Valentine’s Day
Tables of two are set in rows down the narrow restaurant, the white tablecloths elegant against the black and white checkered floor. Candlelight catches in the swell of the wine glasses and dances in shadows against the red and orange bricks. On the door, three hearts cut out of red construction paper are taped to the glass; the Valentine’s Weekend Menu is set on display in the entry.
A week’s worth of preparation leaves the budding evening somber, still, prepared: the night is full with reservations, carefully marked and booked in slots throughout the night.
In the kitchen the chef is busy, bustling with last-minute preparations. The fridge overflows with specials for the evening: walleye in papillote fill two shelves, piles of shrimp nests wait to be fried, wedges of blue cheese are stacked behind cakes of goat cheese. Steaks have been cut into portions, the chicken fricassee simmers beside the beef bourguignon, the rice is cooked and potatoes mashed.
Wine bottles have been stocked, a box of sparkling Spanish Cava newly ordered and packed into the fridge. Twelve baguettes are stacked beside the metal bread baskets, linens folded in wait. The servers are formally and respectfully dressed, tending to last minute tasks, waiting for the night to unfold.
The first few couples come in, with the tangible pretense of a Valentine’s date: well-dressed, happy, but with the subdued formality that familiar couples don as they tread the less familiar grounds of romantic outings. Bottles of wine are uncorked at the tables, the first few appetizers are served.
The door opens and shuts, couples shed their coats and take their seats, laughter and the warm chatter of conversation rises and swells through the restaurant as the evening rushes into fruition.
Serving in a restaurant is about rhythm, memory, mindfulness, charm. Needs must be anticipated and met with grace, the clockwork in the brain ticks according to the needs that arise. Humor, respect, precision. Manage the influx and follow the flow, guide the evening through three rounds of meals to the lazy acquiescence of the final few desserts, hand-tamped espressos, the remaining tables that sit contented in the sultry blur of those last waking moments of a dream.
Satisfactedly lazy, soporifically full, in the sweet cozy daze of romance, and no excuse left to stay: they court themselves to the end of their dance, wrapped back up in their coats, and with final goodbyes and graces and they are out the door and back in the brisk cool air of the street, an evening at its end.
In an instant: the door is locked, lights flipped, curtains dropped. The dining room becomes a flurry of rags and brooms, polishing, cleaning, doing what we can in loud exclamations until we collect at the bar to the pop of the champagne and George Michael’s cries of freedom.
