Your Table Is Ready: Tales of a New York City Maître D'

by Michael Cecchi-Azzolina

I get comfort from the families who come, the couples, the dates, the music, the dim lights, the laughter, conversations, orders being taken, drinks poured, the clatter of plates, the clanging of silverware, glasses tapped together in toast, a bartender’s shaker—the sound of the ice and liquor slamming against the top and sides of the tin (I still salivate at the sound)—the arguments, the nasty customers, it’s all a grand symphony to me. It’s why I love this sometimes-shitty business and why many others like me are drawn to it.

NOTHING COMPARES TO THE energy of a busy restaurant, especially one filled with celebrities from all walks of life. The laughter, the toasts, the intensity of the alcohol-fueled conversations, the celebrations, birthdays and anniversaries, and the joy, happiness, and fun that comes from partaking with strangers—people in for a night and whom you don’t really know no matter how much they act like they have known you their whole life. But for the moment, these strangers love you like family. It’s perfect, partially because it lacks

any of the painful connections or remembrances from your past. When it works, it’s the best of family life. For a few hours these surrogate families become what we always wanted them to be. It’s the McDonald’s Christmas commercials repeated over and over. But when it doesn’t work and you’re a server or bartender or manager thrown into the mix, it’s as much fun as being waterboarded. It can be an addictive cycle and draws in addictive personalities of all sorts—alcoholics and drug addicts, sex addicts, survivors of abuse, ragers, narcissists—all thrown into an unbelievably high-pressure mix. Many of those I’ve worked with, including myself, exhibited at least some of these dysfunctions. Combine that with the need to serve, to be good, to please

mommy and daddy, to be rewarded, all under the auspices of hospitality, and you have a recipe for the enablin...

You had to take it back then. There was no HR, no one to go to or complain to, no social media to let the world know your chef was a maniac and your existence was threatened almost daily.

It’s an addiction, the adrenaline rush you get trying to execute all the necessary steps to serve a meal. You run your ass off and then suddenly it’s over. Done. You’ve got through another night. Time to count the money and walk out, hopefully, happy.

If an owner thinks he can pay a manager $60,000 a year to run the business like the owner would, he’s out of his fucking mind. He will close in a year.

At the factories, the large places, most people want to eat and leave, which the ownership encourages. Turning tables is the goal. In the better restaurants, the great ones, it’s about the total experience.

Except many of those I’ve worked with are gone. Some left the city, defeated, beaten down by the pressure of making it. Others took “real” jobs, ones with health insurance, paid vacations, and all the benefits taken for granted when you’re not slinging hash in a restaurant. They left disillusioned with an industry that has historically been brutal to its workers. Left because of the stress of constantly having to be “on” every single night. Left because of the abusive customers, the long hours, never having holidays off. They left because they didn’t want to keep standing for hours on end with no

breaks, waiting eight to ten hours to finally get to eat, knees and feet slowly giving out. They left because they got sick of having to deal with scurrilous and psychotic owners, belligerent cooks, chefs, and managers. It all takes its toll.

But it’s also opened the eyes of many in this industry. We’ve had a chance to rethink the business—who we are, what we do, what we need to do, what we want to do. So many people have refused to go back to their shitty and abusive restaurant jobs that restaurants are desperate for help.

While I will never forget the bad, what I most remember is what I loved. There’s nothing like the camaraderie of going into battle each evening with your entire team and seeing how it all unfolds. Like theater, the script rarely changes, but it’s a different performance each night.