9 to 5-ers always seemed to me an exotic bunch; a traditional office job, an elusive "normal" endeavor for "normal" people. And here I am, at an office, at a desk.

I don't have my own office yet (even the company's execs share), or even my own little desk space to call home. But that will come in time, or so I'm reassured. One of the bigwigs told me it took several months before he landed a computer of his own. That made me feel better.

One week ago, I was behind the cheese counter in my baseball hat and chef's jacket, selling cheese to a woman concerned she might be allergic to rennet. I explained to her that pretty much all cheese contains rennet, whether from traditional animal intestines, plants (often thistle), or a synthetic imposter. She insisted digging through our gorgeous tower of cheeses to hunt for ingredient information at the bottom of the cheeses. The beauties are mostly imported from Spain, France, Portugal, Italy, and are without such stickers. She dug anyway. It was like Jenga. Cheeses and cheese signs were tumbling.

When my focus briefly drifted from the undeterred lady and our toppling display, I noticed one of the big bosses was standing across the cheese counter. He seemed amused by the events of the moment. He just came to say hi, and that there might be a job for me.

Six weeks ago, I had embarked on what I had thought would be six months of grocery store operations bootcamp. That meant six weeks behind the cheese counter, three behind the deli, a few in IT, a few in the butcher shop, etc.

"We would hate to cut your training short," he told me, "But you might need to start sooner rather than later."

The next day, I had a phone call from the Marketing VP. The day after that, I showed up to corporate HQ. I left the baseball hat at home.

Master of Sign Writing

I am still without a job title, but I have a mission, a first project. I will be composing signs for our cool products and making sure the signs and the products get to live together for all the world to see. This seemed at first like a small task. How hard could it be to write an enlightening, witty, pithy tagline for some cheeses and olive oils and tapenades?

Until I saw the spreadsheets. We're talking thousands of products. I got a taste of the enormity of the scope on my third day, when the cheese buyer called me into her office.

"Go through these," she said while handing me a stack of pages of cheese descriptions. "We don't need a novel on the life story of the cheese. Just enough to answer the question: 'Why should I buy this?'"

At first, it was a snap. Of course you should snatch up this superb brand of Camembert. It's from Normandy, the homeland of Camembert, and this one's the real deal—funky, mushroomy, earthy, luscious.

And then I got to Camembert number two, Camembert number three, Camembert number fourteen. The first few were a cinch. Then I got increasingly frustrated. How many times can I use the word earthy? How many times can I use the word silky? And why should anyone buy Camembert number seven, when they could buy numbers ten through twelve?

Camembert is just the start. Some of us like to brag that we are curators of the world's best food museum. We've got laundry lists of deluxe, imported anchovies. Olives you've never heard of. Fruits you've never seen. And they all need signs that say, "You didn't know you needed me in your life, but you do! Oh how you do!"

Writing the signs is step one. I've got to be in constant communication with the buyers, so when they get in this new airy olive oil torta from Seville, I can make sure the customers know how delicious and addictive and life-altering the product is.

There is interface between graphics, to make sure the signs are made and typo-free. Down the road, I will be working with the store managers to make sure the signs are where they should be, and that their products are arranged for maximum visibility. And if they want to move the Long Clawson Stilton to its own pretty little table, it better have a shiny sign telling all the world: "This is good, serious stuff!"

What's Next for Served?

So that's what's next on my professional journey. I will still be dispatching here weekly, but Served will have to morph a bit. If you have any insights or inspiration for my column's direction, please chime in!

About the author: Hannah Howard is a restaurant professional turned grocery girl. She loves pickles, recently returned to New York, and has a new baby blog.

"This is more stressful, huh?" he stated, more than asked.

"They're both stressful in different ways," I said, to be political. But it wasn't true. From my limited experience—six years in restaurants and six weeks in groceries—restaurants take the stress-inducing cake.

Starting, growing and owning a small supermarket chain is certainly infinitely more high stakes than working behind the cheese counter. But compared to waiting tables or cooking on the line, my cheese countering has been a sunny walk through the park. Here's why:

The Hours

Store employees are union members and are thus subject to really sane schedules. At my store, they work eight hour shifts, punctuated by two breaks.

Eight hours! Blink of an eye! My restaurant manager days often started at ten or eleven in the morning and ended after midnight. My boyfriend worked even more ridiculous and copious hours. Never-ending hours. And the best I could muster for a break was to dart into the office to scarf some family meal.

I love the non-work parts of life too. Lazy newspaper mornings, cheap Thai feats with girlfriends, neighborhood explorations, movies, adventures. I don't miss sacrificing everything else for work.

