The order from table 51 is similarly riddled with red. "Lobster, no risotto, sub greens. Chicken, no potatoes, sub greens. Two chicken, no pork." That last means the balsamic roasted chicken, served with red-skin smashed potatoes, red grapes and Italian sausage, must be made minus the sausage.
"The amount of work increases exponentially with even the slightest changes in the order," Ramos says, "because you can’t cook it with the others."
There is only one thing regarded with less favor than substitutions. And that is a dish sent back seemingly without a valid reason. An order of the oyster appetizer, run out to the dining room, is promptly run back again. "Is there something wrong with it?" Ramos asks the runner, who says the woman who ordered it thought it looked too filling.
"Welcome to the dark underbelly of working in a restaurant," Jakins says. "It very quickly makes you a cynic."
The oysters, drenched in a rich bacon beurre blanc, are still hot. Dipped in cornmeal batter, fried to a delicate crisp, they are juicy and nicely spiced. The overall effect is exquisite.
An order of scallops is turned back; the diner didn’t like that they were peppery. "I guess," Heineman says, "he didn’t read the part of the menu where it says with ‘lemony black pepper sauce.’ "
Heineman moves in and out of the cooking line. Tasting menus are a creative addition to an evening’s options, but logistically difficult on a busy night. Orders tumble in. The pace is unforgiving. And people are still coming through the front door. Walk-ins waiting for tables are three deep at the bar. The crowd crests around 7:30, stays there for an hour, two hours. Then, sometime toward 10 p.m., the flood drops off. The noise level diminishes. Everyone breathes again.
As the evening draws to a close, the tally is 174, a very good night. In the end, only the lobster ran out, which was expected, and spinach, with arugula taking its place. The pork shanks held.
"It was like sardines tonight," Imber says. "And so many walk-ins I had to redo the whole plan."
The restaurant starts to empty. Minutes before 11, the hour the kitchen closes, a party of four walks in. They order wine and a single serving of gnocchi.
Ledden cooks the staff’s "family dinner"— meatloaf, house salad, salmon, mac and cheese, rice, mushroom fricassee. Everyone eats standing up; there’s quiet chatter, a few jokes, but it’s clear that everyone is exhausted.
The late arrivals sip their wine. At 11:30 they pay, but continue to talk. Scabelli, the evening’s designated "late server," can’t leave until they do. Ledden and Jakins head for the door. Jason Ramos follows. Esteban Ramos sweeps the kitchen. Primo and Carlos Bonilla wash the floors.
Scabelli waits. "And here you see the great chasm between customer and server," he says. "They show up late, order four glasses of wine. They’re just nursing their wine." Maybe they haven’t noticed they’re holding anyone up. Maybe they have. The look on his face is hard, but he remains unfailingly polite.
Midnight, the lights have been dimmed and the party of four still hasn’t gotten the hint. The dishwashers dash away. Esteban Ramos has gone home. The kitchen is dark.
Mason, waiting for a cab, sits heavily on a stool by the bar. The cab arrives and she rises with an effort, exchanges a look of commiseration with Scabelli, says good night. Scabelli tries not to pace.
It’s 12:15 when the four finally stand. They walk out still deep in conversation, making no apology. They’ve left a decent tip anyway.
Scabelli heads for the door. Last is Ernie Brice. "I check everything out," he says. "I make sure the coffee makers are shut off, the water pitchers are emptied. I check the stoves, walk through the kitchen. I make sure the back door’s locked. I turn off the lights and the radio. Turn down the heat. I set the alarm and close the door."
Sunday’s a day off. Monday, it starts all over again.
Ellen Bartlett is a writer living in Chevy Chase.
