The Inquisitive Eater: The Service Issue

THE INQUISITIVE EATER

Marisol aveline Delarosa Nikki Palladino Vanessa Ogle Evan Kanouse Casey Adrian

THE SERVICE ISSUE

the inquisitve eater THE SERVICE ISSUE FA L L 2 0 2 3

Contents 8 Letter from the Editors

11 Something to Drink

19 The New Approachable Wine List

25 House Special

26 Just the Tip

35 Tough Bite

Editor-in-chief madison ford

deputy editors Ashley-Anna Aboreden, Brianna Lopez

fiction editor Hannah Berman

non-fiction editors shelby mcDonald, christine ro

poetry editor Kat Schmidt

art and print design madison ford

special thanks John Reed lori lynn turner

the inquisitive eater is published with support from the new school mfa creative writing program, New york, NY 10011 issue 1, © 2023 The new school

contributors casey adrian is a writer and

Marisol Aveline Delarosa

social science researcher, currently pursuing a Master of Social Work at Binghamton University. His academic and creative work focus on young love, sexual politics, and the bittersweet taste of heartbreak. When he is not writing or researching, he is moonlighting as a waiter. Casey lives in Upstate New York and can be found at caseyadrian.com.

This is his debut short story publication.

writes nonfiction and fiction, and she is a first-year student in the Creative Writing MFA program at The New School.

She is a New Yorker but hopes to also have a home in Barcelona someday.

Marisol has been selling alcohol for over two decades and currently runs the only real bar left in the Meatpacking District.

You can find more of her work at www.thisisnotcake.com.

nikki palladino, a full-time

Evan Kanouse is a writer, artist,

copywriter, enrolled in the graduate writing studies program at Saint Joseph’s University to write about her passions, food and wine. She has worked as a sommelier on the floors of Lupa and Oceana in Manhattan and also, as the program coordinator for the Wine Studies Program at The International Culinary Center. Her creative nonfiction explores the culture and personality of the wine and hospitality industries and she’s currently at work on a young adult novel about a first-gen Italian American teen with a passion for pastry arts. Follow her @nikki_pall.

vanessa ogle is a poet, writer,

and educator. Her poetry has appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, The 2River View, and elsewhere. She received her BA from Stony Brook University and her MFA from Hunter College. In addition to her writing career, she has worked in a variety of restaurants and fast food establishments and has written about class issues and her experience in those industries for The Nation and elsewhere.

and educator. He is currently an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at The New School. He has studied and written about belief systems in education (M.Ed. Educational Leadership, Boston College.

M.A. Religious Studies, Fordham University. B.A. Religion, Bard College). He lives in southern Connecticut, where he works at an N-12 independent school and is co-founder of Outbox, a non-profit organization dedicated to LGBTQ-inclusive education.

Letter from the Editors ON SERVICE

I

n the Inquisitive Eater’s inaugural special issue, our contributors take

on

a

weighty

theme:

service. Our relationship to the food service industry can bear so many developmental

milestones

and

societal interludes. This landscape is the scene of first jobs, second jobs, lifestyles, communities, addiction, direction, misdirection; it supports first dates and caffeine habits and those who’ve had the kind of day where making a meal for themselves seems an impossible task; it is a stage in which one can try to impress or be made to feel inferior, whether in back of house, front of house, or at the table.

Like so many creatives, the editors of Inquisitive Eater have worked in a number of service industry roles to help support our lives and aspirations.

In this way, the artist’s life is often entangled with a life of service. It is a path that offers strange hours and new characters and hard work and wages that might pay the rent but never seem quite enough for financial

the inquisitive eater

9

unburdening. In service you establish inexplicable bonds with coworkers, and work double shifts in your dreams, and field an onslaught of human behavior that can elicit sentiments of endearment or disdain in an instant.

Mulling over service seems to be a growing part of the zeitgeist. Shows like The Bear have garnered a voracious fandom where the dysfunctions of restaurant operations have been romanticized despite its apt portrayal of physical and mental unrest; yes chef is thrown around in home kitchens and social media sketches as something humorous, something sexy. The proliferation of tipping prompts at checkout is eliciting a building ire from the American public that is pushing us to question the blurry guidelines of who we tip and how much. In many US cities, a staffing shortage of service industry jobs has lingered since the pandemic.

Societal roles which for so long got drowned out within the hum of daily life are vibrating at a frequency that demands attention.

The stories, poetics, and pressing questions of service are brought into conversation with one another in this Service Issue. Casey Adrian brings into focus how a passion for service and its rhythms can come at the cost of personal relationships. Sommelier Nikki Palladino breaks down the implications of an unapproachable wine list. Evan Kanouse’s piece explores service as a stabilizing force in the face of personal demons. Vanessa Ogle captures a melancholic monotony in her poem, and Marisol Aveline Delarosa tackles the slippery beast that is tipping culture.

We see this issue as the start of many more wonderful investigations to come: when it comes to the way we eat, the way we drink, there is a lot to unwrap. But for now, we welcome you to embrace the slowness and chaos of this holiday week with some tasty food writing. We hope you leave uncomfortably full.

Best, Madison Ford, Brianna Lopez, and the editors of the Inquisitive Eater

THE Service Issue

FICTION

the inquisitive eater

11

Something to Drink CASEY ADRIAN

A

in frustration, dripping sweat from her

and caught Upstate,” Terrence

brow and onto the tile; the kitchen would

said. He and his trainee walked

become tense and booming and airless;

out of the cooler—tubs of sliced lemons in

the dining room would fill with patient

their arms, stocking the dining room for

bodies, breathing in each other’s heavy

dinner service. The heart of the kitchen

air, talking of trivial and faraway things.

was loud with the churning sounds of

Terrence’s joints would stiffen by the end

machinery, the fine chopping of parsley,

of the night. He would be dry-swallowing

deep sinks filling with ice and cold water. A

painkillers in any inconsequential moment

chef scraped the grill with a bent spatula,

of freetime.

digging up black soot and smelling of

But being busy was good. A busy

smoke. “The eggs and the beef are from

Saturday meant that there would be

local farms; the fish are caught in the

lots of distractions to center his mind.

lakes. Our produce is grown nearby.” They

The young servers, like ballerinas falling

turned into the kitchen alley. Terrence

from their pointe shoes, would become

emptied lemon wedges into a silver

flustered by their full sections and give

pan—seeds and juice splashing against

a table to him. He would welcome six or

stainless steel countertops and forming

seven parties at once—welcoming six or

sour puddles. The sight of the yellow fruit

seven gratuities. A bounty of cash would

made the trainee’s mouth jolt, bringing her

grow in his pocket, allowing him to splurge

tongue to life. “The shellfish are from New

on a bottle of post-shift rosé.

England,” he admitted. “But Chef can’t go without mussels.”

His life was full of these contradictions: he wanted Saturday to be both busy and

It was a Saturday night, the first of June,

slow; the grapefruit margarita was bitter

and it was humid. Terrence was sure that it

and tart; he loved serving and he hated

was going to be busy. By seven o’clock, the

it; he missed Hudson and wanted him

bar would run out of fresh mint and they

dead. Maybe these contradictions came

would have to start improvising; all of the

with age. Maybe he was a contradictory

lake trout would be gone by sunset and

person. Either way, he felt those busy

Chef would begin shouting and cursing

nights in his bones.

THE Service Issue

FICTION

ll of our food is grown, raised,

Something to Drink

At The Anchor, the first of June marked the resurrection of the summer menu. It was Terrence’s thirty-eighth June at the restaurant.

colorful clothes of the real world.

“Try to keep your work lives and personal lives separate,” he said to the trainee. He

“I’m drowning.” One of the younger servers grabbed Terrence’s arm, churning

rolled the sentiment in a fine coat of sugar, not taking his eyes from the screen.

the black sleeve of his dress shirt like a

“We will. It helps that he’s behind the bar

pepper grinder. He was standing at a

and I’m on the floor, I guess.” She took a

P.O.S. in the dining room, sending drinks

sharp breath, matching the surrounding

to the bar. His trainee loomed beside him

sounds of silverware. “It’s exciting to be

like a shadow. “Can you greet Table 14?

here together, though. I never want to

Or take them? I don’t care. I’m going to kill

leave his side and now I don’t have to.”

that new hostess.”