Also, I'm a morning girl. Early hours bring me clarity; my mind goes fuzzy with nightfall. I pray to never again cry over sheets of numbers at 3 a.m.. At 3 a.m. I want to be either sleeping or living large. Math should not be involved.

In New York, some food store are open 24/7. Thankfully for me, mine is not one of them. The rush is at 5 p.m., not 10 p.m. This makes for optimal sleeping and living.

The Joys of Customer Service

In groceryworld and restaurantland alike, some customers are amazing and some are awful. Someone can make you laugh; turn your shitty day around. Likewise, a nasty person eager to inflict their nastiness can do serious damage if you're not careful.

The difference is the depth and length of your interaction. The cheese counter is a one-stop shop. You will come to me and query your cheese wishes, and I will try my best to help you out. We will all give out seemingly never-ending samples to people who leave empty-handed. We will teach an impromptu raw versus pasteurized milk lesson. We will deliberate the meltability of various blues for your burgers. You will walk away, cheese in hand.

Restaurant meals are a much more elaborate to-do, especially in the fine dining spots where I worked. You will be visiting your guests every few minutes for an hour at the very least. The meal may stretch out for several hours. If they're a nightmarish table, you're stuck with them.

Time Crunch

Restaurant meals are a dance that gets preformed in real time. From the time you walk into a restaurant, there is a sense of urgency even if you don't feel it. (In a great restaurant, you should never feel it.)

You have to be sat and greeted. Menus, water, drinks, order. The food has to be cooked. The drinks refilled. At my chain restaurant, everything had a schedule. You should be welcomed within two minutes of your butt hitting the chair. Two minutes after that, there should be a drink in front of you. And so on.

Yes, there are hectic grocery moments. Mountains and mountains of parmesan to be cut when the store is jammed with holiday shoppers. But the parmesan will wait for you. And we usually had more than enough staff to accomplish the day's tasks of restocking, organizing, cheese cutting, and manning the counter.

Special Occasion

Restaurants are places for first dates and breaking up. Birthdays and anniversaries and family reunions. They're stages for special moments, important moments, and the stakes are high.

Groceries are for every day. They're for milk in your coffee in the morning and granola bars to pack in your kid's lunch box. They're for weeknight meals and weekend munchies. Yes, they're also for dinner parties and wooing your love with your killer buttery roast chicken.

We're part of routine. The quick stop between work and home for some Langres to smear and a baguette on which to smear it. I like the intimacy of that. I like being the bread and butter (or stinky cheese) of our customers' lives, not just the chocolate sundae.

People are afraid of cheese. It's usually older customers who ask about low calorie, low fat, or low sodium cheese. My coworker is from Italy, and no amount of fat free cheddar-buying ladies can help him wrap his head around this "light" cheese phenomenon.

"It doesn't make any sense. Cheese is fat," he ponders. "Fat free cheese is like meat-free beef!"

"Haven't you been downstairs?" I ask. There are aisles of "meat substitutes." But that's a different story.

Is Cheese Good?

In my book, it doesn't matter if something is healthy if it's not also delicious. Cheese fits the delicious bill.

Or the good stuff, anyway. When customers want to try or buy raw milk Morbier, a bite of its ashy, funky, smoothness always finds its way to my mouth. Same goes for the hay-y, musky Tomme Crayeuse, the butterscotchy Ewephoria sheeps' milk gouda, and the still-warm salty, milky strands of just made mozzarella.

When we're slicing a big wheel or block of industrial cheese—maybe a Wisconsin cheddar, an amply peppercorned pecorino, Havarti with dill—I sometimes think to myself, "What is this stuff, anyway?" and I will endeavor to find out. After spending my days nibbling on cheeses with layers and layers of flavors, these cheeses taste how they look: plasticy, rubbery, and the opposite of appealing.

No surprise for a cheese lover and newly minted cheesemonger to come out as an unabashed cheese snob. But it's not just me, I promise. Even the guys who mop the floors know the good stuff from the regular stuff.

My conclusion: Good cheese is very, very good. I won't waste my money, time, or calories on the rest.

Is Cheese Healthy?

Americans get a hefty dose of their saturated fat (too much) from cheese. We're eating more cheese than ever. But that's "cheese" as in cheese food and cheese product. These foods are a far cry from the original cheeses that monks and moms have been making for centuries from milk and rennet. And this cheesy stuff happens often in enormous doses, melted on pizzas and burgers and tacos. In other words, not the healthiest meals.

My former boss used to say that cheese is the perfect food—that people could live on cheese, apples, and perhaps a bit of wine, and be perfectly nourished. Cheese is indeed a complete protein: it contains the right proportions of amino acids to give our bodies their protein fix. Cheese is bursting with calcium, Vitamin A, and folate.

