an AF. Klara is one. Created with extraordinary observation and insight skills, unlike all other AFs including the upgraded versions, Klara narrates. She tells us about relationship to her kid, Josie, her family and the Sun. It is a story tackling the conundrum of technology and humanity.
What I’m watching:
Are you a Sex and The City fan? I should say I am and am enjoying the older versions of Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte (sans Samantha. Boo.) on And Just Like That. I’ve aged as well and appreciate some character development there. It’s not perfect, but hey, does it need to be?
Also following The Wheel of Time on Amazon Prime. I’ve never read the books, but I am enjoying the show, so far. If you’re a fan of fantasy, this may be for you.