“Just make sure that you know what

As he expected, it would be his seventh table. He agreed.

you want.”

She nodded without knowing what he

In fleeting moments of tenderness, Terrence saw himself in the new servers.

He saw himself when they came drifting

FICTION

black uniforms of The Anchor versus the

meant.

He finished at the P.O.S. and turned toward the bar.

into the restaurant in their clean, black

“To work here, you’ll need to know

clothes. He remembered fumbling with

how to eat seasonally.” Terrence and the

corkscrews—when a glass of water would

trainee approached the service corner,

slip from his hand and onto the tile. He

scanning the counter for their drinks. He

was especially reminded of himself when

was always walking just a few steps in

they came as he had: in a pair.

front of her. “For example, on the first of

“My boyfriend and I got hired together,”

June—the first day of the summer menu—I

the trainee said. She was pretty and clear-

would never recommend the mussels. It’s

skinned and went to one of the colleges in

too early in the season and too close to

town. She couldn’t have been older than

their spawning.”

twenty-one, claiming to have service

“Spawning?”

experience from a restaurant back home,

“When they release their eggs. It

wherever that was. “He’s training as a

weakens them. They start to smell rancid.”

barback.”

From across the counter, the new

Terrence was always amused when a

barback approached Terrence’s trainee.

couple got hired together. He watched

“How are you doing out there, babe?”

how they engaged with each other,

He used tattooed forearms to pop the

asking their partner for special favors

cap from a bottle of ale. It was the color

and treating these tasks with a particular

of gold, crisp and malted, breathing citrus

seriousness. He could always tell when

fumes.

they had been fighting or fucking before

“Trying my best.”

a shift—how they saw each other in the

“I’m sure you’re doing great. You look

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13

gorgeous on the floor.”

elastic, dotted with dimples and acne

She rolled her eyes, morphing into

scars—they had been the same way. The

something playful and coy. “You look hot

wine list was not yet scripture. The grilled

behind the bar.”

bass was not a glorious relic of the lake,

Terrence snatched the sweaty bottle

but something to be chewed quickly and

from the boy’s hands. A fragmented

chased with beer. But Terrence stayed up

memory of his youth dripped down his

at night to study. He laid cardstock pages

throat and he swallowed it away. “The

and half-empty bottles on the bedroom

galley needs ice,” he barked.

floor, straining to distinguish one cabernet

He looked back at the girl beside him.

from another. He mapped the anatomy

“Table 43 must be in the window. Let’s go.”

of the tongue. He dreamt of oysters and

“Do you know the wine list?” They entered the kitchen alley. It was busy with backwaiters.

woke in a milky haze.

Hudson, on the other hand, was the kind of boy who ate fast food in the driver’s seat. He drank his coffee with

engulfed the space in a steady hum.

three spoonfuls of sugar. He never cared

Seared fish and charcoal pierced through

for a hit of adrenaline or a complex taste.

the watery air. They tucked themselves

During the rush of service, Hudson longed

into a back corner, speaking quietly. The

for a corporate career, a tidy cubicle with

energy was too fragile and sanctified; it

a framed photo of his family.

could easily have been thrown off by such conversations.

“I just wish that you would take this place more seriously,” Terrence said once.

The trainee thought of the wine list.

“You need to learn this stuff.” They were

She tried to center herself in the strange

standing in the same, private corner of

sea of noise and scent. Her senses were

the alley. Hudson, for the third time that

being provoked and her synapses had

week, had misplaced an order, and Chef

trouble keeping up. She couldn’t overlook

screamed and threw a pan in response,

Terrence’s snarling. “More or less.”

calling him all kinds of names.

“What would you pair with the blackened trout?”

Hudson unrolled some noise from his throat. “And you need to lighten up.” He

She hung in the air, her mouth ajar.

motioned around the kitchen, all of its

From the window, the expo started

cathedral glory. “This whole place,” he

shouting. “Runner, Table 43!”

gestured, “is just a means to an end.”

“A dry riesling,” Terrence answered

“To me, it’s more than that.”

for her. “The acid counteracts the spice.

“It can’t last forever. You can’t work here

You don’t want anything with oak.” He

for the rest of your life.” A backwaiter

swatted at the backwaiters so that he

brushed past Hudson’s shoulder. He

could grab the tray.

lowered his voice, but the sentiment

When Terrence and Hudson started at

stayed the same—his tone like the

The Anchor—back when their skin was

snapped sound of a rubber band. “How

THE Service Issue

FICTION

Intensity spilled from the line and

Something to Drink

can you settle down in a place like this?”

flat-lipped dishwasher, and meet her lover

Terrence and his trainee dropped the

behind the bar. Maybe she would tell her

food at Table 43. A filet mignon, tender and

boyfriend that Terrence scared her. Maybe

bloody and blue rare. Landlocked salmon,

they would sneak a shot of rum. Maybe,

baked with brown sugar and served with

only under the dim, revealing light of

steak fries. Angel hair pasta with steamed

the restaurant—a fantastical force that

clams.

stripped all pretenses away—she would

FICTION

When they left the table, the trainee

discover her lover’s first flaw.

turned over her shoulder, balancing a tray

Terrence took a breath and approached

of bread plates in shaky hands. She was

the table of four. It was no different than

unpolished, Terrence knew, but she had

any other night; he had done this dance a

potential. He could tell by the look in her

thousand times.

eye. “How long have you been working

“Good evening, everyone.”

here?”

At one point in time, Terrence thought

“Almost forty years.”

that he and Hudson could make it work.

She turned from the tray for just

He lied to himself, saying that they could

a second. “Wow.” She couldn’t have

understand each other in spite of their

imagined the passing of four decades; it

differences—in spite of Hudson’s hatred

existed in her mind only as a hypothetical.

of service, his immature palate, his lust

“You must be happy here.”

for stability. But when Hudson gave his

It wasn’t as simple as that. There were

resignation from The Anchor, so too did he

parts of it that had never grown old: the

pack his bags and leave Terrence’s world

fast and abundant money, the food, the

altogether. “We want different things,” he

mind-erasing stampede of service—all of

said. “And you’ll always be loyal to that

the things which he loved at the beginning

restaurant.”

and continued to love until the end. It

In the sore and surreal years that

was a rush that he couldn’t have found

followed their split, the boys grew in

anywhere else. It was an addiction that he

their own directions. They picked up the

had never seemed to shake. His old friends

shattered pieces of their lives, stitching

had pills and powders. Terrence had this.

them together into different shapes,

Instead, he simply nodded, saying, “I

something new but vaguely familiar.

am.”

Hudson got his desk job, his tie laced

Table 14 was occupied by four guests—a

tightly around his neck each morning,

middle-aged couple and two teen boys.

returned to his new home at five o’clock

“I’ll get them drinks,” he told the girl. “Go

each evening. Terrence heard through the

empty your tray and check the kitchen for

grapevine—a vine of Concord, tart and

food.”

strong—that he was doing well.

The trainee did as she was instructed.

And Terrence, in those early years of

Terrence was certain that she would drop

his new life, did well also. He became

the tray, shove the dishes in front of a new,

the sounds and scents of The Anchor. He

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15

tasted subtle flavors that he’d always been

answers.

told about but had never experienced for

But Terrence had grown up. Granted, he

himself. “I get it now,” Terrence, one night,

thought that he was grown back then—

said to no one in particular—holding the

back when he knew the taste of Hudson’s

stem of a wine glass between two fingers.

mouth. Now, though, he was old enough

A bead of chardonnay collected on his

to settle this leftover part of himself. “I’ve

bottom lip. For the first time, he realized

been good,” Terrence said. “Really good,

what it meant for a wine to be buttery. “I

actually.”

understand what they mean.”

