“On the Galatoire Goute, what do the two prices mean,” I ask.
“The Goute Petit is $18 and the Grande is $32,” Steve answers.
JT wisely points out that we’ll be ordering an entré. “Which do you recommend?”
Steve looks first at JT, sizing him up, then at me.
“The Petit.” he nods.
Galatoire’s is a restaurant on Bourbon street, just three doors down from Larry Flint’s Hustler Club. Their website subtly, yet proudly drops that it’s been family owned for four generations. The confident lack of showmanship and professional service runs contrary to just about everything else on Bourbon Street. Celebrities, politicians and a century of good people have all waited in line to dine at the restaurant mentioned in A Streetcar Named Desire. But on Wednesday night, JT in his sports coat and me in my new seersucker jacket, walked right in.
The maitre ‘d asked if we have a preferred waiter. We didn’t and that’s how we met Steve, a quiet, square headed man with a linebacker’s shoulders and a barely expressed smile. Quiet but impossible to ignore. “Good evening, I’m Steve.” Not “Steve, your waiter for the evening.” Not “Steve, your menu concierge” or some shit. Just “Steve.” A busser places water in front of us and both leave us to our man-date. We joke that Steve’s probably some kind of Jerry Lewis klutz or rookie. “Next time,” we declare, “we’ll ask for Armand or Tony. There’s gotta be an Armand here.” Steve returns with bread and simply and quickly tells us the specials of the day, the catches of the day and takes our drink orders. He never hovers, wants to share a little joke or gives us a line that’s meant to be charming. He’s omniscient in his timing, hitting us at lulls in conversation, asking how things are when our mouths are empty and clears empty dishes with certainty.
JT looks over and says, “I like that guy. That fugging guy.” I totally agree.
He brings us a desert menu and I hem and haw, pointing at my belly. He’s seen this charade before (“two forks!”) and opens it up between us. JT asks about the bread pudding. Steve locks eyes and with a professionalism that I completely lack, gives a nod that says “you know that ass is good.”
It was.
As we settle up, I ask Steve how long he’s been working here.
“20 years.”
But here’s the thing: The high bar of seasoned service isn’t unique to Steve at Galatoire’s. On Bourbon Street, yes. This city, no. Whether it’s po’ boys at Johnny’s or Mother’s, cajun food at Coop’s Place or even a blueberry blast of something at Smoothie King, this city treats you with respect. They’re aces. There’s no shame in working in the food industry here. This isn’t something you do summers out of school. It’s a living, in Steve’s case, a career and for others, a family tradition.
Outside this city, excluding the fanciest restaurants, the server wants to be pals or something. Out West, that’s just good customer service and what I’ve become used to. The easiest hustle for tips is flattery and a smile. In New Orleans you are a welcome client. You are the center of your night out— Not the star chef or the hotshot bartender identified by his arm garter. We pay through the nose for that level of service out here. It’s special.
In this city, you’re special.
This is the third in a five-part story about my first trip to New Orleans for Tales of the Cocktail 2011. Part 1, Part 2
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