Column: Missoula's Dish

The “Special” Diner

By Danielle Lattuga, 2-23-08

I’ve grown to love more than loathe this week of my life, every year. As each day of it passes, I wake up with more ease, almost restless, but well rested. My focus settles on the simple processes of life and the intensity of the senses that grows also with the passing days. My body feels lighter, more vital. I am comforted by the sheer notion of taking care of myself—even when I am choking down the 14th glass of ruby tinted fluid; a blend of beet, tomato, celery, parsley, spinach, carrot, and cucumber. Sometimes I am tricked into thinking that I am drinking dirt. And in some way, I am—all these vegetables, born of the soil. The earthly bounty; uncooked and juiced to infuse my body with nutrients, goodness and “cleansing” properties. I’d be lying if I said I loved the taste of it. 

This has become my annual ritual. A week-long cleanse somewhere in the orb of spring, with the goal of dropping a few of the winter pounds, taming the beast of a sugar craving that I spar with on a regular basis and reenergizing. I honestly can’t remember how many years I’ve practiced this, although I am thankful that my mate has joined me in it over the last two. We rise in the morning to juice our veggies for the day, enough for two or three servings each and then at night, we relish the meal of steamed brown rice, and yes, more veggies. 

The first year that I did this, I went about my normal social and work schedule—bringing my juice or dinner along with me to work, having only peppermint or chamomile tea, if I happened to be joining friends for a meal. 

Over the years, this week has evolved into a more introspective exercise, in which I limit my social and work engagements where possible. The primary goal is to simply take care of myself and reflect on the patterns in my life and how I interact with people, food and the environment. It’s a good challenge and truthfully, I don’t want to put it on anyone else, especially when it comes to spending time together around a table of food. Because I like to think that act is just as sacred at this one, both caring for the body and the soul, just in different ways. One carries the stark and pure curvature of bone, the other, the vibrant boisterous glee of wildflowers.

But a question bubbles to the surface of my mind and I wonder how it is, as a dining culture, we are navigating the answer to it.

What is it like for all of those folks who are on “special diets” most or all of the time and all the restaurant workers who are faced with accommodating them?

No doubt, many pockets of our society are evolving into those whom have a more acute awareness of what is going into our bodies and how it affects us. Hence, people are recognizing food allergies more, and wanting to know what is organic and how their food was treated before it arrived on their plate. And then of course there are the fad diets, my favorite one to scorn being the Atkins diet, which I so enjoyed calling the FATKINS diet when I regularly served up plates of steak and veggies.

More often than not, we are regaled with questions like:

“I am on a low-carb diet, can I substitute more broccoli for the mashed potatoes?”

“I am allergic to flour, is there any in the Port Chicken?”

“Do you know if there is any sugar in that salad dressing?”

I had a regular customer with a series of food allergies, and she faithfully brought a card with her that described all of her allergies. She would select something on the menu that seemed close to what she could eat, then hand me the card and I would go discuss it with the cooks, to make sure we could do it for her without too much trouble. 

As a server, my goal was always to accommodate requests the best I could. And most of the time, I was happy to. I only got annoyed when someone took the attitude that they were entitled to such exceptional treatment or on occasion, when I thought their goal was misguided or misinformed (but that was my maternally tainted personal opinion, that I always tried to keep in check- it was the same reaction I had to people eating far too much bread and then being too full for their entrée).

But for a chef, there are other elements at play. Special requests have potential to disrupt the flow, or slow them down on a busy evening. If the request is as simple as leaving something off the plate, or substituting one side for the other, it is not such a big deal, but when it comes to creating a totally different sauce or grilling a piece of meat as opposed to broiling it, you can really disrupt their rhythm.  Not to say that it doesn’t slow a server down to some degree, it’s just exacerbated in the kitchen.

And for the chef, it sometimes goes even deeper. Their relationship to the food is so intimate. They know that smoky paprika and pork are well matched in a savory presentation, but not so much on the sweet side of things. They know where white pepper touches the palate, and therefore where it fits in the lineup of seasonings that make up the sauce bubbling on the stove range for hours. They maintain the integrity of their creations, and therefore, aren’t too keen on that person, out there, in the dining room, messing with it. This is their art, and their expertise. They don’t want to compromise the very thing that makes them who they are, and they will argue the very thing that defines the restaurant. 

“That’s not what we do.” He rolls his eyes.

“Why don’t they eat at home, if they want that,” she crosses her arms.

