Maybe I will write a book someday...

Narrative of the Life of a Ritto, An American Server

 

By Riki Jaffe

And the waitress is practicing politics

As the businessmen slowly get stoned 

Yes they're sharing a drink they call loneliness,
   

But it's better than drinking alone…

-Billy Joel, Piano Man

 

Introduction: The Corrotto Experience

The restaurant of Corrotto’s is situated in a fine part of the city: not too far away from the downtown area, but far away enough. It is nestled below a ridge in an acquiescent shopping center between the grotesqueness of the city and the peacefulness of the pastoral life. The parking lot has an abundant amount of spaces for the ever-flowing of quests to which leads into the main courtyard at its front. Here, the guest would find the pleasant faux-marble exterior dappled by faded windows embellished with gold-leaf emblems that explain the food sold within. The doors are made of finished mahogany which exemplifies the fine-food and classy atmosphere before one could even enter the building itself.

To the left of the door sits the tin man. Curiously, he sits there day after day witnessing the classy guests that enter hungry and leave satisfied with the same ridiculous expression on his tin face. And his faithful dog next to him sits peering up at the tin noodle that is continuously being dangled above him. The man has a pauper’s hat on, describing the attire of “old Italy” and shined shoes. The pair sits on a bench made of wrought iron finished at each end located next to the tall ashtrays, hour after hour and year after year blending in perfectly with the pristine setting, which befalls Corrotto’s Italian Grill.

            These peculiar little statues are found frequently inside the humble yet modern shopping center: each with his own activity. For instance, the man situated next to the photo shop has taken it upon himself to handle his 35-millimeter Nikon camera in front of his face, pointing it towards the mountains afar. Another located in front of the Indian food restaurant has a turban on but has seemed to trip upon something on the ground. The tin man in front of the supermarket has a shopping cart but the wheel has turned sideways so that he is unable to push it any further. For aesthetic purposes, the same tin man and occasionally his dog are sprinkled throughout the shopping center to add quaintness to the entire place.

            But to Corrotto’s belongs the building that is hardly quaint. Its magnitude out-weighs any of the other buildings, including the super market; for, after all, any restaurant displaying fine gold-leaf signs and aromas to delight the senses should invariably have a substantial building to boast.

            Upon entering the building, immediately the guest is exposed to the dark. Squinting and adjusting his eyes, the guest finds the mahogany shades are drawn and polished with impeccable care, the lights dimmed as to extend the old-Italian ambiance. The bar is to the left with lowered track lighting allowing the guest to see only enough in order to read the small-print menus. Wine and every type of liquor align the embedded shelves masked with faux-cobble stone, while fragile wine glasses seem to float above in pristine modishness. Plastic grapes line the shelves and rope lighting accentuate the outstanding variety of bottles and tap handles protruding from beneath the bar.

To the immediate right, the customer is greeted by the sincere smile of the hostess, clad in all black, blending in with the atmosphere. The tables are many, numbering about 55 excluding the barstools and the seats viewing the open kitchen at small bars of their own. All, of course, made from the finest mahogany. The tile from the entrance fades into dark carpet cleaned tirelessly by the night crew as well as the servers before the end of the shift. A subtle perfume of Parmesan cheese and simmering pasta Fagioule permeate the air and slowly filters out into the shopping center so that even the Indian restaurant is intoxicated.

Upon being greeted, the customer should note that the hostess will ask how their day has been, genuinely interested. The minimal walk from the hostess stand from the table takes but a few moments, yet much is revealed within the greeting. The hostess asks how their day has been, and upon confirming he guest has in fact had a fine day, the hostess will proceed to ask whether they have visited Corrotto’s before. Approaching the table destined for the guest, the hostess happily lays down the laminated menu pasted on fine leather along with an allotted number of utensils and informs the guest that their server will arrive momentarily, bring fresh bread and refreshments plenty. The seats, a milky aqua, are filled with down in order to provide a pleasurable and comfortable experience for the guest, with just enough down to enable the guest to be placed at a good level in proportion to the table.

The guest will find that their napkins have been pre-folded in a roll-up method consisting of two polished forks, a polished steak knife, and a bleached white cloth. The fine linen is made of a soft polymer-cotton blend, pleasing to the touch and more than able to fulfill the duties of a wretched marinara stain or fallen meatball.

