"I can’t," Jakins says over by the stoves. "I was 3."
"I was in the womb," says Steve Ledden, the senior line cook, as he sets up his station.
Heineman encourages his chefs to come up with ideas for dishes, which are then developed in a process that is collaborative and distinctly experimental. "It’s like, ‘I tried this. I saw that. I read about this, let’s try it with trout,’" he says. "Things develop organically."
Heineman applies the same principles to marketing, with an underlying mischievous humor. He once sought to spark demand for soup by offering it gratis. Only two people ordered it. "I was thinking of starting a Facebook group called: People Who Hate People Who Hate Soup," he says.
Last June, he selected two entrées and offered them at no charge on Wednesdays. "People couldn’t handle it. They were like, ‘What’s the gimmick?’ " he says. "…Doesn’t say much for trust in mankind, does it?" It was a gimmick, of course. "But it costs $400 to run an ad in the Gazette newspapers. This seemed cheaper. And it was a lot more fun."
By the time Ernie Brice, Grapeseed’s general manager and sommelier, arrives just before 2 p.m., the quiet morning seems like a distant memory. Brice, a 31-year-old, is an enthusiast of all things generally (he punctuates the menu listings with exclamation marks), but of wine in particular, with an encyclopedic knowledge of all things viticultural. He starts his day in the Grapeseed office, a cluttered space on the second floor. It’s where the restaurant’s "point of sale" computer system is located. Micros, based in Columbia, manages everything from the menu to the wine list to the day’s orders and totals. A second Internet-based system, OpenTable, tracks reservations.
Brice, who commutes from Upper Marlboro while renovating a house in Washington, D.C., spends an hour or so confirming reservations. "The day’s shaping up," he says. With 137 people on the books plus probable walk-ins, he predicts a turnout of 160 to 165, "exactly what we want to be getting."
Jason Ramos appears with a scribbled list of minor menu changes. Every six weeks, there’s a meeting to discuss major changes (dishes to be altered or eliminated). But there are incidental changes every day—purple potatoes have replaced fingerlings in the Peruvian shrimp stew; the blue cheese in the arugula salad has been changed from Fourme d’Ambert to Maytag. Brice prints the revised menu; later, a server will type it into the Micros system.
It’s 3 p.m. and energy is building downstairs. Ledden has made the gnocchi and is browning the lamb. Jason Ramos is taking a break to check the next week’s staffing schedule. Aside from a few minutes spent eating a sub while standing, he and Jakins have worked nonstop. Ledden starts trimming the beef tenderloin before cutting it into steaks, and there’s nowhere to put the lamb. Without even looking up, Ramos says, "Grill."
The line cooks prepare their stations so that when orders are coming in thick and fast, they don’t have to think.
Until now, all the action has occurred in the kitchen. But just after 3, the sound of vacuuming comes from the darkened dining room. One of the servers, Tobias Scabelli, has set to work immediately after arriving. Elias Ramos, the other server, is cutting lemons and limes for the water. The two dishwashers, Primo and Carlos Bonilla, arrive.
At 4, the lights go on in the dining room. Three more servers appear: Geoff Fuller, Rhondye Williams and Dawn Mason. The phone is ringing and the cooks have turned up the music: It’s "Barbie Girl" by Aqua. There’s a sense of the restaurant as a stage in a musical, gradually filling with more and more people. You can’t help thinking they’re going to break into a dance number at any moment.
"This is the time when everyone starts scrambling," Ledden says. "It’s fun." Behind him on the stove top, several long-handled saucepans contain the components of various dishes: the horseradish cream that will be mixed with the mashed potatoes; polenta for the mushroom fricassee; mussel sauce; meatball sauce; a roasted tomato soup. Everything has to be brought up to 165 degrees and kept there. Ledden is responsible for five entrées and four appetizers. He’s also the cook closest to the chef’s table, a bar with five front-row seats overlooking the cooking line. Grapeseed has what’s known as an open kitchen.
At 4:40 p.m., Brice calls the front-of-the-house staff to a meeting. Jason Ramos outlines the menu changes and explains to the servers what a roulade is (jellyroll, he says). Several wines are "86ed," meaning they’ve run out— the Cinnabar Pinot Noir, the Bodegas Ateca and the Pines Pinot Gris. Heineman warns everyone that his mother is coming. Jason Ramos’ in-laws also are dining tonight. They’re all considered VIPs and will be treated to something special.
"The biggest issue tonight is we have a lot of six-tops, a lot of five-tops, a lot of tight, tight turns," Brice tells them. He names the bussers and the runners, and notes that one is new.
"We’ll be helping David a little bit," Brice says. "So if you see him serving from the wrong side or to the wrong table numbers, just bring it to my attention. David’s a great kid, we just want to help get him on the right path.
"We are low, it looks like, on sparkling water. So just be aware that we may have to 86 the sparkling at some point. Oh, and 86 the honey pear tea. No honey pear. Questions? Questions? Questions?"
The hostess, Kelly Imber, arrives in time for the first diners, a party of two, escorted to table 82. It’s exactly 5 p.m.
For this evening, a total of 43 reservations have been made in advance, online and over the phone. Of that total, 17 are canceled, some at the last minute, and four will be no-shows. And there will be 18 walk-ins. "It’s a constant scramble," Imber says. Hostesses rely on OpenTable to help them keep track. The system also allows for observations about individual patrons, such as, "nice older couple, likes a quiet table," or, "Holy s— -! What a f— -ing a— hole!" (Which Heineman orders deleted when he sees it. "I could just picture the guy taking a peek at the screen," he says.)
It’s an open secret in the restaurant business that, maxim aside, the customer isn’t always right. At an especially busy point in the evening, Imber is staggering as a party of four piles heavy woolen coats and at least one fur into her arms. One man, clearing his throat to get her attention, nods toward the floor. "My scarf," he says. Imber bends down to pick it up.
"You learn a lot about people," she says. "You can either become bitter or you can laugh." But there should be a rule, she says: "In order to eat in a restaurant, you have to have worked in one for a while."
In the kitchen, acting as expediter, Jason Ramos calls out the orders as they come in, checks each dish before it leaves, adds the appropriate garnish, then sends it out on the arm of a runner.
Mason takes the evening’s first order and feeds it into Micros, which spits out two copies to Ramos. The couple at table 82 is hungry. "Order fire," Ramos says, "gnocchi, calamari. Order in, soup of the day, arugula, filet med, lamb med."
"Order fire" means cook it straightaway. "Order in" is for the next course; it means stand by. And "pick up" applies to an order ready to be moved along.
The pace, slow at first, accelerates. Ramos calls and the cooks respond. "Pick up scallops, gnocchi, oysters." The two Memos spring into action. "Pick up monk, rock." Saucepans are stacked high by Ledden’s right elbow. He’s flipping gnocchi.
Everyone seems to be ordering pork shanks. There’s talk of it running out. "There’s always that one dish that everyone zeros in on," Ramos says.
"Murphy will ensure we run out of three things," Jakins says, "and I’ll get yelled at."
Orders tick in faster. "Order fire, three arugula, one fric. Oh, boy." Ramos frowns at an order printing out almost entirely in red, the color of special requests. "OK, listen up. Order in, three chicken, two no sauce. One lobster, no risotto."