But cheese is really calorically dense, and full of fat (which our bodies need! But not too much!), and so for this reason scares people concerned about health and weight. The answer is unsexy but: everything in moderation.

This is where great cheese comes in. A little Bianco Sardo shaved on gnocchi or scrambled eggs is enough for a hit of flavor and salt and depth. Some Stinking Bishop smeared on a baguette will give your nose and mouth a big enough bang that you won't need to go back for more.

But I think it's a bit easy to say that quality will kill the urge for quantity. That ripe camembert is begging me to take another bite or three, and four-year gouda exhibits the same addictive quality as chocolate chip cookies.

Is Cheese Good for Me?

After toying with urging: "eat more cheese! enjoy it!" I decided against it. I believe that diet and health are ultimately personal endeavors, and everyone must discover what works best for them. I have no authority to deliver mandates about anyone's cheese consumption but my own. So I set out instead to answer instead: "Is cheese good for me?"

I keep reading about the evils of dairy, which made me question my cheese-loving ways. I eat very little meat, so cheese is a big source of protein for me. More importantly, it makes me happy.

For me, cheesy days are better than cheese-less days. My lunch at work is often something like: a crunchy apple, some cherry tomatoes, ooey Langres or a chunk of cave aged gruyere, and a piece of dark chocolate. This brings my mouth and belly joy, and gives me energy to get through a day wrapping mountains of parmesan.

I have one more week behind the cheese counter, and I intend to spend it reveling in sweet, fresh ricotta and mellow Piave. Maybe after months or years, I'd start to tire from cheese lunches and snacks. But I'll ride the wave for now.

All this cheese consumption has not yet caused any suffering or weight gain or loss of vitality, and I've developed a whole deep appreciation for the exquisite world of great dairy.

About the author: Hannah Howard is a restaurant professional turned grocery girl. She loves pickles, recently returned to New York, and has a new blog.

Cheese as Far as the Eye Can See

There are some 700 cheeses. They include little wheels of pungent Langres (refer to a cheese as stinky only if a customer does so first) and bigger Langres that must be cut and wrapped. There is Fromager d'Affinois, the ultra-filtered double crème, and their goat and sheep's milk cousins.

There is a laundry list of Brie-ish cheeses: Brie de Meaux, Prince La Fontaine, St Andre, Brillat Savarin. There are little buttons and logs of chevres from many different producers, some plain, some coated in ash or herbs.

There are dozens of goudas. Young goudas, goudas about to celebrate their fifth birthday; goudas of cow, goat, and sheep's milk. We've got a whole aisle of cheddars. We have hard, rich cheeses from Sardinia with layers and layers and layers of flavor.

We have tangy, sheepy, sweet-tart wheels from Portugal. We have salty, mild cheeses from Greece and salty, strong cheeses from Bulgaria. The fresh Mexican cheeses. The Pyrenees cheeses. The gruyeres, the comptes, and their relatives. Sweet ricotta and savory ricotta. Let's not even get started on the kosher section.

There are the crazy cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and flavors up the wazoo. Stilton with ginger and mango, wensleydale with cranberries, havarti with caraway, all sorts of truffle cheeses, cheddar flavored like buffalo wings. Also: toffee cheese! Really? Really.

We've also got artisanal cream cheeses, creme fraiche, butters from around the world, and cheese curds from upstate New York.

Then there are the non-cheese things we sell. Pates and foie gras. Australian fire-roasted tomatoes, orange zest-infused slices of membrillo, and halvah.

Day in the Life

The routine is as follows: pack and process cheese, help customers decipher between Sbrinz and Tomme du Jura, find out for a distressed mom where we have sauerkraut ("but not in bags!!"), weigh out precisely 1.2 pounds of pot cheese for an ancient lady with a big smile, field calls from cheese wholesalers, nibble on caramelly Piave, dole out samples of Etorki, joke with guys at the deli counter next door.

The newest training cheese employee will cut his finger slicing a chunk of farmers' cheese for another old lady. We see a lot of old ladies. He will bleed through his latex gloves and be rushed to the ER.

The lady will start to holler. After all is sanitized and a new block of farmers' cheese procured, she will instruct me on how to package her purchase. She wants the plastic wrapper removed and the cheese repackaged in paper, then the cheese-wrapped paper placed in a quart container. Then she wants the quart container wrapped in plastic!!
She will walk me through the process and wonder how our trainee's poor bloody finger is, and remind me to wrap the plastic very securely. I will tell her, "Have a wonderful day!"

