CHAPTER ONE (1)

And finally above the managers were the corporate managers. Every so often they would grace this particular Corrotto’s with a visit, in order to deal out their bi-yearly portion of vomit on the managers – which would later trickle down to other employees and then become nothing of the managers’ problem. Too many linens being used to fold the silverware in? Cut that. Servers’ ties a little too flashy? Go out and buy new ties. Food cost up six and a half percent? No more voids, you hear me? Ray and Carlos would drink in the unnecessary tid-bits like puppies waiting for a piece of bacon. The yes man attitude a farce. But hat corporation did not have its fair share of yes men? And it wasn’t their fault, for what could they do? – simply drink it in and pretend to enjoy it.

            These corrections would be made. And it was really the lower employees who had to deal with the corrections. Implementing them was a matter of “having one’s job or not.” To the managers, everyone was dispensible. In the back of their minds, creeping at them daily with blunt, powerful force, Carlos and Ray knew that they, too, were ultimately dispenisible. Hence the puppy love they gave to the ridiculousness of Corporate’s regulations. Hence the enforcement of black socks rule and so on. But the cycle continued because one merely had to eat. One merely had to eat.

            And the tin man and his noodle sat to observe all. Always observing.

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

            Carlos stared haneously into the screen. It had been a long day. No more guests thank god. The computer hummed listlessly and the intense smell of parmesean permeated the tiny office. It was 3 am.

            Fuck, I gotta get home. No, I can wait. I just gotta get my sales report done.

            When he had to close, Carlos Cuadros always wore pastels. It was his blend-in, “I’m your man” nuance. Stained. It had to be that fagioule. Damn that fagioul. It was on the khakis, too. He hated khakis, but he wore them anyways. They always went with the pastel cuffed shirt. But Dickies pants were beneath him.

            He thought of Natalia, the woman who managed the supermarket across the complex. Man, she had beautiful legs. Ray said, “If I wasn’t married, I’d be kissin’ that dame’s feet night and day.” Ray always spoke like he was from the forties. Probably some nostalgic attempt at getting back at the servers – they were young enough to be his grandchildren. Carlos suspected Ray was jealous. Fuck, the reports…

            After Carlos had come to the United States, he noticed these things. In 1971, before he left Chile, the old Chilenos would mock this language. “Tchilenos” they pronounced it. They were better than the working class, and the Tch sound was their rite. They were born with it apparently. But Carlos was too young, too stupid, really, to understand why they had to classify themselves and why they detested Ray’s speak.

           

 

I decided to post what I wrote today: i thought these sketches were entertaining:

So my grandmother used to roast whole cloves of garlic in her tiny GE oven – those ovens that came out right after the cold war, those ovens that were still in use when the Wall fell.

I used to work at the Jewish Community Center and one day they put me in the infant room. I normally dealt with the four and five year olds – the ones that were about to enter kindergarten and could at least form coherent sentences. But not that day. Instead, my boss thought that she would try my hand at the infant room. It smelled of Clorox and wet wipes.

My German grandmother has this tiny bathroom that she never uses. It is located inside of her room, the master bedroom, while my grandfather sleeps in the tinier bedroom. Older people seem to do that these days: they never sleep in the same bed. But my grandparents don’t even sleep in the same room.

I used to work in this store that sold work on consignments for artists. There were odd little things in the store, all made by hand from local artists in the Tucson area: mainly southwestern. Anyways, the only thing that was sold there from a corporation was Burt’s Bee lip balm, in a variety of smells and flavors. I wanted the original so badly, for some reason.

My mother and I, when I was a child, would always go to bed together. She had a king size bed, which, at the time, I thought was more than fit for a king. My dad would be fast asleep on the other side, waaaaay over on the other side. We would always eat an orange, and I can remember her peeling the orange and the smell would stick to our hands. I could never sleep and my mother would tell me to think about all of the energy flowing out of my chest and into my arms and legs. And then the energy would migrate to my hands and my feet, and eventually all the energy left would coagulate in my fingertips and toes and I swear I can still feel that energy there from time to time. And if I could hold out long enough, I would be able to hear her say to me, “…and now all of that energy is seeping out. From every nail bed, from every pore, from every hair follicle…” I never made it past that point.

In Chile, they have the most wonderful wine. It is best enjoyed straight from the tap. I have learned through my less than sommelie days that wine isn’t necessarily better the older it is. Especially white wines, which is what was featured that cloudy morning just south of Santiago. In the Casa Blanco vinyards, there is the most lovely scene: the rolling hills, that picturesque row by row by row of sauvignon blanc, the settling clouds on those same rolling hills, the smell of manure. That is what chile is to me. 