The man beside Hudson had clean fingernails and straight teeth. The boys at

Terrence. The skin on his face had ripened,

the opposite end of the table were scruffy-

fine lines spreading around his lips. His

haired and fat-cheeked—the strong bones

hair sprouted gray like weeds in a garden.

of someone raised on whole milk and full

He wore the same cologne.

nights of sleep. “This is my family,” Hudson

“Terrence,” he breathed.

said. Terrence imagined that they lived in

A world of memories unleashed

a three-bedroom house in the suburbs, a

themselves from Terrence’s chest, banging

family dog that they took on walks each

against the surface of his skin. They

morning, a glass of boxed wine each night.

showed themselves in the goosebumps

He imagined that their family photo was

on his neck.

framed on Hudson’s desk. “Everyone, this

“There’s no way that it’s really you.”

is Terrence.”

Hudson was smiling. He looked like he

“It’s nice to meet you,” his husband said.

may stand to hug Terrence, but he did not.

His sons, in their adolescent shrill, said

“It’s me.” Terrence became conscious of

the same. The boys smiled at Terrence

his hands.

and Terrence smiled back. They were so

“How have you been?”

young, unaware of Terrence’s mark on

Some small and dormant part of

their father’s history. Maybe his husband

Terrence, some sensitive spot on the back

was unaware also.

of his tongue, wanted to say all kinds of

“All these years and you’re still here.”

things. Wanted to shatter glass on the

Hudson’s smile was unwavering. It was like

floor and stomp it into the carpet. Wanted

a song that Terrence had long forgotten.

to swing his arms and be dragged into

Terrence, though he always assumed the

the kitchen by the younger, more naive

worst at times like this, knew that it was

servers—ones with young hands and

sincere. “I knew that you’d stick around.”

muscles and fantasies like he once had,

“It’s never grown old,” Terrence said. “I’m

who would reconvene in the beer cooler

the head server now.”

to snort white powder and mock his pain.

In a few minutes, Hudson would order

He wanted to make a fist-shaped hole in

the fish and chips. He would ask for his

the kitchen wall. He wanted to scream

water to be flat. Terrence would offer

and sob and ask questions and demand

the oysters as an appetizer, thinking

THE Service Issue

FICTION

From Table 14, Hudson looked up at

Something to Drink

that something might have changed in him, and Hudson and his family would refuse. They would order the mussels, instead. Hudson knew nothing about their spawning. He would never learn these things, and that was okay.

It was not yet seven o’clock, but, around him, the restaurant was beginning to move at that pace. It was drippy and conniving in this way—the way a trickle transforms into a flash flood. A crowd of guests had begun gathering in the lobby.

Soon, they’d be out of the lake trout.

Terrence wondered if Hudson noticed the vertical line between his brows or the way that his knuckles had swollen—if Hudson could feel the constant, dull ache

FICTION

in the small of Terrence’s back.

“The head server,” Hudson echoed. “I’m happy for you.”

Terrence smiled. He and Hudson had made their choices. They found their loves, they ran to them, and they wound up in different places. “I’m happy for you, as well,” he said. He felt good knowing that he meant it.

He removed the black book from his apron pocket. Receipts and loose bills tried to pull themselves from the plastic binding. Terrence clicked the trigger of a pen. Around him, the restaurant was alive.

“Can I show you the wine list?”

the inquisitive eater

17

FICTION

THE Service Issue

19

The New Approachable Wine List NIKKI PALLADINO

M

aster Sommelier Rajat Parr,

Sangiovese in a blind tasting, I poured over

writes in Secrets of the

descriptions of wine labels in wine shops

Sommeliers: “What you love to

and at wine tastings. I didn’t want wine

drink is never better than when it’s drunk

lists to all look Tuscan to me. My dad is

with what you love to eat.” I’m almost

from Italy.

Wine lists are, by their very nature, vital

I studied wine, I didn’t know how to pair

to how sommeliers drive and sustain

what was on my plate with what could be

profits for a restaurant. They help wine

poured in my glass. For sommeliers, like

professionals justify the cost of adding

myself, developing that kind of knowledge

selections to the cellar if guests dining

base can be a full-time job. And it is.

at their places of business purchase

Wine mastery goes beyond the palate

bottles. But multiple factors often drive

though: the most successful sommeliers

guests’ decisions to make a purchase or

can communicate and curate an

not. And typically, this comes down to

experience that is both approachable, yet

the approachability of a wine list and the

elevated for guests dining in a restaurant.

restaurant’s sommelier, by extension.

And, as the profession works to become

During the French Renaissance, being

even more relatable, wine lists present

a sommelier was a badge of honor. As

sommeliers with an opportunity to

Karen MacNeil writes in The Wine Bible,

celebrate terroir and to feature wines

a sommelier (so-mel-YAY), was entrusted

with different liquid legacies, without

with a lord or king’s life; the tradition of

pretension, leading to more education,

tasting wine before serving it was about

translation, and inclusion, when it comes

survival.

to talking about wine. Who doesn’t want

If you’ve ever nosed a cork-tainted

to course out a full meal without having to

wine, then you know the dank, wooly,

rely on tech at a table?

wet smell and gnarly, even metallic taste.

Before I trained with master sommeliers,

Unfortunately, too many people don’t

who taught me how to pronounce

know how to recognize cork taint and

C h â t e a u n e u f- d u - P a p e

continue to drink a bottle of wine that’s

and

spot

THE Service Issue

NONFICTION

a pro at coursing out a meal, but before

The New Approachable Wine List

“off.” Whenever possible, sommeliers

producers. And afterward, plead with

try to prevent this through proper wine

beverage directors or managers to bring in

storage, which is key to a wine’s survival.

the wines from the tasting appointments,

On the Upper West Side, close to

promising to move the inventory because

Shakespeare & Co., there used to be this

they’re different from the wines that are

cozy French eatery that I liked to frequent

already on the list. It’s a hard sell. It’s a lot

because it offered obscure BTGs (by the

of pressure. But we do it because we try to

glass), think Ugni Blanc, and delicious

make room for lesser- known wine regions

French onion soup. After I completed

and wine producers to earn a spot where

Intensive Sommelier Training at the

they’ve always belonged: featured on a

International Culinary Center, I remember

wine list.

•

it registering one night that all the wine bottles at this place were stored upright on the wall, and it was really stressing me out. Maybe that’s why it closed. No, seriously.

NONFICTION

Wines must be “sound” to make it through a meal. That’s where the French café might’ve missed the mark. Their wines weren’t being stored horizontally,

In March of this year, Wine Spectator interviewed Amy Racine, sommelier at Chef Kwame Onwuachi’s restaurant at Lincoln Center, about how to curate a wine list for Tatiana, a groundbreaking AfroCaribbean concept. Here’s part of Racine’s response:

without exposure to light or significant

[The chef, bartender, and cocktail

temperature changes. My guess is

director, and myself] … all from totally

that many of its bottles were sent back

different backgrounds, ethnicities,

because they were corked. So much

races, genders. We represent a very

goes into preserving a wine program at

positive change in the hospitality and

a restaurant. It’s why there’s a higher

beverage industry.… I thought, what if

markup in restaurants than retail. There’s

we did a minority-and-women-focused

more overhead.

wine list? Let’s represent producers that

In addition to selecting wines and

are breaking boundaries. We looked

spirits, sommeliers, or beverage directors

for as many of those producers as we

with sommeliers reporting to them,

could and also selected wines that best

running wine programs must track and

pair with African-diasporic cuisine

trace inventory. This includes different

(influenced heavily by Caribbean and

types of glassware for beverage service,

West African cooking).

mix-ins for cocktails and mocktails and

In that same article, Racine references

miscellaneous wine opening and chilling

Foradori, a family-run winery in Trentino-

apparatus like corkscrews, serviettes and

Alto Adige, close to the Austrian border.

wine buckets.

