Chapter Eleven #2
“They’re the one who supports the bartender behind the scenes.
There’s a lot to do besides just make drinks.
A barback would help to restock glassware, change kegs, refill ice, cut fruit, run bottles, so the bar doesn’t collapse into chaos.
Like it’s doing right now. This kid is having to do it all, which means he’s not being attentive to the people at the bar. ”
“Some of the people sitting at the bar do look annoyed.”
“Of course they do.” Elio laughs gruffly. “The ones at the bar probably came in early for a drink and the view. They’re the ones you want to turn into regulars. Instead, they’re sitting there with empty glasses watching the bartender build somebody else’s mojitos.”
I scowl. “Probably comes off as rude.”
“Yes. It’s bad.” Elio shrugs. “The problem is the people at the bar will just leave. They probably won’t say anything. They simply never come back. But you can bet they’ll tell their friends that the bar at Cabrera’s is a joke.”
“Shit. This is worse than I thought.”
Elio gives me an uncertain look. “There are other problems too. Do you want to hear them, or have you heard enough?”
I clench my jaw. “Bring it on.”
“Okay, notice how the runners keep colliding at the kitchen pass? It’s because the in and out doors are the same door.
That busser standing at the edge of the dining room has been there five minutes because he has no idea where he’s needed.
No one is running the room. Marco should be doing that.
But he’s too busy micromanaging the staff about things he doesn’t need to worry about. He’s not letting them do their jobs.”
“Where is Marco?”
“Near the kitchen,” Elio says with disgust. “He should be behind the bar helping out, or on the floor directing the busser.”
I glance toward the kitchen as a server passes the kitchen door.
Marco says something to him, low, close to his ear, still wearing the front-of-house smile in case anyone’s watching.
I can’t hear what he says, but the server’s face flinches like he’s been cut as he scurries away.
Another server starts to walk past, and Marco’s hand lands on his shoulder.
The gesture looks warm from across the room, but it clearly isn’t if the kid’s uneasy expression is anything to go by.
“It looks like Marco is trying to keep things moving. He’s directing people,” I say, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“He’s not directing them, he’s intimidating them. Criticizing them. There’s a difference. Your customers feel how uneasy the staff is which will make their experience less enjoyable.” He turns his water glass slowly, not drinking. “I’ve worked for Marco’s type before. More than once.”
“Did you?” I frown.
“Yes.”
“He came with good references. I’ve always thought he was good at his job.”
Elio lifts one shoulder. “The problem is you don’t see the real Marco.
You probably think you’ve got a star manager because he’s all charm when you’re around.
Meanwhile he’s churning through staff because nobody can stand to work for him.
Your turnover’s killing you. My guess is you can’t keep any trained staff because Marco is driving them off. ”
“He’s really that bad?”
“Yes, Marcello. Can’t you see how cowed the staff is?
God, would you want to work for an asshole, when there are other places you could work where they treat you with respect?
I’m beginning to think Cabrera’s problem isn’t the layout,” he says quietly.
“I mean, the layout’s not perfect. You could fix a few things.
But that’s not why people don’t come back. ”
“I had no idea Marco was a problem.”
“I wouldn’t work for him. He’s a snake.” He sighs. “He’ll kiss your ring until his lips bleed because you’re the one who signs the checks. But the staff is being terrorized. I’d be surprised if we came back in a week and saw any of the same people still working here.”
“It is taking a while to be served.” I glance at my watch. “We’ve been sitting here fifteen minutes and we still don’t have our wine, and the girl hasn’t taken our dinner order.”
Elio nods. “Yep. If this is our experience, imagine how much worse it is for the average Joe who walks in.”
A few minutes later, our server, Sofia, comes back with the wine.
“Sorry about the wait,” she mumbles. “I’ll take your food order as soon as I’m done with the wine.
” She laughs nervously as she sets the glasses down, her hands visibly trembling.
She’s reaching for the bottle to open it when Marco appears at her elbow.
She stiffens, looking flustered at his arrival.
“Knife first,” he murmurs. “Foil, then the cork.” She fumbles the foil cutter and he takes it from her.
“You’re rushing.” He demonstrates and hands it back to her.
“Now. Present the label to Mr. Foschini.” He makes a clucking sound with his tongue.
“No, turn it, so he can read it. Obviously.” He laughs snidely.
“Sorry,” she mutters, turning the bottle.