Twenty minutes later, a cashier will return the deserted farmers' cheese, all painstakingly and strangely wrapped up. I will turn to my coworker and say, "Really? She made me do all this and didn't even take it?" How cruel.

And Ben will laugh and say, "I'm sure we can convince another old lady that this is the best way in the world to store farmers' cheese."

"No!" I urge him, "Don't do it! We'll create another monster!"

People will wander by and inquire about samples. We'll sliver them a bite of Drunken Goat if we have it out. If not we'll ask, "what do you want to try?"

A lady will want the stinkiest cheese we have and be disappointed by Stinking Bishop and Grayson alike. A French kid no older than ten will tell me we don't have the best brand of Roquefort, and that this is a tragedy. An Israeli couple will seek my advice on the best stuff with which to fill up burekas, a young father will ask for help cheering up his cheese-loving daughter who just sprained her ankle playing soccer.

A designer-clad woman will tell me, "hello, don't you remember me?" and I will tell her, "I remember you, but I don't remember what cheese you like." She will shoot me a look of ire.

A big cheese delivery will come right as the early evening rush gets really crazy. We will throw the boxes of cheese across the store, nearly missing heads and shopping carts. Nobody will get hurt. Now there are boxes everywhere, wheels of cheese stacked up, and we are fielding questions and selling taleggio and wrapping cheese like nobody's business. We are on fire.

I will sell a $110 wheel of manchego to a Japanese businessman. A man will taste seven cheeses before deciding on nothing. A woman will whip out her notebook, fire cheese questions, and start scribbling notes. I will leave tired and smelling cheesy and feeling good. Another day at the grocery store.

About the author: Hannah Howard is a restaurant professional turned grocery girl. She loves pickles, recently returned to New York, and has a new blog.

It's been three weeks since I left the cocoon of my little restaurant family for a big, bustling grocery machine. It's the size and scale that has me feeling a bit unmoored, but also a change of culture that I'm still figuring out.

I've gotten into a bit of a lunch break routine. I go for a walk, call my boyfriend, and try to clear my mind a bit. As the traffic whirrs by, I start missing family meal.

At the restaurants where I've worked, family meal was kind of a big deal.

As a cook, family meal meant a chance to take a break from feeding faceless strangers and cook for friends and coworkers. They are a hungry, appreciative, and honest cohort. ("The pasta tastes like a carburetor.")

The first staff meal I concocted: tuna burgers, wasabi mayo, leftover buttery buns, and a salad with every veggie I got my hands on. The waiters and cooks loved it, and I felt the glow of validation. I had arrived in the world.

The cooks spend all day and night executing the vision of their chef. Staff meal lets them flex their creative muscles a bit, wow everyone with a fiery curry, a satisfying stew, a crackly-crusted pizza.

But more than a culinary strut, family meal encapsulates restaurant culture. Almost everywhere, it is termed family meal. The restaurant staff is not just a staff, it's a family. And like any good family, they enjoy the most primal and human of rituals together; the daily breaking of bread.

Can you tell I'm nostalgic for family meal? I miss the excitement of risotto bubbling on the stove for us, one cook's insistence on baking coconut cream pies to commemorate every major and minor holidays, salads full of farm greens that tasted of field and sun. I miss gathering on the broken chairs in the back to eat, feeding the birds the leftovers, giggling with my coworkers.

At grocery stores there is no family meal.

There is a mandated 15 minute break and 30 minute lunch, per union rules. The workers head out one at a time, never together; the staggering means there will never be a shortage of staff on the floor. Reasonable, but lonely.

There are no friendly, or nasty, cooks excited to show off their braising skills or recreate the churros of their childhood. Instead, there is a store discount. There are security guards with walky-talkies positioned every which way to ensure you are not slipping quart containers of salmon salad or slabs of sirloin into your purse. The first time they asked to check my bag, I was alarmed.

I miss the camaraderie. Maybe it's because I'm still new at work, and my position still undetermined, and real relationships always take time.

But it's also structural. There is a break room, where employees slurp noodles and chow down on lamb and rice and Snickers bars. But it has the weird smell of many intermingling microwaving foods, and feels like a corporate lunchroom rather than a cozy kitchen.

I know with time I'll feel more at home at work. But it will be a different home. And my cozy, warm meals will have to be enjoyed elsewhere. At least I have ample and discounted access to swaths of beautiful ingredients.

"Try everything!" my fellow cheesemongers told me. "That way when people ask, you'll know."

The best way to learn about cheese is to eat it. In fact, it's the only way.

So after two weeks behind the cheese counter at my new job at a great NYC grocery store, I have a severe case of cheese belly.

