American Pie

American Pie – Don McLean

The water boy, a hummingbird in black jeans, darts in and out of sight, promptly dipping a decanter into our glasses whenever we put them down. The lanky hostess prepares to pounce and cite a significant list of desserts to choose from. But she has to wait for us to finish our entrees first. She stretches elaborately; her nails scratch the register. Whenever she catches our eye, she leaps up to our table and asks how we are managing. Ready for dessert now? We are just fine, we nod, mouths still stuffed with the rack of lamb, the mozzarella, the lobster, the artichokes. Dessert is not even an itch in our bellies yet. ‘Take your time!’ she prompts us with a toothy smile as she bristle-tails off again. The maitre d’ is aimlessly hovering up and down the narrow pathway between our table and the exit, a dragonfly deftly dodging the bus boy consigned to clear our plates between courses. He in turn operates from shadowy corners. He dashes into the light only to lunge at any serving dish that looks finished, picking off unattended platters one by one in a flurry of quick, ruthless hits.

Eating out in New York City is about as relaxing as wandering around, lost, in a night-time jungle. However exciting, it has very little to do with enjoying a lay-back night of good food, wine and company – a smiling patron gradually dimming lights and music as the hours turn wee, happy to join in with a fresh bottle of wine. New Yorkers don’t do slow food. They spend an average of 48 minutes in an eatery – and that is not including fast food joints. This is actual restaurant statistics, places where people are welcomed by a maitre d’, invited to sit down and take pleasure in a carefully prepared meal presented by a proud chef. From the second customers are seated to the second they hand in their credit cards, it takes a joint effort of staff and guests a mere half a soccer game to choose, prepare, serve, enjoy, finish and clear appetizers, entrees, desserts, a bottle of wine, coffee and a bout of quality conversation. (Interestingly, that is roughly the same amount of time it takes any Dutch waiter to acknowledge your existence.)
New York City has different and wonderful kitchens in abundance. Why is it, then, that New Yorkers don’t take time to dine? It just seems anomalous for a city that harbors such a significant amount of Latin-Americans, Italians, Spaniards – no amateurs when it comes to marathon meal sessions – to cater mainly to the anxious eater. And what’s worse, to run down those who wish to slow-dine.

We glance at each other, keeping a fork to our plates at all times. It’s getting hot in here. Did someone just turn off the air conditioner? What was that, over there in the dark? As I start chewing on my last bite of lobster tail, a bit wary but looking forward to the legs on the plate in front of me that are yet to be devoured, the bus boy angles in from an unexpected corner. He’s after my dish. I instinctively throw my body between boy and food, and, to his and my own horror, I hear myself actually snarl at him. ‘Grrrrrrrrrrrr!’ I can’t help myself. No one approaches our table for a bit after that. Then the hostess slowly steals closer. She stays downwind, careful not to draw our attention. Six feet, two, one… She abruptly flings a tab onto our table and leaps back, purring, ‘We loved serving you – please come back again!’ No second bottle of wine for us. No dessert. No coffee. It’s been over an hour. We must leave now. There is a hand drawn smiley face at the bottom of the check, next to the suggested tip. We look up. All lights are on. The music’s off. The staff are all looking positively hungry at the exit door where the maitre d’ is busy buzzing a new group of hungry customers to our table, inviting them in for what’s bound to be yet another early night in the urban jungle.