Three decades ago, after the unexpected

Sommeliers also schedule tasting

death of her father, Elisabetta Foradori

appointments with distributors and

returned to her family’s estate to care

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21

for the vines. She could’ve chased market

a pairing, we also don’t want to see a

trends, like vintners in Tuscany, who

meal overwhelmed by the wrong wine.

famously ripped up their Sangiovese to

So, we make a point of knowing how

plant international varieties like Cabernet

the five tastes: sweet, sour, salty, bitter

Sauvignon. But instead, she focused

and umami and a wine’s structure (e.g.,

on cultivating local grapes. 1 Namely,

racy [acidic] or round [oaked]) contribute

Nosiola, Pinot Bianco, and a relative of

to what a guest will experience on their

Syrah, known as Teroldego. Both are richly

palate with their meal selection. As far as

flavored and intensely fruit-forward. But

I know, apps like Vivino don’t provide that

who would know that grape by name and

level of service. It’s job security for now.

feel confident ordering it if they saw it for the first time on a wine list?

Although there’s always the possibility that diners can encounter a wine snob on the job, often, sommeliers are motivated

hours of self-study and tasting practice

by driving an experience and not just a

under our belts, it’s gratifying to suggest

sale. The best philosophy I’ve encountered

a new wine to someone, especially when

to date when it comes to selecting pairings

we think they’ll love it, but only if they’re

comes from Secrets of the Sommeliers:

willing to engage with us. But some guests

“Light reds [are] great with fish, and richer

just prefer to scroll through their Vivino

whites can pair with certain meats. White

app.

wines with a touch of green in them—

Someone in New York City declined

Albariños, Sancerres, some Greek whites—

my suggestions once, in favor of using

are usually good paired with green foods

their phone. I’ve got to believe realtors

like salads and vegetables.” I’d even add

encounter a similar apprehension from

Vermentino, Grüner Veltliner, and Pinot

buyers or sellers preferring FSBO (for sale

Grigio to that list.

by owner) transactions. With unfettered

But how can we serve guests if they

access to the internet and no one to guide

aren’t inclined to engage with us? We can

you, what could go wrong?

appeal to them through a wine list.

A lot, especially when it comes to

Food writer Sara Dickerman says,

matching food and wine in a way that’s

“Menus are a literature of control. Menu

appetizing without missing the mark.

language, with its hyphens, quotation

Secrets of Sommeliers, which won a James

marks, and random outbursts of foreign

Beard Award for Beverage, includes many

words, serve less to describe food than to

useful quotes, including this one: “The

manage your expectations.”

process of narrowing down a pairing

When creating or editing wine lists,

involves both trial and error and good

sommeliers make choices. I take the view

taste.” And sommeliers are advanced

that wine lists represent texts or tools

tasters, at least when compared to non-

that the public needs to be able to engage

industry professionals.

with in order to advance rhetorical action,

While we don’t want to overcomplicate

based on an essay I read in grad school

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That’s where Sommeliers shine. With

The New Approachable Wine List

titled, “Ecological, Pedagogical, Public

wine lists so that the form and function, as

Rhetoric,” co-written by Nathaniel A.

well as its creator, could take on a whole

Rivers and Ryan P. Weber.

new (creative) rhetorical discourse.

In practice, if a guest orders a cocktail in

The wine programs they took over, and

lieu of a bottle of wine or, worse, takes to

wine programs at famous restaurants

social media to tell their followers just how

elsewhere, mostly touted Chardonnays

unsavory they found the whole process

and Cabernets made almost exclusively

of navigating the wine list—a true story

in Burgundy and Napa. But with these

revealed later in this essay—it’s a missed

sommeliers at the helm, their wine lists

opportunity for a sale, yes, but also for a

featured Rieslings made in Germany and

wine professional to practice engaging

Austria, Nebbiolos produced in Piedmont,

public rhetoric pedagogy.

and Cabernets, Syrahs, and Pinot Noirs

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While to some, wine lists may seem like

from the U.S.

nothing more than “mundane documents,”

As Parr writes in Secrets of the

according to Rivers and Weber, they help

Sommeliers, “Good lists also have

to “mold human behavior.” They have the

diversity. The best wine directors have a

potential to drive sales and interest in wine

democratic sense, wanting everyone to

or to turn people off completely. Take the

love wine as much as they do, so they will

following observation: “Sometimes when

make sure to stock their list with lots of

customers open a wine list and find a lot

styles at lots of different prices.”

of verbiage on the page, they don’t want

One of my favorite examples of this

to deal with it,” says Nicole Burke, chef/

is Seasons 52, which offers fifty-two

owner Burke & Black. “But then when a list

wines by the glass. The BTG list is a

is just that—a list—and there is nothing to

joy to navigate. White wines feature

guide [guests], they similarly don’t want

prominently at the top, all arranged

to look at it.”

by varietal (e.g., Sparkling, Sauvignon

•

Blanc, Rosé, Chardonnay, Pinot Grigio),

Before the wine buyer’s revolution, after the mid-2000s, an industry-wide shift to stop arranging wine lists by bin numbers, producers, and prices but little else, a lot of sommeliers stocked cellars based on their desire to get a taste of celebrated Burgundies or rarer wines, rather than appeal to their guests’ particular wine preferences. 2 However, that changed when people like Paul Grieco at Terroir, Belinda Chang at The Modern, and Carlton McCoy at Element 47, a few years after that, reinterpreted the content and tone of

even including a section for “Interesting Whites.”

I like the idea of “interesting” styles because there are popular varietals being made in unusual places, like the Napa Valley. One of my favorite wineries, Matthiasson, produces Ribolla Gialla, an Italian varietal, in the southern part of Napa Valley. They’re serious vintners making serious wine in a place seriously obsessed with Bordeaux varietals.

“Interesting” to say the least. Although they’re not presently on the BTG list,

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23

Seasons 52 is featuring Band of Vintners—

Wine lovers have our own vocabulary,

wine that’s made and priced fairly by

complete with foreign words that can

industry vets. That’s why I’ve got a hunch

be difficult to pronounce.… All this leads

that the beverage directors at Seasons

to the stereotype of the wine snob

rotated through bottles of Matthiasson

lording knowledge over the rest of the

at one time or another.

world. And of course, there’s the snooty

I mention Matthiasson, the husband-

sommelier who intimidates diners with

and-wife winegrowing and winemaking

an impenetrable list and an imposing

team, here because they are opening

demeanor. Most sommeliers I’ve met

doors with their internship program

here in Washington and elsewhere take

which provides entry for women into

great pains to dispel that stereotype,

the farming side of their business; their

but the negative image seems to be

involvement with the Two Eighty Project

alive and well.

empowers anyone and everyone to learn how to make, manage, teach, and sell wine. It’s all part of how they run their business. They’re regenerative farmers. I

The article then references Helen Rosner, famed food writer for the New Yorker. And her now famous X (formerly Twitter) rant: I am an actual professional restaurant

thoughtful philosophy.

eater and I still have no … clue which of

On a list Ribolla Gialla might not mean

the many many words on a wine list is

anything to the average wine drinker, but it

the one word I’m supposed to say to

does to me. I got to visit the Matthiasson’s

indicate that this is the wine I want a

yellow house and taste their wines under

glass of.

a fig tree, after I passed my Certified exam in 2018, through the Court of Master Sommeliers. The following spring, I had the privilege of tasting Laura Felluga’s family’s Ribolla Gialla while working for Lidia Bastianich’s hospitality group and later attending Vinitaly in Verona. I mention that here because if I said that to someone out of context, I would probably sound like a wine snob.

Sommeliers get a lot of scrutiny.

We deserve some of it, especially the Washington Post coverage back in 2020 from Dave McIntyre, decrying restaurant wine lists that intimidate “even the dining pros.” As McIntyre writes:

Judging by Rosner’s tweet and McIntyre’s motivation to write the article, the snooty sommelier stereotype still exists.

But our profession is and deserves to be distinguished. Not because of Wine Spectator’s acclaimed Restaurant Awards program, now entering its 43rd year or due to coveted titles Wine Enthusiast bestows on a “Sommelier/Beverage Director of the Year.” (Fun fact: Seasons 52 boasts a Wine Spectator Award of Excellence.)

