Though nominally floor staff, in time, as runners become comfortable
with the customs and practices of the kitchen, they begin to acquire the
same unique world-view: that xenophobic, slightly paranoid perspective
of everything that exists outside the kitchen doors, the same ghoulish
sense of humor and suspicion of non-kitchen personnel. I like to
encourage this, making sure my runners are fed better, flattering them on
occasion, taking an interest in their personal lives and finances. I will,
when necessary, put the full weight of my strange and terrible power
behind them should they need it. Those part-time actors on the floor are
holding out on one of my runners, shorting him on his cut? God help
them.
The Night Porter
I wish I didn't need a night porter. But I do. Somebody has to clean the
restaurant after service, take out the garbage, clean and scrub the insides
of the ovens, toss out the dead mice, kill the dying ones, empty the
grease traps, hose down the kitchen—all the tasks that no one else in his
right mind would do for love or money. The problem is, you have the
sort of person who is willing to do this kind of work alone and
unsupervised in your restaurant all night long. It's thankless, dirty work
—dragging leaking, smelly garbage bags out to the dumpster—and as
the night porter is all by himself, he might well feel justified in taking
full advantage of certain fringe benefits. He could call his family in
Mexico on the house phone. He could eat whatever he finds available
and not likely to be missed. He could, perhaps, take a drink from those
bottles he's dusting. And best yet, he can keep whatever he finds in the
dining room. Let's face it, the guy who sweeps and mops a busy
restaurant's dining room after a packed Saturday night is going to find
some interesting stuff: wallets, jewelry, credit cards, cellphones,
handbags, umbrellas, drugs, cash—these kinds of things are regularly
left behind by customers. The night porter is probably coming up with