But of course none of the Rittos would think about this. Both worlds were too aught up in their jobs to be bothered by mere tile. And neither were the managers concerned – as long as both worlds continued the process.

            The managers were a different breed entirely. There were two: Carlos and Ray. Carlos obviously had more power, for he was the proprietor – he owned the building. However, Ray Urban had more influence. It was these two men who ran the entire process; the whole show; the big enchilada. “Jefe,” as he was known to the Mexicans, “Carlitos,” as he was known affectionately to the front of the house staff, Carlos Cuadros dealt with all of the “big” problems. He would deal with agitated customers, and so , as one can imagine, he was not apt to hear the words, “Carlos, can you go talk to table 24? Their chicken parm came out late, and I think you should go deal with it.” He was always dealing with it. It could be cold soup, late ticket times, the smell in the restaurant is unappetizing, the problem is with the server, the drink is too strong, this drink is too weak, Can you take this off my ticket?, this fork is dirty, this table is off balance…

            And Carlos dealt with it. And Ray did, too. And that was their job. They would both mediate between servers and other servers, servers and Mexicans, servers and busers, servers and guests, servers and…

-i have decided to forget the chapters at this point in my story, for i believe that these representations and images would go better as an introduction. as you have noticed by now, there is no plot, and it is all quite informative. continue...

It is widely unknown how the back of the house Ritto came to America. There were rumors that many of them crossed the border by foot, but that was only a rumor. The prep cooks did not talk about it except within themselves, and it was extremely hard to delve into their former lives as Mexicans. Many of them had changed their first names in order to feign their identity – others just their last names. Others were bold enough to change neither name. The fact was that they were not citizens, and the fact was that this was common practice in the restaurant world. And so the back of the house was comprised of mainly, but not limited to, Rittos that knew very little of their counterparts’ world in the front of the house.

            The language barrier was often time comical. A few of the Mexicans would try to speak English, but of course they were so completely surrounded by their own “kind”, that it simply wasn’t necessary. A few would take up the mannerisms of Americans, but, again, it was unnecessary. The two worlds (the back of the house and the front of the house) thus were separated by both language and custom, and both were content within their little realms. And what divided them? Tile. The tile of the front of the house seemed better; it was fake marble and quite expensive – it was water-resiistant, it was cleaned with utmost care, it was the front of the house. The back of the house tile was for utility only, it was worse; it would suck up water leaking from the garbage cans and soda machine through dark grout, and then once squeegeed, would be spit back out for a Mexican to slip on. It wreaked. When washed, it was only splattered with water.

            However, quite a phenomenon occurred. For it was within the middle where both worlds met in order to keep the machine moving that was the restaurant: each world converged at the center into a grey middle world; a world in which both came to together to at the dish pit. Servers would bring the used plates in and deposit them in what is known as the “dish pit” and a BOH Ritto would deposit it then into quite a machine. The stainless steel beast would rinse with extremely heated water, then sanitize, the repeat, and the used dishes would exit out of the other side and suddenly there were clean plates. And most restaurants would use this mechanism. And most restaurants would use Mexicans. And most Mexicans dealt with this process in the same way:

            “Gracias.”

            And that was all.

Chapter three, continued...

Of course, there was always – in a rare while – the black couple hat came in a defied all imbedded notions of the “black tip”. The Mexicans, prevalent in the area, and almost always kind, defied this unwritten rule even less often. Matt said one day, summarizing the racism perfectly at Corrotto’s: “You can take the tip out of the Mexican, but you can’t take the Mexican out of the tip.” But he was not considered a bigot. He was not considered a racist. In fact, it was an agreed upon fact by all of the servers and even hostesses that Mexicans simply did not have the resources nor the values to tip well. Oh, they might leave a tip, but never over 10%. But again, none could take the Mexican out of the tip. Even Ernesto, a native of Hermosillo would agree.

            “I am ashamed.” Ernesto would say frequently and hang his head low.

            “You should be.” Matt would say.

            Of course this was all play. The norms inside the building in the neat little shopping center changed dramatically once one stepped passed the mahogany doors. It was a different world, a paradigm filled with racism and sex and fattening food, the smell of expired parmesean and the exchange of money. And the servers would tease and taunt one another, “Oh Viki, you’re such a Jew. God knows we don’t want your Jewish blood anyways, the price of pork might go up”, or, “I’m from New Jersey, of course we are loud,” or even worse, “Ry – Ry, if you want me to run your food again, make sure you put the damned ticket in the right fucking order. There’s a nice tree outside ready for the hangin’.” And Ry-Ry (Ryan) would laugh it off and say, “shut up, you kike.” And this is how the servers would communicate. Then they would go back to their computers and type the next order in to clog the arteries of the next cheap black family.