On the table, beside the newly placed menus and roll-ups lie a glass canister fit with a metal spout filled to the brim with extra-extra-virgin olive oil – only the best for an Italian restaurant. Corrotto’s also placed imported sea salt and peppers grinders on each of the tables, each shaker displaying the flag of Italy and a full description on the label of its authenticity. The table itself has been polished perfectly so that the guest may almost see his reflection on the surface. It is apparent that great care has been taken to procure the most memorable experience for the diner, perhaps boasting the finest Italian restaurant it aims to be.

For a few moments, the guest unconsciously observes these facts but is suddenly taken back by the open kitchen. The kitchen consists of a few extremely happy (and often fat) cocineros who exhibit only the happiest smiles, for they are so incredibly happy to be cooking the finest Italian food in the city. Their white cook uniforms, almost as white as their teeth peering out from their smiling lips, are free from stains made by that tricky marinara sauce, and their cleanly shaven faces capped with an equally white cap. The stainless steel countertops are impeccably polished inlayed with small cubbies containing this spice or that vegetable in their raw form. The guest will observe that there is certainly no microwave in this kitchen, but only a large grill with a constant hearth of fire underneath for slow cooking and a nook in the wall (formed with faux-cobble stone and concrete) to ensure an authentic Italian pizza as the product.

In the midst of the kitchen, lies the expedition area in which small heat lamps are there to preserve the heat of the freshly cooked food until they are ready to be taken to hungrily awaiting guests. To the right and in front of the stone pizza oven is the first kitchen “bar”, outfitted with the same oil canisters and salt and pepper grinders so that any guest can eat as well as have a first-hand view of what is being prepared for them. On the opposite end of the kitchen lies the second bar of the same sort, directly in front of the grill. Above the entire kitchen, a hand painted message stands before the view of every guest, reading “Cocina” or kitchen in Italian.

Suddenly, within no more than a minute, the cheerful server approaches the table of the guest and immediately announces himself stating his name and that he is very proud to be serving such a wonderful guest, profusely thanking the guest for visiting this restaurant when there are thousands of others to chose from. With a smile, of course, he outlines the merriment of the entire company, for a happy and just business makes a happy worker, which inevitably leads to a happy guest.  The spiel begins momentarily, and the server asks from the beginning, again, whether the guest has ever visited Corrotto’s before. The entire menu is explained for the guest, for there should be no confusion as to the contents, preparation or price of any item listed on the menu. What is sure to be mentioned is the classically Italian chicken parmesan: two tenderized chicken breasts tenderized to superiority then basted with marinara and smothered in parmesan and baked until golden brown. Or the Pasta Corrotto: fettuccine cooked al dente with alfredo blended with heavy cream and cheeses of all sorts Italian, then layed down with grilled chicken from the slow-cooking grill and served hot with mushrooms and artichoke.

Wine, of course, has its own menu located on the back of every menu. A plethora of wine from every part of the world is listed either as a full or medium bodied in its designated “Rosso” or Blanco” column. The guest is offered a free sample of any one of which he is to choose, and undoubtedly he will chose between that which he likes from that which he doesn’t. The wine is selected, or perhaps iced tea or soda if he does not care to drink and is brought to him cheerfully and with out question, because anything the guest wants will be brought to him without question and with utmost haste.

Once the server has returned from the unknown and unseen kitchen with wine and good French bread along with the necessary accoutrements (butter upon request, along with wine-vinegar which he may pour or the server may), the ordering of the food begins. Taking care with concern for the customer, a food order is eked from the want of the guest and is presently entered into “the system”, and by due process, is prepared and served at his liking. In the average event, the antipasto – or appetizer – is brought within four minutes of ordering, followed by the salad of which he chooses, and finally the main course. During this time, the server is doting on every need; the server is complying with every wish of the guest, and is refilling their non-alcoholic drink without question or their wine upon request. The normal questions apply: “How is the antipasto today, sir?” “Shall I bring you another carafe?” “Would you like to indulge in dessert?” And the equally normal replies ensue: “Wonderful”, “Another pinot noir”, and “Can I see the dessert menu?”

After all courses have ended, the server drops the moderately priced check on the table and returns hastily to run his numbers and leave the customer with a pen, along with another bout of appreciative remarks on the customer’s choice of restaurant that night. And so the guest waddles his way back to the front door, satiated perhaps beyond his expectations, wherein he is barated by thanks and the hopes of well being towards him from all ends of the restaurant. The hostess wishes him well at last, and the guest has thus completed the cycle of American dining – a traditional, wholesome, and family-oriented institution built on the traditions of people whose warmth and hospitality top all of the rest.

Saying his goodbyes to the tin man and his dog, the diner reproves to his vehicle and speeds off commenting to his wife, “We should come here more often.”