Over the course of the last week or so, I have been privy to many conversations on the subject of respect. Invariably, it has been the speaker who deserves more or has been shown too little. I was not a part of any of these conversations; I was simply an observer. As a consequence, I was not in a position to give advice or render an opinion. This is my forum for doing so.
I wish I could have told each of the complainants this simple truth — the shortest path to receiving respect is by showing respect.
To the guy shouting his carryout order over the heads of the half-dozen guests in front of him: Please recognize the principle of “first come, first served.” The people in front of you in line are deserving of your respect, as is the woman taking your order and to whom you exhibit this behavior several times each month. Her demand that you abide by the rules is not disrespectful to you; it is a sign of respect to those you are mistreating.
To the woman talking on her cell phone while the store clerk attempted to wait on her: Just because the saleslady is not trained in mind- or mime-reading does not mean that she is both stupid and deaf. We all understood, however, the rolling of your eyes and your loud sighs. We also heard you tell your friend what an idiot the saleslady was. Funny, she got really smart and efficient when the man behind you made eye contact with her, smiled and (imagine this) spoke his requests clearly and concisely to her.
To the gentleman who upon arriving at the business lunch placed his BlackBerry on the table right in front of his potential client: No, I am not shocked that you didn’t get the contract. Do you have a clue what you told your client with that one gesture? You told him that the person calling or emailing was more important to you than he was, regardless who happened to call. Without a word you told him he was the least important person in the world to you. You could have made a show of turning it off. Better yet, you could have left it in your pocket or your briefcase.
To the person who hung up on the restaurant reservationist: Do you really think her job is to keep you from dining in that restaurant? Or that your bullying will magically make the dining room a hundred square feet larger just for Saturday night? In fact her job is to fill that restaurant to capacity as many nights as possible. And when you threaten to call your “good friend” the owner, you are more credible if you can correctly pronounce your good friend’s name.
This weekend I received further evidence that joy breeds more joy and spreads to those nearby. My recent exposure to this phenomenon came in the form of a church group on an evening outing.
My friend Joe Tucker received a midweek call from the pastor of a church located in a town about 45 minutes from here. His church was arranging an outing for members to attend a weekend gospel music concert at Music Hall that was to begin at 6 pm. They wanted to have a bite to eat nearby before the concert, and they insisted on a non-chain restaurant. They found Tucker’s on the internet. The group would total around 55 guests. Joe explained that he closed at 3 pm, but would reopen for the group. The pastor called back later and said they would love to visit — they would arrive around 3:45.
When I arrived for breakfast that morning, Joe was a bit nervous about the size of the party. He borrowed extra chairs, plates and silverware from the Catholic church next door. The Franciscan Brothers even offered their dining room for the group. Joe was also worried about getting killed after a busy Saturday and before opening for their first Sunday (10 am to 2 pm) the next day after many years of being closed Sundays. Finally, he was worried about being short handed as one server was out of town for the weekend.
I had no plans for the afternoon, so I volunteered to pitch in. Prior to the arrival of the party, I prepped some food, cleaned a bit, fetched borrowed items from next door, and did my side work.
The group arrived just before 4:15. A party of 53, consisting of families from grade school children to their grandparents (and maybe a few great-grandparents). It was a tight squeeze; Tucker’s is normally configured for just under 40 guests.
This group’s joy suffused the restaurant. They were excited about the concert they were attending; they were belatedly celebrating one child’s birthday; they were thrilled to be dining together as a group. The six of us working were immediately caught up in their joy. Our apprehension melted away in an instant. The restaurant was filled with 59 big smiles.
I was assigned a section of four booths, plus served the food to three more. Take drink orders, recite the specials (shrimp and grits, huevos rancheros and vegetarian huevos, oatmeal, grits, only two orders of biscuits and gravy left). Not a single person ordered a special; they had studied the menu on the bus and all knew what they wanted when they arrived. Take orders. A dozen tickets hit the pass within 5 minutes. Coffees, waters, soft drinks, fill, re-fill. The food starts to come to the pass. Several guests have switched tables; no problem, it’s a small restaurant. Everyone loved it all; the smiles got yet broader, the conversation more animated.
“And how would you like your check at this table?” I asked at table 1. Single. Single. Couple. Single plus child at the next table, a child at the counter, the pastor over there and the bus driver. Every table was like that. Their joy was contagious; I couldn’t have cared less how they wanted their checks. I just re-wrote every dup for every table in the restaurant (someone else did the counters) into as many checks as they wanted.
Exactly 75 minutes after arrival, the bus pulled out from the parking lot. 53, very full, very happy guests to go, please. Their joy kept me smiling for the remainder of the weekend and into this morning. I only hope the concert exceeded their expectations by the margin that Joe, Carla and their team did so.
Please join Just Cured and your favorite restaurant chefs from the area for brunch on Father’s Day, June 15, 2008.† I will be serving Just Cured smoked salmon at the brunch benefiting Seven Days for SIDS at Midwest Culinary Institute from 11 am to 2 pm.† For more details and to purchase tickets, visit Seven Days for SIDS.
This will not be your first opportunity to taste (or buy) Just Cured salmon; it is, however, the first scheduled event.† It will also be great fun for you and your family as well as your opportunity to support a cause very close to my heart.
Please come see us on June 15.