            But the servers’ job remained in the front of the house for only about 25% of the time – the rest was spent in what is referred to as the BOH (aka the back of the house). And if it wasn’t bad enough that the Ritto dared to utter these bigoted words in the front of the house, when no customer was chiming in, then there was no doubt that he would make them even more bigoted in the back of the house. Customer’s ears could not reach that far. Bt a strange phenomenon occurred in the back of the house, for this is where the servers met their back of the house counter-parts: the prep cooks.

Chapter Three: The Servers

 

In this tiny society, as in most societies, there crept certain factors that differentiated each individual. For the Rittos, each individual served his purpose in the way of this society, each in part brought aspects to the restaurant in what experienced people in the food industry call the “front of the house”.

            In the front of the house, sometimes dubbed FOH, there worked the servers, the bussers, the hostesses, the bartenders, as well at the floor manager. And yet to be one of these peculiar people, any one of them, there was always an extroverted talent that each must possess: anyone who worked in the front of the house must be gregarious. Fraternization created the character of each of these employees, for working with people was the basis of their duties. Inevitably, this created conflict within the members of the front of the house culture, for if all obtained this inherently out-going feature, then it can be assumed that all obtained a certain elevated level of outspoken and straightforwardness. This was the case at Corrotto’s.

            Beginning with the first person the guest in point may see, would be the hostess. She is a sly creature, beautiful and tiny but with a nymph-like deceptiveness. Her nails are manicured, her hair pouffed or fromped to perfection, masking her inner illusory character. They all were the same, they all were the same. It was up to the server to manipulate over time the actions that the hostess would no doubt resolve to do; the server could tip her out, the server could befriend her, or the server could do none of these things and make little money. It was in this way that Corrotto’s fell into the line of machinery. For it was a machine, and the hostess-server relationship exemplified this.

            It was common to find a female server mosey over to the hostess stand and converse with the hostess: for she deligated which guest or party of guests would be sat at which table (of course, which table belonged to which server). So it was only part of the job of the server to befriend the hostess in order to make a little more money. Each server had his own set of rules in which the hostess must known when being sat. For instance, Matt C. would not allow any white trash, children under the age of 21, black people or Mexicans to be sat in his section. Sarah refused Mexicans at all cost. Vanessa really didn’t care, but god have mercy on the poor new hostess that sat her foreigners (especially foreigners from Europe). It was the unwritten job in the Real employee Handbook that had virtually no merit with corporate Corroto’s that the hostess must follow in order to secure her place.

            But why the racism? It was a fact, beyond all doubt, that those mentioned and their groups did NOT tip well. Can you blame the server? Could you blame the hostess? Not at all. It was an unwritten rule: the non-white groups went mainly to the newest and ignorant Ritto server. Management had no worries about this dirty procedure. And could you blame management? No. The dynamics went like this: Those falling within the non-white or white trash categories simply did not have the funds available to be dining at a “fine establishment” such as Corrotto’s. This is why servers did not appreciate their business. But since these categories did not have the coveted and almighty dollar, management refused (subtly, of course – no one wants a law suit) to follow their motto of “everything goes” particularly with these groups. It is a sad fact, yes, but this is just the beginning of the Corrotto’s way of life. 

And the story continues...

Chapter Two: The Corrotto Handbook

The Corrotto’s handbook describes exactly the sequence of events, which should make these guests satisfied yet hungry for another wonderful experience. It is given to what the Corrotto’s corporation calls the “Ritto” which is short for an employee of Corrotto’s. Through trial, these laws have been bestowed upon the corporation for years since its establishment in 1978; it has been amended and reconstructed with pride in order to better serve their “ospitis” - or guests. The Corrotto’s corporation prides itself on giving the best care to its customers, and is known quite throughout America as having the best service complying with its genre of quality. Outlining these ideals in the Corrotto Handbook, the Ritto is tested time and again of its principles, having no committee or actor needed to interpret their meaning. Dilineanated neatly and clearly in black and white are the rules by which each Ritto should conduct himself and the sequence of assistance they should thereby perform in order to create a memorable dining experience. Therefore, the tabula rusa of the newly employed Ritto is thrown into the procedures and manner of what every Ritto should be, and is expected to gain high marks when he is later tested on them. The poor embryonic Ritto begins his journey through the handbook at the first page, which states the mission of Corrotto’s: 

Our mission as a fine Italian restaurant is to procure the utmost care of our ospitis. We aim to make a memorable and long-lasting image in the mind of newcomers, so that they shall find it pleasurable to return. Our motto, Everything Goes, should mean exactly what it states: whatever the customer wants, the customer shall have. We provide authentic Italian food and a family dining experience.

