when it comes to questions of judgment or strategy. Their mission? Get
that food out there and get back here fast. I have my beautiful food dying
under the heat lamps? I don't want my runner stopping off to decrumb a
table or empty an ashtray.
And it's useful if my wide-bodied runners can be utilized as enforcers,
dealing subtly, if forcefully, with interlopers who would invade my
domain and impede the serious business of cooking and serving my food.
Some "friend" of the owner, salesman or chatty waiter is blocking the
lane in my kitchen? He's gonna get an elbow in the kidney every time
one of my chunky runners passes him by. After a few of these
"inadvertent" bumps and elbow-checks, people usually get the message
that they're in the way.
A really good runner is a rare and beautiful find. In the best cases, there
is a near-telepathic relationship between chef and runner, requiring only
a glance or a facial expression to communicate scads of information. A
really good runner will read the dupes over the shoulder of his master,
between orders, immediately identifying what will likely come next and
where it's going. Some diplomatic skills are nice, too, as my cooks are
likely to take umbrage if asked to refire a steak or rush an order in a tone
of voice they find grating.
A runner who's willing to snitch on his old pals out on the floor is useful
as well. I always like to know if there's some pocket of dissidence
welling up there. If some jumped-up maître d' is bad-mouthing me or my
specials I'll probably have to deal with it somewhere down the road, so
I'd rather know sooner than later. Early warning is always a good thing.
Did a busload of tourists just pull up outside the restaurant, all of them
planning on jamming a quick three-course meal into their maws before
curtain goes up for Miss Saigon? If my runner doesn't tell me, who will?
The waiters and hosts will be too busy shoving tables together and
arguing about whether to tack 18 or 20 percent on their bill.