“There. Good. That’s right.” His voice is low, falsely pleasant, and relentless. He never stops commenting on everything she does. She looks scared to even make a move, and she’s unraveling under the criticism. It’s painful to watch.
She almost drops the bottle. “Gosh… sorry.”
“Just, focus, Sofia,” Marco grates. “It’s not rocket science.”
By the time she gets the cork out her hands are shaking badly. When she pours the wine it sloshes and a few drops hit the white cloth, a small spreading bloom of red.
“Oh, no,” she whimpers, looking at the dots on the cloth.
“Be more careful,” Marco snaps, and she flinches.
“Sorry,” she whispers looking at me. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, but I doubt she hears me. She’s too rattled.
Once the wine is poured, she pulls out her pad to take the food order. It’s not lost on me how her pen trembles over the paper like a seismograph stylus. Elio’s right, the staff is terrified of Marco.
“Most of our servers don’t write things down.” Marco gives her pad and pen a scathing look. “They remember the order in their heads, but she’s new. Hopefully you’ll forgive her.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Sorry,” Sofia says. “I just don’t want to forget anything.”
Elio’s tone is encouraging as he says, “There are probably fewer mistakes if you write down the order.”
“Hopefully.” She smiles weakly.
Marco glances at Elio, a spark of annoyance in his eyes. “I prefer that my staff doesn’t look like they’re scribbling down notes for an English test. It’s more professional to remember the orders verbally. Many of the fine dining establishments do it that way. But alas, Sofia isn’t there yet.”
“Sorry,” Sofia says for the millionth time, looking miserable.
“Seriously, it’s not a problem.” Elio smiles at her.
Marco clears his throat. “Now, Sofia, what have we forgotten? You’ve seated them, and you’ve poured, what’s wrong with this picture?”
She looks blank. “Uhhh.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve skipped the bread and oil entirely. Again. How many times have we gone over the sequence? Greet, bread, drinks, order. It isn’t difficult if you simply pay attention.”
Sofia’s face is crimson. Her eyes are shining. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out.
“She’s doing fine,” Elio says brusquely. “You’re making her nervous.”
Marco turns, slowly, eyebrows lifting. He looks like a man unpleasantly astonished that the furniture has opinions. “I understand it might look harsh from the outside, sir. But running a dining room at this level isn’t something most people can understand.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Elio says politely. “But even so, there’s no reason to speak so harshly to the staff.”
Marco’s smile is stiff. “I mean no harm and the staff knows that.”
“Are you sure?” Elio wrinkles his brow. “They seem terrified of you.”
A muscle twitches in Marco’s cheek. “I don’t think that’s true. The staff knows I care about them and the establishment.”
“If you say so.” Elio holds Marco’s gaze without flinching.
Marco gives a humorless laugh. “Sir, if you knew how much training and how many hours I’ve put into this place, you might understand why I’m sometimes a tiny bit frustrated with the staff.
I’m here before the staff arrives and long after they leave.
I pour everything I have into these people.
” He sighs as if he donated a kidney. “It’s a thankless job.
I wouldn’t expect someone outside the industry to appreciate what it takes. ”
“I’ve actually worked in the industry,” Elio says.
“Oh, yes?” Marco’s lukewarm smile doesn’t budge, but his eyes flick down Elio once, dismissively. “Let me guess, you worked in fast food?”
Elio flushes. “No, I worked in fine dining restaurants.”
Marco’s brows rise. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Elio’s chin lifts at Marco’s disbelieving tone.
Marco huffs. “Then you of all people should know it’s a hard business, and a manager who doesn’t hold the line ends up with chaos.”
“There’s holding the line,” Elio says, “and then there’s being rude and disrespectful to your staff.”
A chill flutters through Marco’s eyes. “I’m sure you mean well.
But correcting my methods at the table, in front of my staff, that seems rather disrespectful, doesn’t it?
You’re undermining me. Perhaps you should simply enjoy your evening as our guest, and let me run my floor the way I know works best.”
I don’t like his tone with Elio, but before I can say anything, Elio speaks up again.
“Your restaurant is half empty on a Friday night,” Elio says. “You have one of the best views in the harbor, so why is that? Seems to me your management skills aren’t as good as you think they are.”
Marco’s mask slips. “With all due respect, kid—”
I set down my wine, bristling.
“No,” I say in a harsh voice, looking straight at Marco. “Don’t you dare talk to my husband in that tone.”
Marco turns to me and the rest of his sentence dies in his throat. Somewhere underneath the bluster a smarter instinct has kicked in.