A friend of mine recently returned from dinner at Chez Panisse in Berkeley with a grain of criticism spiking her otherwise sublime experience. “Dessert,” she informed me, “was a peach on a plate. A peach on a plate!” The juiciest, most succulent peach she’d ever tasted prettily perched on a simple and elegant plate, mind you, but she was grossly underwhelmed. When I expressed to her how much I thought I would appreciate such a graceful design, she protested, “but anyone can plunk a peach on a plate.”
True. We can all take the time to pluck the most carefully grown and perfectly ripe peach from the nearest, most nutritious orchard with its roots deep in the richest soil. We can then transport said fruit delicately to the kitchen, artfully choose just the right plate —one that serves as a canvas and not a distraction— and set it down on the table with an air of conviviality and artistry. But when was the last time any of us served and ate a peach in this manner when left to our own devices?
This interaction got me to thinking about coffee cups, forks, and waiters.
When I wander into an unfamilliar café for an Americano and it arrives in a well-designed cup that somehow, just by picking it up, extends its quiet, classic sophistication to me, I’m delighted. Correspondingly, there’s a fork that surfaces occasionally in my silverware drawer that I find impossible to eat well with. It was cheaply made, feels flimsy in the hand, and reminds me too much of bad cafeteria food (it having wound up in the drawer, no doubt, after someone pilched it from a bad cafeteria). The point is, for those of us attuned to the minutiae, a bad fork can ho-hum a real work-of-art meal.
Which leads me to waiters, the men and women who stand on their feet all day attending to the minutiae of flocks of eaters.
Just the other day I missed a connection from Quadra to Cortes Island by seconds and decided to wander up the hill to the Heriot Bay Inn patio for a bite. Bleary-eyed and road weary from a couple long days in transit, I dropped into a seat completely un-hungry, but desperately needing coffee. A waitress appeared to welcome me and spruce up the table. Hot, fresh coffee arrived promptly after that with a pretty little pitcher of cream and a lovely, heavy spoon. I hemmed and hawed about what to order longer than the acceptable amount of time, then feeling like this might annoy the service, explained that I wasn’t all that hungry and could take my coffee to go. The waitress was perfectly gracious about this; I was welcome to stay, to eat or not. Enjoy your coffee and the view, was all that was asked of me. Coffee was freshened, water was replenished. I sipped and listened as the waiters bobbed and weaved around the patio, replaced forks, recited specials, got pulled into conversation and laughter. They seemed perfectly pleased when I finally ordered a half-salad and when it arrived it was simple, but full of colour, freshness, and tasted exactly like the right thing at the right time.
“Excellent choice,” said the waitress when I picked the walnut honey dressing, as though I’d just chosen something special from the wine list. There were three servers circulating the deck that afternoon and each one of them had the details of their duties nicely polished. I was made to feel like I was welcome and being taken care of, rather than served or doted on, and their amiable helpfulness felt sincere, not pre-fabricated. Their attitudes made all the difference.
Sometimes we can become so focused on the extravagance of a meal out that we overlook appreciating the small details —a patient waiter, the gentle curve of the water pitcher, the way someone has angled the table so the light falls just so. Try ordering something unfanciful next time you go out —a plain pasta, the house greens, or a solitary peach, say— and see what other elements rise to your attention. You may find, even at your own kitchen table, you’ve been missing some of the beauty in the details.
Click here to visit the Heriot Bay Inn online.