We have a stone retaining wall behind our home. This particular wall keeps the hillside from creeping down and pushing our house away. For 33 years, the wall has performed its assigned duty. And now, the wall requires some repairs. Unlike many other things, walls such as this one have no periodic maintenance program; they appear to demand no attention.
And yet, over the years, the elements have attacked our wall and done their share of damage. Water draining from the hillside has pushed against the back of this wall. Little droplets of water have found minute cracks in the wall. These droplets have infiltrated the mortar that binds together the rock-fabric of the wall. And through many freeze and thaw cycles have managed to break that once strong mortar into grains of sand.
We have two options for fixing this wall:
First, we could chip out all the damaged mortar and replace it with fresh mortar. Several years ago, my wife painstakingly performed just this sort of repair. The fresh mortar she so carefully placed has, for the most part, held. It is the adjacent areas that now show signs of deterioration and damage. This option will require constant vigilance over the mortar joints that were not repaired and serial repairs as new damage becomes evident. Moreover, it does nothing to fix the root problem — the water seeping into the wall. Nothing can be done about the water from the face side of the wall.
Second, we can tear the wall down and rebuild it in its entirety. This option has the advantage of fixing, more or less permanently, the water drainage problem. Within this option are two additional choices, we can rebuild the wall using the same stones that make up the present wall, or we can opt for a brand new wall using an “engineered” stone.
A wall rebuilt from the same stones has two advantages. First, the look will be familiar, and therefore comfortable. Second, it would not involve carting off a massive weight of stone. That rebuilt wall, however, will still have the mortar joints necessary to tie the stones together and give the wall its strength. Once again, the elements will attack these joints, and the cycle will begin anew.
An engineered wall will give a fresh look; and that has some appeal to us. These walls have a face that looks exactly like natural stone, in a variety of shapes, colors and texture. Behind that beautiful face, the blocks interlock with one another, a bit like a big, heavy jigsaw puzzle. The strength of the wall comes not from a glue of sorts rather from the nature of the stone itself and the relationship each has to the other.
We are presently inclined to rebuild our wall but have not yet decided which kind of new wall to build. Whichever wall we decide on, we will take great care in the unseen area behind the wall. We will capture all of that water, moisture and seepage and divert it away from our new, strong wall, thereby protecting it from harm for a very long time.
No, not myspace.com; the space for Just Cured’s production facility.
I spent the day today clearing out and cleaning up our new facility.† To say that my landlord is a pack rat is a huge understatement.
My thanks to Robert who was my cleaning and organizing colleague for the day.† He kept referring to himself as an old man — and truth be told, he has a decade or two on me.† Nevertheless, his enthusiasm and energy matched me stride-for-stride, and then some.
I expect more developments over the next several days.† Stay tuned.
In the meantime, here are a couple of pictures of Just Cured’s new space in its newly-emptied configuration.
Yesterday was a local holiday in my city — baseball’s Opening Day. We have a parade sponsored by the vendors at Findlay Market. The city essentially shuts down for the afternoon. Everyone-who-is-anyone attends the game, baseball fan or not.
For many years, I have cheered on the Redlegs from the seats reserved for the Findlay Market vendors. The seats are nothing special, top rows out the left field line; but the company is excellent. This year I found myself with a couple of extra tickets. I offered one to my former assistant and the other to a baseball fan new to the city.
Early on the holiday morning, my former assistant called and begged off; her younger son was ill with a stomach virus. I held out hope for the baseball fan even though he had told me he could not take the afternoon off work.
I attended a couple of meetings downtown during the morning and kept an eye out for someone who might enjoy the two tickets burning a hole in my pocket.
Shortly before noon, I stopped by the business of a friend. He was beaming when I walked into the shop. A customer had just handed him two tickets for the big game, box seats inside third base. He had already called his daughter. She was on her way downtown with her son, my friend’s one year old grandson; the three of them were going to their first ever Opening Day!
I made one last call to the baseball fan to see if his baseball fever got the better of his work conscience. He was tempted but still declined. I finally told the friend that I had come into his place to offer him my extra tickets. We offered them to his employees, but they had to keep the shop open. My friend told me to leave the tickets with him; he would find them a good home. He also wrote down my seat location because I offered to buy him a beer if he would take the long walk up to visit the commoners.
The game’s start was delayed an hour due to rain. During the first inning and much to my surprise, I looked up to see my friend, his daughter and grandson inching down our row. When they arrived at the seats next to me, I teased my friend that he just couldn’t stay away from the upper deck rabble. He whispered to me that the other tickets — the box seat tickets, the tickets given to him by a good customer — scanned as stolen. It was just dumb luck he said that no one who came into the shop after I left needed tickets. One of his employees drove “my” tickets down to the ball park for my friend.
My friend, the fan of every known sport, had no expectations of attending his first Opening Day game yesterday. But having been offered the hope of going, being turned away at the gate would have been a huge disappointment.
Fortunately, two people who I really would have liked to have spent the afternoon with had other obligations.
Fortunately, I decided to visit my friend yesterday.
Fortunately, I left those tickets for him to dispose of.
Fortunately, he didn’t.
Fortunately, my friend got to see his first Opening Day game, and his grandson got to see his first of a lifetime’s worth. I know they will remember yesterday for a long time.
There is a picture of that baby on my lap enjoying the game. I hope his mother remembers to send me a copy. Because I want to remember as well.
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