Setting aside the fact that healthy disagreement exists within the industry about who can refer to themself as a sommelier, (I’m partial to the idea that you

The language of wine can be intimidating.

can call yourself a Sommelier, even if you

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think you might even be able to taste their

The New Approachable Wine List

no longer work on the floor of a restaurant) our profession deserves more praise than Twitter punishment because our job is to do more than sell: it is to educate.

That’s why I think the food and wine writing category has become so popular in the last four decades. But some bad press is good, especially if it forces people in the industry to pay attention to and reshape our approach to our rhetorical activity.

Other press is just in bad taste.

If there’s a takeaway from Helen Rosner’s criticisms about unreadable wine lists, let it be, as Rivers and Weber write, that we bring together “disconnected threads.” Let the “we” be the wine industry

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and let us take our menus (e.g., mundane documents), snobs (e.g., interpersonal networks), exclusionary hiring practices (e.g., rhetorical moves and countermoves), and grapple with this “messy ecology of public discourse.” We and you deserve so much more than Sip. Swirl. Repeat.

1. Louis/Dressner Selections, “An Interview with Elisabetta Foradori,” https://louisdressner.com/articles/aninterview-with-elisabetta-foradori.

2. Sciaretta, Gillian. “Biography of a Wine List,” Wine Spectator, 31 Aug. 2018, pp. 63.

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House Special VA N E S S A O G L E

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POETRY

Life screams at you like the vacuum sucking up beer caps.

Where are you going?

Back to stacking place mats, paper napkins, and the half-and-half, which looks a whole lot bigger through the fisheye of the water glass that has become the vivarium of your life: It whispers now.

Should you tell them it costs $10.99 to stare out opposite windows and fight over the tip?

You bring ketchup even though he has soup and your eyes are as bored as your brain, as your body, energy used up on the customers who think a few crinkled ones mean something more than the mindnumbing—something. Maybe if you keep moving the boss won’t notice you forgot your name tag, those slanted stickers, faded, cracked, make it harder to pretend you’ll ever have enough air to do more than breathe.

Just the Tip

Just the Tip WHY GOING OUT SHOULDN’T HURT AT ALL

M A R I S O L AV E L I N E D E L A R O S A

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I

just walked out of the wine shop across

interactions end with a request for us to

the street from my apartment building

leave a gratuity, causing an unpleasant

and I tipped the salesperson for my

interruption in our forward motion at

purchase. You might be wondering if that

the register. We’ve all seen it. Someone’s

is something you’re supposed to be doing

finger hesitates over which percentage

as well. Don’t worry. It’s not at all normal

square to choose while they debate how

behavior. But, if you know me, you know

much tip, if anything, to leave. Maybe

that I consider myself someone who tips

they are worried the barista will switch

well and frequently. More so, I tend to tip

their drink to decaf if they don’t leave at

people who don’t expect it or even ask for

least 20 percent. Meanwhile, the person

it. So, to a large population of Americans,

behind them is getting antsy because

I am part of the problem.

they just want to order their oat milk latte

We are currently experiencing a cultural phenomenon of tipping fatigue. There is a

and leave, too. It’s making people wonder about the necessity of the tip.

pervasive sense of confusion about when

New York Magazine had an issue

or if to tip and how much that seems to

recently devoted to these questions of

be exacerbated as more shops and stores

proper societal behavior in our current

have changed to point-of-sale systems

cultural zeitgeist. The cover page boasts

that utilize a touch screen for you to pay.

the absurd question, “Is Everyone Tipping

As we quickly eschew paper money and

25% on Bottled Water?” The author

plastic credit cards and become a society

outlines what they believe should be

of fully digital capitalists, we seem to be

norms as far as tipping. This includes:

signaling a desire for a system that is fast

20–25 percent at restaurants, at least

and thoughtless. Who has time to count

20 percent to baristas, $5 or 20 percent

out bills or open their wallet? Let me just

(whichever is highest) to food delivery

tap my phone screen at another screen to

drivers (more in bad weather), etc. The

make this payment!

outgoing message of the article seemed

What’s causing a lot of the anxiety

to be that 20 percent or more for any kind

is that most of these touch screen

of a service is a safe zone to exist in if you

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27

They became regulars. Regulars are the

aren’t entirely sure what to do.

But encountering a touch screen that

lifeblood of a good bar. You need them to

requests a tip every time you make a

create your vibe. Like good lighting and

purchase at retail stores or delis is causing

music, the right regulars make a place feel

a backlash among consumers who feel

more inviting and encourage other people

pressured to spend more money during

to drink. When you achieve the status of

a time when everything is already more

regular at a bar, you can receive certain

expensive. Unfortunately, those in the

perks. I used to tell Craig to give Scott

service industry are suffering the most as

and Ian drinks from me whenever I saw

consumers push back against this forced

them, and they would in turn leave Craig

system of generosity that some people

a generous tip.

think may be unwarranted. So why, then,

As regulars, they saved some money

do I continue to participate in a system

because they didn’t have to pay for the

that has its origins in American slavery

drinks, just the tip.

1

and potentially perpetuates an imperfect means of wage distribution?

For the equivalent cost of the ingredients for two cocktails, I was able to make three

Because the world can be a better place

they were getting free drinks) and the

•

bartender (because he made more of a tip

I tipped the guy at the wine shop because I know him. There are two guys who work there that I know. They are sweet, slightly nerdy Gen Zers with wardrobes styled directly from Beacon’s Closet. Let’s call them Scott and Ian. Scott and Ian used to be regulars at a pop-up restaurant I helped manage that served smashed-patty burgers and craft cocktails. The restaurant was adjacent to the bar I run, and my business partner and I offered the space to our chef so he could try to generate some additional revenue for us.

Scott and Ian frequented the restaurant because it was close to the wine shop and one of the bartenders, Craig, was a real cocktail nerd, which they appreciated.

About once a week, I would see them bellied up to the bar enjoying a New York Sour or some other bespoke concoction that Craig would manufacture for them.

producing two drinks than he would have if the guys had had to pay for them). Even more, Scott and Ian would now be more likely to continue to return (and maintain their status as regulars) which is good for the business. It’s a win-win-win.

This rewards structure that exists within the tipping system is known as the buyback. If you are a regular at a bar or if you are a brand-new customer and you have had two or three drinks and tipped a reasonable amount each time, you may find yourself in a buyback situation.

In both of these cases, because of the economy of retail purchasing, many bars permit their staff to reward you with a free drink, food item, or even a round of shots.

It’s like a punch card you didn’t know you had. This flexibility to give away product is contingent on a system that puts tipped wage earners in direct control of

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if you do it right.

people happy: two customers (because

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Just the Tip

their earning potential. There is a sense

Neither of these practices is normal or

of authority over one’s domain when you

expected. It is customary to tip 20 percent

are empowered to invest in customers by

to the people who do your laundry (and

giving them an unexpected freebie and

$5–$10 to the person delivering it to you

trusting they’ll return the generosity. And

depending on how far they have to travel

don’t we all feel a bit special when we get

to bring it to you). It is not customary to

an unsolicited shot of chilled tequila?

tip the guy at the deli unless he made

I tip Scott and Ian to continue to pay that

you a sandwich or did anything else that

kindness forward and to remind them of

requires him to put on gloves and use a

the good experience they had drinking

slicer or flat top grill. So, why do I do it?

at my bar. But, more than that, they are

It’s less out of an expectation of a

regulars in my life now. Whenever I walk

tangible return on the investment of the

by the wine shop, I wave at the window

extra dollars, and more as a recognition

in case one of them is working. And I do

of their significance in the machinations

walk by at least once a day because the

of my city existence. If I learned anything

wine shop is directly across the street

during the months of pandemic lockdown

from my apartment building. When I go

it is that any small bit of kindness to your

in, they always recommend wines that I

neighbors can have meaning beyond

enjoy because they know my taste, and

what you may ever know. And kindness is

I’m always happy to see them around the

certainly something in constant need of

neighborhood.

replenishing. But my life is made better by

Scott and Ian are part of the mosaic of

it as well.

my block. They are like Mr. Cheng at the

I tip the laundry guys excessively

laundromat who folds my fitted sheets

because they always prioritize my laundry

better than I ever could and my deli

when they are busy even though I tell

guy, Emiliano, who always tells me, No

them they don’t have to. And they greet

trabajes tanto! when I stop in for oat milk

me warmly every time I stop by, with a

and bottled water. I always tell Emiliano

chorus of “Ahh! It’s Marisol!” Also, they

he’s the one that shouldn’t work so hard.

had a terrible fire a year ago and had to

They are my community of regulars.

shut down for several months to repair

And since you are wondering, I tip 50

the damage. There was a handwritten

percent on my laundry drop-offs and

sign in the window (next to the picture of

I always leave the change when I buy

the laughing Buddha) that thanked us for

something at the deli. No cambia, gracias,

our support when they reopen. I actually

I say, and stuff a few dollars and some

have laundry machines in my building, so

coins in the plastic cup by the register. It’s

I don’t need to use their service. But I want

easier than taking out my wallet again and

Mr. Cheng to have a successful business

it makes the kind woman at the register

and, frankly, I am a little lazy. So, I drop

smile. Emiliano will shout to me from

off my clothes and tip too much. Every

behind the deli counter: Cuidate, mami!