“That is compromising the style of our cuisine.” He straightens his hat.

“It’s going to taste like sh__, but fine, if that’s what they want.” He shakes his knife at me.

The response is especially violent when asked to remove meat from a dish.

Usually the request is followed by a deep snort, and something to the effect of, “What is the f____ing point?”

But inevitably, if the request is not too much of a logistical imposition, the chef will comply.

There was a period of time in my career when I was accused of offering special requests up to my customers.  In fact, I thought I had a sign on my back that said, “Pushover.”

As a result, I was subject to much grumbling, accusation, and straight up attitude from the kitchen.  It wore me down. So much so, that if the guys made something for dinner that I couldn’t or wouldn’t eat, I refrained from requesting something else and went hungry. I felt very strongly that I had used up my special requests for the century. And the requests weren’t even mine.

I am aware that there are chefs in this world who absolutely won’t accommodate any “special request” sheerly on the basis that they don’t compromise. For some reason, I always picture a French chef turning his nose up and waving the garcon off and out of his kitchen. In which case, the diner is SOL. But as much as I can appreciate the purity of one form of art or another, I believe that refusing a special request on that principal is where the art of cuisine and the art of customer service diverge, at least in this little big town.

And so, as a server, I follow this rule:

My initial response to a special request is never, “No.”

If I don’t know the answer to be “Yes! Absolutely,” I say, “I would be happy to ask the kitchen if they are able to do that.”

Then, I step into the kitchen, make doe eyes at the boys behind the line and ask them if it would be possible to leave the onions out of that dish, or put a different sauce on that beautiful piece of salmon.  If they can’t or won’t, I ask them to offer an alternative that I can share with my customer. Most of the time, it’s the effort that the customers appreciate the most, and it’s the respect that the chefs respond to. 

As a customer, I follow this rule:

I recognize that just because I have particular preferences or needs, they are not always going to be met and if my requests are handled in a professional and respectful manner, regardless of the outcome, that server scores big points. I never presume that they can do something I want them to. I always ask politely if it is not too much trouble to get an extra side of that awesome sauce, or if they can put the anchovies on the side. And then I thank them for making the effort to find out, whether or not they can accommodate my request.

Clearly the exception to all of this is those people that have serious allergies to foods and will be put in harm’s way if they consume them—that has nothing to do with luxury, but the rules of communication still apply here: Be respectful and clear.  As a server, always verbally communicate any special request to the kitchen and mark it so that it stands out on the ticket, especially when the allergies are at play.

Much of this may appear to be common sense, but I assure you, I’ve heard enough of, “Give me the burger, and leave off the bun and the onions.” To which I would like to reply, “Sure, and I’ll suck all the fat out of it too, so your ass doesn’t get any bigger.” Once, just once.

Common sense aside, what it really goes back to, for me, is the sacredness of food in my life. I am blessed to have the luxury of food preferences or the resources to find out how my body reacts to particular foods. When someone shares a meal with me, regardless of whether or not I am paying for it, there is a primal exchange occurring, one in which we so often take for granted.

I haven’t eaten beef since I was 14 years old. I call myself a selective meat eater. I eat as much organic as I can afford. When I was 20 years old, I went to Africa, to study for four months. My first homestay family slaughtered my favorite chicken for my farewell dinner at the end of the week. We all sat on tiny stools around a fire and celebrated our meal and our brief but rich time together. When my Samburu family, who lived mostly on grains and the milk of their goats and sheep, slaughtered a goat to celebrate our return during a one in twenty year rain, you better believe I ate it—even if the texture from the interior lining of its intestine totally freaked me out.

So, when a friend cooks a meal and doesn’t realize that I don’t eat pork, I’ll eat it and thank them for feeding me.  If a friend asks me my food preferences as they are thinking about what they will cook for our Friday night dinner, I will tell them and also ask them not to go out of their way to accommodate, even though friends like to go out of their way for each other.

And maybe that is my hope for our ever evolving (and at times devolving) culture: That we recognize food and the act of sharing it for the gift that it is and embrace it’s ritual elements, those that nurture us and bring our spirits sustenance by binding us through a communal experience of the senses; the richness of olive oil and rosemary, the tears that remember how our grandmother used to prepare our supper, the burst of flavor in a summer tomato, the laughter that celebrates the foolishness of youthful love, the tart effervescence of preserved lemons, the unspoken words that linger on the rim of a wine glass, when our eyes meet for one, long, satiating moment.

Like this story? Get more! Sign up for our free newsletters.