Column: Missoula's Dish

A Server’s Quiet Ballet: Cutting Corners

By Danielle Lattuga, 11-29-07

It’s just this one small corner.  How can it cause me so much angst?

Happy diners are squeezed in around this table- it’s deep grainy sheen holding them all together.  It’s finished wooden complexion absorbs the sound of their wine glasses set upon it after a toast. 

They are comfortable sitting so close to one another, this family and select friends.  She’s just graduated from college.  They don’t mind that their elbows touch.  Knees clunk together under the table.  Toes touch.  I raise my voice above their laughter.  Proud father teases me.  I tease him. 

I glance at the corner.  I glance at the people sitting opposite the corner.  Thankfully, they are petite and she has a sweet face.  Her big brown eyes say, “Courteous, and free from attitude.”

The surface of the table is crowded with wine glasses, water glasses, bread baskets.  Small square plates drizzled with pools of olive oil and herbs.  Butter ramekins.  Gifts.  A bottle of white.  Two bottles of red, with two waiting in the wings. 

With one hand I rearrange items.  Being helpful, they rearrange items into the space that I have just cleared.  I re-rearrange and settle the appetizers in.  No problem!  It’s like a puzzle.  I love puzzles. 

Pour a little wine.  Lift, tilt, twist.  No drops and no tablecloth to give me away, if there were. I slide in between two chairs, hip perpendicular to the table, grasping the bottle at the very bottom.  Extend my arm fully.  So glad that I have monkey limbs.  Roll onto the ball of my foot while the other foot provides the balance.  Finally, seven years of ballet, paying off.  The neck of the bottle just reaches the corner.  Slow tip, higher from the rim than I prefer. Wine reaches the glass, and I tilt up and twist earlier, to compensate for the distance. 

Salads and entrees are ordered.  I commit all 23 to memory.  They comment and I respond, “Don’t hex me, or your salmon may end up looking a lot like duck.”

But I’m not really worried about that. It’s that corner.  That corner that’s just out of reach and gets further out of reach with every plate brought to the table, every sip of wine that my guests take—encouraging clumsiness, and wild gestures to emphasize a point. 

And the woman in that corner has just ordered our best and hottest vegetarian pasta.  You know, the kind with molten tomatoes and melted cheese that sticks to the rim as well as your own tender, pale flesh. 

HOT PLATE. 

I’ve been moving swiftly for an hour and half by now, and I am positive that I am stinky.  “Oh excuse me while I shove my pungent armpit in your face, to deliver this plate across from you, and I hope you don’t mind if I lean in and bury your sweet brown eyes between my mammary glands (no small affair, let me assure you.)” And perhaps no one will notice if I just tip over on the table while leaning a little too far to place the plate perfectly in front of the woman seated in that corner.  A little shattered glass and a hot meal won’t hurt a bit. 

How do I solve this dilemma, the problem of this one small corner posing a risk of potentially meal-spoiling proportions? This one corner that harbors all possibilities of awkwardness, among an intimate and celebratory meal. Do I change into my patent leather stilettos and step gracefully onto the table, plate in hand, strutting confidently amongst the wine glasses, only to set it down gently in front of her?  Oh wait, I forgot my garter belts in which they could tuck my tips.  Do I put on my kneepads and shimmy underneath the table, sliding the plate in from below?  I really don’t want to take stock of how many women at this table are or are not wearing underwear.  Do I place the plate on a flying saucer and deliver it via remote control?  Wrong century. 

Every server has been faced with this one little corner, probably more than once.  It’s part of the risk factor, and you just have to take it.  And the thing is, most dining disasters come when you least expect them.  Granted, there is the occasional “I knew I was going to drop that tray,” but it’s usually because you don’t take the time to make sure that you don’t.  If you take the time to visualize all the possibilities, you’ve taken the time to make sure that only the best possibility comes to fruition. 

I’ve loaded the second round of entrees onto the tray.  I raise it above my right shoulder, my palm feeling the weight evenly.  My knuckles are pressed firmly against the smooth plastic. It’s like downward dog palms, just downside up.  My foot guards the kitchen door from swinging back prematurely and toppling my tray.  I extend my reach higher, to clear the heads at the bar.  Nine and a half steps. Knees bend.  I lower the tray to meet my left hand, set it squarely on the tray stand.  Plates are plucked strategically from the tray, to maintain balance.  Each is delivered and announced to the recipient.  “Pasta Pomodore. . . Wild Alaskan King Salmon . . . The White Salad.” Each plate is punctuated by the flat plunk of ceramic on wood and a chorus of “Oooh, that looks good. . .Look at that!  YUMMMY! Damn, I’m hungry. . . What did you get?  I’ll trade you bites . . .”

“Okay, here is your Pasta Katherine.” I grasp the smooth curved rim with a napkin folded twice upon itself.  I’ve squeezed in between the chairs opposite her again, my tush in the face of a quiet young man, my pits and . . . breasts facing the sweet brown eyes.  I am extending across the table, my elbow barely clearing the wine bottle, balanced on one foot.  “This is . . .” Her hands rise to meet the plate.  I lift higher on my toes, elevating the plate further away from her fingertips.  “This is a very hot plate.” Her hands retract.  I am still balancing—at my crux.  I square my hips and rest the fingers of my left hand on the surface of the table, between dinner forks and bread plates.  My belly is tucked as far into my diaphragm as possible.  I imagine that I look like a Halloween cat. She pushes her silverware to the side.  I lower the plate carefully in front of her.  By now, my wrist feels pinched and pumped.  Plunk.  Her blue eyes meet mine.  “Thank you,” she says.  I smile, “Enjoy.”

I roll back onto my heel, slowly extricating myself from glassware and meals in various stages of consumption.  I slide out from between my guests, swing my hips into a stride, tuck the tray under my arm, and fold and store the tray-stand in one motion. 

It’s just one little corner.  Until hot coffee and dessert.

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