 The new Ritto is made to memorize and repeat the motto in a moment’s notice, therefore constantly having it resound in his head when he must make a crucial decision on a busy Friday night. The new Ritto is also expected to learn every ingredient in every sauce, every wine and its varietal and where it was grown, and know (to the minute) the sequence of assistance owed to the guest. Timing is of the essence in this particular chain, and without good timing, the new Ritto would be forced to accept the title of an “okay” or “standard” server. The Ritto is taught the very ethics of customer service and of food safety, as well as the correct work relations he should have with his fellow Rittos. Among the regulations stipulated in the Handbook, many have come from amendments based on prior “loop-holes” from the original Ritto Handbook. Section A, Code 12.3 (an amendment made in 1982) states that no Ritto has the right to refuse service to anyone based on race, ethnic background, sexual orientation, or education. Another amendment in the Handbook stated that only managers had the authority to use a “VOID” card and therefore, the certain right to free meals (Based on the case of restaurant 3401 in Birmingham, Alabama in 1998). One regulation, harmless as it was, avowed that every Ritto shall wear a white sleeved shirt underneath that of their work attire as well as black socks that went higher than the mid-calf region, but lower than the knee. Another, that the male Rittos shall not grow facial hair past that of a sixteenth of an inch, and all female Rittos shall tie back their locks. These arbitrary regulations did serve purpose, and sought to hold the Ritto community as a well-groomed entity, to better serve the ospiti. And, faithfully, every Ritto abided by these regulations with neat trim and cleanly touch. Yet there were standards in which Corrotto’s abided by most certainly, such as sexual harassment laws abided both by the corporation and more importantly by the federal government. The Ritto, by duty, must tell the working manager at the time if he experienced or witnessed even the faintest aspect of sexual or any other type of harassment, for Corrotto’s would not stand any destruction to lives or the emotional state of their beloved Rittos. Also, any type of drug use was not allowed and punished by termination if a Ritto was found to be inebriated or was becoming inebriated at work. Stealing, was also punished the like. Basically, the major regulations outlined in the Ritto Handbook followed those of the normal company and dealt with in the normal ways. The morals the American were specified, as they deemed necessary in the restaurant industry, and made known to every Rittos upon his signature and contract of employment. And none were discouraged when reading them, for they were just and practical and necessary. After becoming oriented to the Handbook as spelled out by a fellow Ritto known as a “trainer”, the Ritto was thus able to test on the information and begin viewing the Corrotto Ritto Orientation videos. Within a two-hour payed span, the new employee was informed on the history of Corrotto’s, which roughly goes as follows:

          “In 1948, a child named Anthony Principiante Corrotto was born to Henriette Rossi Corrotto and Augustine Corrotto. His parents both came from southern Italy, whereby they boarded a boat in 1919 to come to the country that took in the poor and tired and hungry. Playing out the proverbial American Dream, Anthony’s parents opened an Italian Restaurant outside of Albany and began to cater to those who had moved from the urban New York City into the newly constructed suburbs, who had money, and who were mainly Italian. However, by 1929, the business failed as did other businesses and Anthony was sent to the country to begin harvesting tobacco and other valuable necessities. With marinara steaming through his veins, Anthony quit the tobacco business and moved to Lafayette, Louisiana in 1945. There, he opened Mezza-Sole and catered to much the same community as his parents did years before outside of Albany. Yet, as his parents before him, he failed and began working as a server’s assistant in another Italian Restaurant. 33 years later, an older and more experienced Anthony Corrotto began the idea of a “family” restaurant, calling his new investment simply, Corrotto’s. He lined the walls with black and white photos of his parents and godparents and parents before them, and greeted his customers as if they were his aunt or uncle. The business flourished, and today in the United States, Corrotto’s chain owns over 343 “family” owned business all bearing that same name. Through perseverance and the motto that “everything goes”, Tony (as they call him) Corrotto has made the finest family enterprise in the North American eastern seaboard.”

 After much more detail about the family relations of Tony Corrotto, as well as his associate John-John Habian, the video finished with a recapitulation of the very basic rights of the Ritto and his responsibility towards his fellow Rittos. At this point, the Ritto felt quite assured that his responsibilities were clear and that the ingenuity of the founder of the great Corrotto’s Italian Grill was one in which he could be proud. Over the next few days, the Ritto would be versed in his knowledge of the Ritto Handbook as well as the auspices of the food, and would follow his trainer much like Velcro. So much was the embryonic Ritto attached to his trainer counterpart, that many other Rittos would call him “double-stick”, alluding to double stick tape, or Velcro itself. Finally, with a certificate showing that he, the Ritto, knew the ways of an experienced Ritto and had taken a course of wine, food, and what the legal age to serve someone alcohol and the correct evaluation of identification thereby, he was allowed to have his own section “on the floor” as they often said at Corrotto’s.