Archive for June, 2012

Gregory calls me a conversation igniter.

He reckons I encourage people to talk – neighbours, flight attendants, people you meet in public toilets.

That came out wrong. Not people you meet George Michael style, but the people you have that awkward encounter with because you both get to the air dryer at the same time. Particularly at airports, where they now have that fancy thing you shove your hands into, but there isn’t enough room for two pairs, so I usually just wipe my hands and begin conversation about how loud it is and from there we talk destinations, airlines and what their policy is on cleaning their teeth during a layover.

So anyway, yes, I love the people and the kookier they are the better. This is why front of house is made for me. I get to chat with every single person who walks in the front door.

As a waiter I’m a disaster, because I get so caught up with the guest’s story about their missing pet iguana that I forget the other tables and before I know it, I’ve called the RSPCA looking for a substitute. But as a maitre’d that is my job. To find the pet iguana.

Oh, you get what I’m trying to say.

And now I’ve discovered another forum for conversation igniting…the reservation emails.

It’s sensational. By the time a guest turns up to dine at Hartsyard, we’ve already chatted about their health, who they’re coming in with and how annoying it is that Andy took the Key Lime Pie off the menu. Seriously people, give him hell. Lean in the kitchen window, he’s the one in the back left corner.

The only problem with this new found form of stranger-stalking, is that we own a small human who requires my attention all day until I wrestle her to sleep sometime after 1pm. Then I sprint to the computer and begin my correspondence, always in order of arrival and each one personalised according to the guests’ particular requests.

This sort of conversation ignition is rather labour intensive, but well worth the effort. I learn the most amazing things, but don’t worry I’m a vault. I’ve bandied about the idea of starting an anonymous hospitality blog, citing all the amazing things that happen in restaurants, but I’d feel rather like a Priest who’d broken a confidence, so your secrets go with me to the grave.

Just thought I’d explain why it might be that you don’t hear from me until late in the day, or until some bizarre hour of the night when I’m home from work and the babe is sleeping.

In other news, Terry gave us 14 out of 40 until someone at the Herald realised the subs had probably been retrenched, and gave us 14 out of 20 instead.

It was sort of funny at 12.13 last night to get 35% in a restaurant review.

But Terry’s review aside, there are other, far greater reasons for celebrating today. Reasons that go beyond critics approval, or booked-out Saturday nights, or three turns of the dining room.

Gregory has shaved.

That’s right. The beard is still there, but he no longer looks like a homeless Forest Gump.

Excellent timing Gregory, all the photos for the press have been taken now.

Right folks, it’s 2.49pm, Q will be up in a hot minute and I’ve got strangers to meet.

Stay dry!

I haven’t slept since 1982.

At least, that’s what it feels like.

And the bags under my eyes would give testament to the fact. I look like I’ve gone a few rounds in the ring with Tyson. My defence? A Drag Queen amount of eyeshadow and extreme dimming of the lights.

Meanwhile Gregory looks like he hasn’t shaved since 1982, or more accurately since we opened, which was 4 weeks ago now. Woo hoo, happy 28 days to us.

Now I’ll concede, standards did drop a bit on the home front, and I’m going to be very honest with you here, and admit that I might not have shaved my legs for a night or two during those first hectic weeks, but I bought myself a razor and have since rectified that situation while Gregory has not.

He looks like Forrest Gump. But slightly more ridiculous as his beard is an odd mix of red and brown on the sides and grey in the front. Like an old fox.

Andy and Sung are holding strong in the kitchens, Andy’s adding a new dessert tonight which meant Cassie (our manager-slash-lifesaver) and I got to scoff the rest of the Key Lime Pie that was being removed from the menu.

Now don’t send me abusive emails about its removal people. Andy has his reasons, and I’m sure it will make a retro visit someday soon.

Cassie escaped the state for our days off perhaps so there was absolutely no way she could come in to work, and our waiters probably went out and got waited on for a change.

George is holding strong at the front desk, his eyepatch by Bel sitting just right.

Dave the electrician was in to fix the droopy penis light at the host stand, and the tradie doing work upstairs kindly installed hooks at the bar.

That’s right folks. You can now keep your coat and bag with you whilst joining us at the bar, by hanging your belongings on a specially installed hook. I’ve had them since the opening, we just ran out of time, terrible shame they’ve been hung after all the reviewers have been…

We’ve discovered the hard way that such a small dining room cannot accommodate bookings larger than 6 and have decided to keep to our original concept that the bar and bar tables are walk-ins only, no reservations taken. This is because back when Gregory and I used to go out, this was how we dined. Late night, last minute, no reservations. We bet there are people similarly impromptu and don’t want their only dining option to be the Oportos up the road.

Gregory will continue to drive front of house mad by changing the menu, expect another duck dish and a new vegetarian option sometime this week, but I can’t promise you he’ll shave.

People in the biz have advised us to outsource what we can, and I’m all about it, I’m just wondering who would like to take the midnight to 3am shift with our 18 month old daughter, who considers that a perfect time to pack her bag and go shopping for strawberries.

Thanks for an incredible 4 weeks people, your support and encouragement have truly been overwhelming.

And a huge thank you to the Hartsyard team, all of whom are both fun and fantastic.

Meet George. Our mascot, a gift from a friend at the restaurant where Gregory and I met in New York via the delightful Warren of Duckfat fame.

Here is non-living proof that totally fake can still be beautiful.

George met with an horrible accident early on in his career as a mascot – on his first night in fact, when somehow, mysteriously he lost an eye.

No one has ‘fessed up to the dastardly deed, but the Newtown Constabulary are confident they’ll find the culprit…

Ever since then he’s been winking at the guests as soon as they walk in the door, which is rather inappropriate really since he doesn’t know them at all.

Last night a couple of lovely locals wandered in looking for a bit of fried chicken and some of Andy’s Sundae love and inquired about our duck’s eyesight.

I explained the story, took them to a table and returned shortly thereafter to inquire if we were really a boring institution as the lady had taken out her knitting.

‘Oh no,’ she replied, ‘i’m knitting your duck an eyepatch.’

Knitting your duck an eyepatch.

That’s what i’m talking about people.

Those are the type of locals we’ve got wandering into Hartsyard.

Can you beat it? Tell me where else in Sydney you’d find someone so concerned with the self-esteem of your plastic duck, they knit it an eyepatch to cover up his misfortune.

And so now George, our mascot, our guard of the reservations book, our champion in times of an over-booked dining room, stands proud and tall, his wicker woven feet planted with confidence as he presides over his dominion in his new costume.

He’s rather debonair don’t you think? Very dashing and piratical.

In all the excitement I didn’t get his saviour’s name. But thank you sweet lady, George is one happy little man.

Happy Friday people, enjoy the weekend.