Christmas, they put a card in my bundle

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29

of clean clothes with a handwritten note

annoying interaction between a bartender

thanking me for my kindness.

named Ladell and a customer whom I

I tip Emiliano at the deli because he

gleaned was on holiday from the UK.

works seven days a week and has never

“Oh, mate, I’m sorry,” he said to Ladell

greeted me with anything except genuine

without making eye contact, “You know

friendliness. When I forgot my wallet and

we don’t tip where I’m from.” The man

my phone one time, he didn’t hesitate to

then scribbled his signature on a receipt

let me take my Girl Dinner bag of popcorn

for the three lagers poured for him and

and a peanut butter Kind Bar and pay him

didn’t write in an amount on the tip line.

later. Leaving a few dollars of my change

To Ladell’s credit, he just smiled and ended

from our weekly transactions does not

the conversation there.

probably make a huge difference to his

Unfortunately for this man, I have a

overall income, but it doesn’t hurt. And it’s

terrible habit of not being able to stop

my way of showing him that I respect and

myself from talking shit. It’s one of the

appreciate him as a human being.

perks of being the boss in a business.

•

There’s no one to scold you when you’re

is a legacy of slavery in America and effectively justifies paying a population of already disadvantaged people a wage even lower than the legal minimum (which, if we’re all being honest, is not a living wage). I am not debating any of that.

As someone who has derived over two decades of personal income either directly from tips or from running a business that employs tipped workers, I feel particularly qualified to provide my perspective of the advantageous side of a tipping industry.

I also firmly believe that tipping culture has spiraled out of control and the people suffering the most from this are those who deserve the dominion that a tipping system can provide. By this I mean those who provide a direct service, specifically bartenders and servers. Even before the iPad touch screens became so ubiquitous, tipping put service industry staff in frustrating situations.

Once, I witnessed a particularly

being a bit goading.

“Hey, sorry!” I chirped. “Quick question.”

Lager man wrapped his long, bony fingers around his pints as he prepared to pivot away from me in his bright white trainers.

“You have been to the States before, right?” I asked in my politest tone.

“Yeah, loads of times.”

“So, you do know that it is customary to tip here. Even if you don’t do it back home.

Right?”

Before he could interrupt, I continued, “I’m just saying. It’s totally fine. Like, don’t worry about this check.” I motioned to the tipless receipt in the clipboard on the bar. “But just in case you wonder why you might not get the friendliest reception from other servers or bartenders while you’re here, it’s because it is pretty common knowledge that we tip here.”

“Well, you lot should pay your staff better. Why’s it my responsibility?”

“Ohhh,” I said, “So, by not tipping this

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Yes, it’s true that the system of tipping

Just the Tip

person who is just doing his job, you are

an individualized service during their

effectively casting a vote to ignite some

transaction. They didn’t gather the

sort of infrastructural shift in the American

different ingredients, blend the juice, and

service industry economy? Is that it?”

pour it into a container. There was not

He stared blankly at me.

a direct service provided, so she didn’t

“Cool, cool, cool. Anyway, enjoy your

need to acknowledge the effort with a

beers. Cheers!”

gratuity. But she also didn’t have to make

Ladell turned to me and laughed as the man walked away unbothered.

a snide comment to the worker. Using the moment to chastise a stranger over

I smirked at Ladell. “Too much?”

something that they cannot change about

Conversely, on another occasion, I was

their job—a job they are just doing to earn

in line behind a woman at the juice bar

a living—is pointless, rude, and achieves

near my apartment. The woman had

nothing.

•

just purchased a bottled green juice, the liquid fixer for all pseudo-healthy adults. I watched as she tapped her phone against

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the blue rectangular touch screen to pay for the drink.

Five prompts popped up in white square letters reading, “5 percent, 15 percent, 20 percent, Other, No Tip.” The woman growled. “Ugh, this is so stupid. I’m not tipping on this.” Her voice pitched up and she knitted her brow at the stoic young man on the other side of the counter. He didn’t respond.

The woman whipped her head toward me, searching for any ally in the moment as she clutched her prepackaged bottle of juice.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” I said plainly while willing her to leave so I could order an acai bowl and get on with my life.

After placing my order, I said thank you, tipped 25 percent, smiled, and stepped off the line quickly.

I do not blame the woman for not wanting to tip. To my mind, it wasn’t necessary. The worker didn’t execute

The reason so many people have worked as bartenders or servers in New York City and other major metropolitan areas (and, frankly, loads of smaller cities and towns) is that it’s generally thought of as a fun job where you can make a lot of money.

Yes, the tipped-employee system used to permit managers to pay their workers far below minimum wage. That is no longer the case in many states. In New York City, for example, businesses with food service workers are now allowed to take what is called a “tip credit.” The current tip credit rate ($5.00) permits employers to pay tipped wage earners $10.00/hour (which is $5.00 below minimum wage).

If the employee does not make at least $5.00/hour in tips per hour, the employer is required to pay them the difference.

On its face, that may seem like a bum deal. However, most businesses do not have to take advantage of this tip credit because most tipped employees make far more than $5.00/hour in tips at bars and restaurants in New York City. As an example, my employees make an

the inquisitive eater

31

average of anywhere from $30–$60 plus

enjoyable manner, but they also have

per hour in tips and we pay the full-time

to negotiate hundreds if not thousands

workers $15/hour on top of that. Before

of social and psychological maneuvers.

taxes, bartenders and servers can make

They talk to people who want attention

$50,000–$80,000 a year, and most of

and give space to people who want to be

them work less than thirty-five hours per

left alone. They profile every person they

week and have three days off per week.

encounter to determine what kind of day

To my mind, bartenders and servers

they are having and respond accordingly.

absolutely deserve to make a base

They also monitor situations for potential

salary of at least $50,000 annually. But

distress, answer millions of questions,

for a bar to pay its staff that amount,

engage, entertain, and counsel—their

the business model would have to alter

customers and their coworkers.

As a bartender, I’ve had to participate

mean increasing payroll by three times

in conversations about the weather, the

the current amount, which means unless

Rohingya refugee crisis in Myanmar,

the cost of goods meaningfully decreases

and the merits of Nancy Meyers’s film

(a certain impossibility in our constant

oeuvre, and detail my favorite goals by

state of inflation), we would have to

Lionel Messi. All in one day. Imagine if

significantly raise prices for the consumer.

most of your day was spent at a cocktail

A $15 cocktail would be closer to $40.

party where you were expected to be the

I’m sure you see how that is unreasonable. Enter, the tip.

driving engine of conversation for eightto-ten hours while remembering hundreds

•

of different drink and food orders and

So what are you paying for by tipping?

We all learned during the pandemic that you can drink at home. You don’t need to spend $15 plus tax and tip on a cocktail.

People go to bars to be around other people and to potentially make some bad decisions that lead to unexpected adventure. We go to commiserate with friends and/or strangers about whatever bullshit is bothering us on a given day.

