A gift from the kitchen

“I heard you guys had to wait a little while for service, so I wanted to send you a gift from the kitchen. Enjoy!”

“Oh, thank you! How nice. That’s so nice. Tell them thank you so much!”

“Of course, I will. Enjoy.”

Seventeen seconds later: “I mean, this is nice…but they could’ve, like, comped one of the appetizers we already ordered. It’s too much food. Or, I don’t know, they could’ve sent us drinks.”

When I worked at the ramen shop, whenever friends came in, or even just someone I kind of knew, I’d make sure everyone at the table left with a cone of our genmai (that’s a toasted rice green tea) soft serve. It was the perfect “gift from the kitchen:” no burden to guest, the kitchen, or the restaurant’s bottom line.

I was shameless — when good friends came in, if we had a lull in service (and especially if I was working the line), I’d tell them to order ramen and I’d send out every appetizer: karaage, tsukemono, gyoza, korokke. You take what you can get in terms of benefits as a dishwasher and give what you can take.

Sometimes you know you’re getting a “gift from the kitchen” even before you’ve ordered. This generally only happens if a friend is working at the restaurant. Maybe they’ve told you to order one or two things and they’ll take care of the rest, which is incredible, but I like when you’re not exactly sure what will happen. You get to gamble: “Let’s get the beets, the clams, and the half chicken because I think they’re going to send us the endive salad, the croquettes, and probably some gelato at the end.” And then they do — fabulous.

I no longer work in the service industry, so it’s pretty rare I get a “gift from the kitchen” these days. But, two months ago, my girlfriend and I met up in Nolita for a Wednesday dinner at an upscale wood-fire restaurant. She’d made a reservation; we were whisked past the host stand and seated in moments.

Fifteen minutes later: a runner brings us water.

Fifteen minutes later: we flag down the shift lead, who’s clearly noticed we’ve not been served by his apologetic tone. “Oh, has…has nobody helped you guys?”

Though we’d started to get quite hungry, we didn’t particularly care; more so it was embarrassing for the staff, especially given the chef-owner and a few other friends-and-family were sat a table away from us and clearly noticed the floor team’s failure.

Five minutes later: The GM ferries an app to our table, a wooden plate draped in prosciutto, topped with a small bowl of ricotta and a substantial wood-fired sourdough flatbread.

This was a fine appetizer, but we’d already ordered according to our appetite, and we hadn’t chosen it because it was the the lease interesting thing on the menu. You know what we’d really’ve loved? The house amaro to finish.

Anyway, we devoured the prosciutto and accoutrements. If the kitchen sends you a gift horse, you put it in your mouth.