A server is not permitted to do the following: wear colored nail polish; cross hands in front of the body; slouch; speak on the floor; carry a glass from the bar to the table without a tray; show visible tattoos; wear hair in an inappropriate manner (this can be at the discretion of a manager); touch a glass by any part except the stem; pour wine in the incorrect order; spill; laugh.
I was working at Jean-Georges, the petite and bourgeois restaurant tucked into Trump’s building on Columbus Circle, just off Central Park, where the sounds and smells of New York faded into the austere dining room.
I had landed a two-week stage as a sommelier, and hoped the job would lead to a full-time gig at the group’s downtown restaurant, Perry St, a cooler, more chic spot that very much felt like a place where I would fit in.
Had I ever seen another place like this, where food was produced, yes, but where, in truth, there was no grimy proof of it, no accidental leak of ketchup, no grease trap overflowing on occasion, no tipping over of a tray or sticky floor that betrayed months – if not years – of old food?
To enter the dining room was to enter another world, which is, at its core, what fine dining is all about: transportive experience.