Sometimes, we go to meet new people.

Often, we go to be somewhere besides home or work so we can sip on a perfectly poured Manhattan and just be.

Bartenders and servers facilitate all of that. Not only do they have to provide you with food and drink in a timely and

executing physically demanding labor.

Ten hours on your feet carrying trays full of plates and glasses, hauling buckets of ice up and down stairs, balancing martini glasses while navigating through crowds of drunk people with no concept of personal space, shaking a margarita with one hand and stirring a Manhattan with the other. And doing it all while smiling and doing math in your head.

It’s exhausting. Add to that the constant expectation to participate in the lives of strangers. I’ve helped customers set up wedding proposals, advised single guys on the best photos for their dating profiles, and flirted with regulars to improve their chances with the dates they bring to the

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drastically. Conservatively, this could

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bar.

the gap of income disparity. Obviously,

It’s not all fun, though. An unfortunate

more important changes, such as taxing

and all too often by-product of too much

billionaires proportional to their wealth,

alcohol can also be extremely belligerent

are more significant and we should

behavior. Bartenders and servers put

definitely strive toward and vote to

their safety at risk when someone gets

enact such measures. However, in your

aggressive. It was not so long ago that

own universe, if you are able to and if

there were videos popping up every day on

everyone participates, you can potentially

our social media feeds where restaurant

impact someone else’s life in a small way

workers were being physically assaulted

monetarily and a larger way humanely.

for trying to get customers to comply with

It could change the day of your weary

mandatory masking regulations. Even

bartender who is brought to tears by

before the pandemic, service industry

an unruly customer. You can validate

workers experienced workplace violence.

someone’s humanity with a kind word and

I once had a saltshaker thrown at the

an appropriate tip. All with just a few extra

back of my head because I wouldn’t seat

dollars on the round of High Noon hard

two people at a table for six. I’ve had

seltzers you buy for you and your friends

drinks thrown at me, and I’ve been spit

at a club.

on, screamed at, and vomited on by more drunk people than I care to remember.

For my part, I will continue to Johnny Appleseed my disposable income

It’s not just about making drinks and

throughout the streets of New York

serving food. It is work that merits that 20

and hope that it makes a difference in

percent and then some.

someone else’s happiness, if not their

•

livelihood. Even if it’s just for a moment of

The most salient advice I garnered from

unexpected gratification. It doesn’t hurt.

that New York magazine article is: “The

1. Read more about this legacy: Rund

higher your level of disposable income, the

Abdelfatah et al., “The Land of the Free,”

more generous you ought to be.”

NPR, March 25, 2021, https://www.npr.

And this is the primary reason why I strive to be someone who tips too much

org/2021/03/22/980047710/the-landof-the-fee.

and in unexpected situations. I am by no means wealthy, but as a childless woman who has never been married and recently paid off all her student loans, I am comfortable. And, beyond the obvious reason that it is just the right thing to do, I firmly believe in my ability to be a vessel of wealth distribution.

If everyone aspired to aggressive generosity, it could potentially shift

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35

Tough Bite E VA N K A N O U S E

T

he tip of Angela Kane’s cigarette

of desire, weather-beaten friends and

flickers as she dusts the stoop

inadvertent intimacies, the will to change

outside Kline. She savors a deep

and the inability to change. So she takes

inhale as she bends down and takes a seat.

fifteen and lights a cigarette.

She lets the new warmth of April settle

with the sun’s golden rays. Fatigue drapes

in like a whisper or a secret. Spring unfurls

over her with each languid puff, weariness

slow and quiet along the shoreline of the

etched across her reflection in the dining

Hudson. She could wait: she had waited,

hall’s tall windows. Poplar leaves beside

the unhurried pace of the seasons no

the pathway are fluttering upward, their

match to Angie’s fifty-nine years in this

branches all bent to one side.

town, a quarter of which she spent in

Perched at the entrance, students

this place. Miniscule buds on the trees

ebb and flow. The lunchtime hustle and

accompanied precocious students’

bustle has finally hushed, granting her a

big-worded conversations:

few stolen minutes of quiet. When Angie

“Heidegger,” “panopticism.” Their nervous

returns, she’ll swipe their cards, collect

energy can be unsettling, like a bum knee

their cash, and send them on their way.

and an eight-hour shift. She gently taps

While others cocoon themselves in thick

her cigarette, watching her breath curl

winter jackets, Angie, with her one free

up beside her. She taps her knee—slowly,

hand, unbuttons her jacket, crumbs

methodically—as a therapist had once

tumbling from her crimson exterior. A

instructed.

bronze-colored name tag adorns her right breast. Daylight falls into her as unto the

“Sartre,”

You get used to things, she thinks, without getting used to things.

night dew which lingered on thin blades

Angie runs her nails—a deep shade of

of grass nearby. Puddles cradle small

purple, trimmed down to her fingertips—

craters of wet: memories of rain, still on

through her thin blond hair, tucking the

the surface.

loose strands behind her ears. Eyeliner

She has dealt with marriages that had

and mascara conspire to create the

grown dull, the sudden arrival of illness,

illusion of eyes deep as weather. Dark

the intransigence of memory, swells

folds linger beneath, immune to attempts

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Her nicotine breath becomes entangled

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Tough Bite

at camouflage. A metallic cross drapes

of simmering macaroni, the familiar beep

beneath a plump flap of excess skin which

of the register which preserved her sanity

blends together her throat and her neck.

(that fragile thing). She resisted the tides

Easily afraid, always unsettled: she

that swept others away: the changes,

carries something that cannot be set

the new jobs, the prospect of something

down. Angie is severe, salty, proud,

better. Hope was a cancer, she thought,

opinionated, and physically imposing (or

and she didn’t want it.

at least she sees herself that way). She

By thirty-two, Angie was married and

inspires fear and muted amusement from

had a daughter. Balancing the demands

the students, who smile at her tender-

of work, motherhood, and her illness

hearted but comically incapable warmth.

presented a challenge. Her first husband—

Inside, she is surging with feeling—fear;

and later, her second—didn’t understand.

full and complicated love for her son and

Relationships crumbled as swiftly as they

sometimes, her ex-husbands; tidal anger.

formed, often when she found herself

The consequence of looking inward for

unable to step beyond her own doorstep,

so many years is her trademark lack of

consumed by the paralyzing fear that

insight; she has the sensitivity of a tuning

gripped her. The simple act of grocery

fork, and so she’s hardened herself against

shopping became an insurmountable

too much sensation.

weight, and the mere thought of leaving

Amidst the brisk student traffic, Angie

her home sent her off-kilter.

takes another deep inhale. She has gotten

It was like drowning in cobwebs,

used to the various bodies which run in

she thought, whose sticky maze was

parallel orbit around the college. Tweed-

spinning about her. A darkness rumbled

clad college professors, preoccupied

through her, her soul suffocating in tar.

and condescending; undergraduates,

Every heartbeat felt like a seismic tremor

transient, anxious and absentminded and

that reverberated through the body. This

sometimes unexpectedly, unbelievably

turmoil again and again sent her adrift,

kind. Maintenance, B&G, Dining: all caught

tethered only to relentless worry. To come

in the velocity of it all, continuously pulled

up for air seemed impossible.

inward. She observed their comings and

T here were days when it was

goings; the students’ wide-eyed wonder in

excruciating.

Year s

that

seemed

their freshman year, the pontifical wisdom

perennially rough. Unyielding. Blinding.

they wore with honor as they walked with

Something passed over her, like a shadow

their diploma and she prepared lunch.

crossing in front of the sun. Angie’s

Angie is glad to have landed here.

trepidation was a relentless specter,

From crafting aircraft breaks to house

shrouding her in suffocating panic. She

cleaning and babysitting—it is this role

evaded anything that threatened to

that unexpectedly emerged from the

unleash her fear: public transportation,

shadows that clung to her. The rhythm

open spaces, closed spaces, standing

of the job became magnetic: the aroma

in line, bustling crowds, empty rooms—

the inquisitive eater

37

everything, really. Angie’s anxiety held her

said, look how I want to live, look how I

in a relentless pull and cast a shadow over

want to hold on. It was criminal to look

every move. She sought refuge at home,

out on all that color, all that joy in a world

life remained stable even as it seemed to

of sadness and misfortune, and not do

suffocate her.

better.

