Steamed

love food and they love to cook. For them, it’s an art. So when they bust their asses to prepare and plate a dish perfectly, they get outraged when the server doesn’t pick it up on time. Either the food gets left out getting cold, or it sits under a heat lamp getting dry. Then the chef gets criticized for making lousy food, when it was the server who pretty much ruined the dish. Or the servers will blame the chef. They’ll claim they had to wait so long for their orders that they got backed up and had to leave the food sitting out. And sometimes the chef just screws up a dish. I don’t know the specifics about the staff here, but I’d guess there must be some problems.”
    If the food had been even moderately good, I’d have kept eating while Eric talked. As it was, I just listened. My lack of participation obviously didn’t bother Eric at all; if he’d been alone at the table instead of with me, he’d probably have delivered the same soliloquy. If he’d looked significantly adorable, I’d at least have been able to sit back and stare at physical perfection. Unfair as it was, hot guys could get away with boring, useless attitudes. But those who looked like Eric? Well, his bland looks and mousy hair were doing nothing for me.
    “To top it off,” he went on, mainly to himself, “a lot of restaurant owners, who are concerned about their own financial success, can get angry with the executive chef. See, the chef orders the food for the restaurant. But if business is down, then the food costs get too high because the restaurant isn’t taking in as much money, and they end up throwing out expensive ingredients, thereby losing money. The chef gets blamed for high food costs and an empty restaurant, when the fact that business is down might not have anything to do with the quality of the chef’s food. A bad economy, poor advertising by the owners, that kind of thing. I mean, let’s face it. There are plenty of very successful restaurants in Boston that serve crummy food, but the restaurants have been so hyped up and blitzed all over the media with the right spin that nobody even cares.”
    Eric didn’t seem to get the idea that a two-person conversation is supposed to be like tennis: back and forth. Instead of sending the ball to my side of the court, he just kept hitting it against the backboard.
    “So,” he persisted, “people in this restaurant business are always blaming somebody for something. Tim is a great guy, though, and I think he knows when to assign blame and when not to. But no matter who gets blamed, most nights the whole staff will end up staying out together until the bars close. It’s a crazy world.”
    Although I realized that Eric was by no means my soul mate, and not even second-date material, and although I was pretty sick of having him monopolize the conversation, I was interested in some of what he had to say about the restaurant world. I knew a lot about food and eating, but except for what I’d read in Boston Magazine , I didn’t know much about the business itself. After Cassie had cleared our plates, Eric evidently remembered that I, too, possessed the power of speech, and we discussed the pros and cons of investing in Essence: I almost started to enjoy the conversation. I noticed, however, that not once during the evening had he asked anything about me. He knew my name and knew I liked eating, and that information alone was evidently enough to make him comfortable in sharing his thoughts on possible financial transactions. Keeping the discussion away from anything that might further identify me was fine. After tolerating his self-important and dictatorial attitude all evening, I’d be content to fade away with my belly full and with Eric unable to contact me again.
    Note to self: Cancel Back Bay Dates account immediately upon completion of date!
    Eric’s cell phone rang. He glared at the Caller ID and picked up. “Hello? I told you not call me,” Eric hollered into the receiver.
    God, having lacked the decency to turn off the phone during our date, he went ahead and answered it? And screamed! Oh, what did I care? Dessert would probably be good. I had been eyeing the house speciality, honey-lavender crème brûlée, which I knew would have been made in advance. The sugared top would be seared with a torch just before serving, and even in his befuddled state Garrett probably wouldn’t mess that up.
    “Phil, if I were you, I’d take care of it.” Eric signaled to me