It began in the high school at the end of

In due time she began to patch herself up,

a corridor, that central artery of the arts

to walk down the street again. She found

and sciences and P.E. During a mundane

herself learning all the intimate ways

social studies lesson, an insidious panic

that history works itself in, navigating

emerged that constricted Angie’s breath.

tumultuous swings of antidepressants,

She felt the stain of some sadness make

experimental treatments, and other

its way through her. A perceptive teacher

drugs. At times, she was a distant,

sensed her unease and probed with a

shrouded planet, cloaked in the darkness

question, setting off a fire somewhere

of side effects and unrest, orbiting her

deep down within. She sought refuge in

own vexations. At others, her thoughts

the girls’ restroom, where Angie huddled

were a suffocating void where the weight

in a ball on cold tile, encircled by concerned

of anxiety bore down upon her. Thinking

onlookers who called for help.

became an elusive feat; every breath

following day and the next again. She

seemed a struggle as she gasped for a smoother, more gentle surface.

withdrew two months shy of graduation.

Eventually, a faint glimmer eventually

Her sanctuary became the confines of her

began to pierce the darkness. It was

home, where stepping outside was laden

like moving into a pocket of warm air.

with dread. A profound worry took root,

Gradually, the feeling began to wane, and

coercing her into a life of confinement and

when it returned, it did so only with a dull,

self-imposed exile. Within the walls she

medicated intensity. Shattered fragments

knew best was a fortress, or a jail cell.

of life unearthed themselves, and one by

Outside, Angie’s fear held her with a

one, she picked them up.

fierceness that matched the power of the

As Angie reached smoother shores,

ocean. Meadows green and bright with

she summoned the courage to attend an

sunshine; rivulets of melted snow that

interview at the local liberal arts college.

ran down craggy mountains, glittering like

They were hiring a part-timer for the

silver chains; revelations and memories;

kitchen, and she made the leap. At first,

concrete walls and so many futures—all

she was terrified of the power of her wish—

suddenly beyond her grasp. Time passed

to have an anchor, something to hold

and Angie boiled under the surface.

onto, outside home—but with time, her

Clenched, off balance, prickly. As if pickled

nerves receded. Soon, the bustling dining

in a jar. Some days she shook as though an

hall, initially foreign territory, began its

electric current ran through her.

transformation into her daily routine, an

I can do better, Angie thought. Look, she

extension of home.

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The sequence repeated itself the

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Tough Bite

The place etched its mark on Angie,

creaking in resistance; weight stuck like a

where she served up routine as the

dense blanket of snow. A life churning with

temperamental chefs did meals. She

static. Doctors, lovers, kids and friends:

found comfort in the predictable cadence

they all seem to slip away through the

of the job and in the occasional mischief

cracks, out of grasp.

of its occupants. One year, food fights

She thinks about that lost decade, when

were a daily ritual. Her eyes widened as

her world was confined to four walls. It’s

she caught the sight of a student dashing

gone now, those years swept up with the

through the hallway, stark naked. Another,

wind. Life, it seems, has always been like

she discovered a pig’s head in the servery.

this: never easy. The dread stings as it

She loved complaining over roast beef and

finds the surface. For Angie time is as big

cigarettes almost as much as she loved

and round as the sky, and to try to make

the antics themselves.

sense of it is like trying to make sense of

The flow of life gave rise to good days

music and God and why the ocean is so

and bad. Through routine, she navigated

deep. Long ago Angie had known not to

her little revolutions. When the sun shone,

try to make sense of these things, the way

she smiled. Occasionally, her anxiety

other people tried to.

welled and turned into anger. Inside

Dinner’s prospects—like the fate of most

she was a tempest, a storm brewing

things—are slim. Typically, the dining hall

as pent-up frustrations flashed—often

staff could bring home leftovers, those

unexpectedly—at minor figures, when no

odds and ends that couldn’t find a place

one could save the students who faltered,

in tomorrow’s reheated menu or the dank

forgot their cards, or fell a few dollars

basement’s cavernous refrigerators.

short. Students glimpsed her moods,

She’d grown accustomed to TV dinners

knew when the lights flickered and it was

and the warmth of sloppy seconds. The

time to rush off. Sometimes even she was

fare, dripping with its fat and oil, is simple

dizzy, spinning through the vastness of

and familiar. But as she rests her wrist on

her emotions, their origin hidden behind

her knee, the thought of lugging a hefty

the clouds.

shopping bag feels like a recipe for pain.

Her lighter flicks on and off again as she

Her mind scans her freezer at home, its

lights another cigarette. Angie chews on

snowy insides with frostbitten meats and

her reflection: a solitary figure on a stoop,

containers of pre-seasoned vegetables.

another cigarette smoldering between her thick fingers, trying to make her way

One more cigarette before she heads back in.

and still reduced to a crawl. Doubt takes

Angie’s always loved food: eating it,

hold, as it often does, and she wonders

cooking it, smelling it, the last bite and

if something is perhaps just inherently

the first. All facts laid bare, she just likes

defective about Angela Kane, why this

it, plain and simple. Perhaps in some

burden has fallen squarely upon her

other life, it would transport her back to

shoulders. Her notes half-broken, limbs

some idyllic childhood, to simpler times

the inquisitive eater

39

that she could keep close. Everyone has

from the bakery at the A&P, wet flour and

one: an illicit affair, a shoe collection, a

an aroma of freshly baked bread clinging

drinking habit, a full refrigerator. A thread

to his clothes. In the kitchen he’d craft

that keeps you connected to the rhythm

velvety mashed potatoes, rich gravy,

of life. Three meals, sometimes four: they

pork tenderloin in the oven. Flavors all so

anchor her. A refuge, where past and

familiar.

future fade out of the foreground and the

Overnight, he vanished. In the quiet

present moment becomes some kind of

corners of her mind, Angie navigates her

relief. Fork in hand, she has control. As the

past, retracing the blurred lines between

food descends and kindles in her stomach,

what was and what might have been. In

it fuels the fire, banishing the chill of frigid

the presence of revolving colleagues and

nights and enveloping her in the heat of

each year’s fresh batch of young faces, she

summer mornings.

shares his stories: how her father, Richie,

Those bites, the swallow, the exhale of a single drag. They’re hers.

toiled as a pinsetter at a bowling alley when he was six; the night he gifted her mother a golden necklace and she threw

Angie stays busy. Her curtains sway

it in the river; when she was little and they

gently in the breeze, every stitch her

sat on milk crates and collected coal along

own. Amid snapshots of her daughter,

the Hudson line, and they were happy.

her granddaughter, a dog long dead and

Their shared moments exist together

buried, it’s every bit a gallery of those soft

in delicate layers, like sponge cake or

spots that still remain. It’s really all there

lasagna, fragile images sketched in

is to life, she thinks, those photographs

parchment. A phantom crafted from loose

caught in the amber of the moment:

threads of memory. She was so young

family and nature, desire and death,

when he left that Angie wonders whether

stories made from love and joy and

she created him herself, whether any of

scratch. At night, the television flickers to

what she tells is really true; whether her

life, casting its warm, mind-numbing glow

father is really just a tapestry of fragments

across the room. Golden Girls. I Love Lucy.

and emotions that have emerged from the

When she reaches an end, she just turns

ether; the strokes of his existence, a dance

back the clock, rewinds and restarts the

of light and shadow.

series over again. A lifeline to something

Angie stamps out the memory, the

continuous—that, even in the stillness of

longing, the fear, the butt of her cigarette,

this small and lonely place, life continues

and heads back in.

in its beautiful and gut-wrenching hue.

Nights always close with The Andy Griffith Show because it reminds Angie of her father, whose time was cut short when Angie was twelve. She can still recall the mornings he’d return home

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Back in her one-bedroom in Tivoli,

poetry prose essays

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