Every time we start slicing a big wheel of cave aged Gruyere or a block of Grafton Village 4-Year Cheddar, a sliver makes its way to my mouth. I am especially curious to try what was new to me.

Hello Torta Mascarpone, layers of of Gorgonzola and milky Mascarpone in one creamy revelation. Look at all these cute "petit" cheeses from the Pyrenees! Why the mysterious addictive qualities of butterscotchy aged Gouda? What is pot cheese and farmer cheese, and why do so many old ladies love it?

I've gotten up close and personal with a dizzying cornucopia of cheese, been let loose in a top notch cheese playground. These are some of the ones I really love. You know, the ones I'm "tasting" even though I know full well what they taste like. I thought you might enjoy one or two of them too.

To Please A Crowd

I wondered why we sell such insane quantities of Midnight Moon from Cypress Grove in California. This stuff flies off the shelves. People ask for it constantly. At first bite, I didn't get what was the big deal. It was a nice, smooth, aged goat's milk cheese. The flavor was pleasant—clean and buttery and sweet. But it didn't knock my socks off

The thing about Midnight Moon is that everyone likes it. Cheese experts and newbies alike. It's a good pick for children, too. It's a happy cheese. Not challenging or funky, just likable and nonthreatening. It's the feel-good Blockbuster of the cheese department.

Not Just for Bagels

I've never thought of myself as a cream cheese lover. I've mostly relegated it as a vehicle for smoked salmon or a foundation for cheesecake. Until I got assigned the task of scooping a big bucket of Ben's Cream Cheese into little containers to sell. My coworkers kept approaching me with little spoons, squirreling bites and more bites of Ben's.

It smelled really good (who knew cream cheese could smell really good?), so I snagged a spoonful myself.

Wow. This is what cream cheese should be. It's free of gums and preservatives, and it tastes really pure, dense, and smooth. A punch in the face of cream cheese flavor.

Best Cheese with Bells and Whistles

Though many chefs and food-lovers in my life look down on truffle oil, truffle salt, truffle everything, I think an exception might be made for Moliterno with Black Truffles. Start with a salty, spicy aged sheeps' milk cheese from Sardinia. The truffles are infused into the cheese after it has some time to mature, so you get a really deep Pecorino-y flavors, and the earthy, satisfying truffle finish. Shave this over your scrambled eggs or gnocchi and make a simple dish special.

Best Tangy Find

I love the unique-ness of this cheese. Before I tasted it, I never encountered these flavors.

Serra de Estrela comes from way high up in the mountains of Portugal. The sheeps' milk gets coagulated with rennet from cardoon thistle, rather than the more common animal intestine, in a very traditional Portuguese style. It creates a savory, lingering flavor, totally multi-dimensional. It's not stinky, yet stinky cheese lovers seem to love it. It's definitely strong, and gets gooey with age, and makes for happiness when smeared liberally atop a baguette.

Parmesan Alternative

Parmigiano Reggiano might be the king of cheeses, but why not switch it up sometimes? I'm partial to Podda Classico, another cheese hailing from Sardinia. It's aged for a year, and develops the crystalline crunch of Parmesan. But there's also something hazelnutty and brown buttery on the finish. It's good for cooking and snacking both.

Love Manchego?

If you love Manchego, give Roncal a try. Roncal is the grandaddy of Manchego, another Spanish sheeps' milk wonder. You can almost taste the grass from the Roncal Valley that the sheeps have been grazing on, and the flavor is a little gamy and musty.

For Époisses Addicts

You should meet Le Petit Fiance des Pyrenees. It's one of the few soft raw milk cheeses available, and the crazy depth of flavor gives that away. Its a stinker and an oozer.

Blue Lovers

As a blue lover myself, I'm digging St Agur from Auvergne. It's a good blue enriched with cream. For blue with more of a blue bang, try Valdeon from Spain. It's prettily wrapped in sycamore leaves, and does well by any salad.

Everyone should have some great cheese in their lives. I'm a believer. What cheeses are you loving these days? What cheese discovery has brought you joy?

After a stressful move and a sleepless night, I arrived to my first day of work soggy from serious rain. I met a nice khaki-ed gentleman who I learned would be my guide through my six plus months of training.

For several hours, he walked me through the rules and regulations of my new place of employ. Enter and leave through the front doors, not the back doors or receiving dock. After six months, the staff are inducted into the union and must take a thirty-minute lunch break. As management, I'm not a member of the union, but responsible for making sure all their policies get followed.

I also learned I would be circling my way through different departments of different stores. Three weeks in organics, two in produce. Three in deli, one in receiving. One week in HR and one in marketing. I would be learning how the business worked from the ground up.

My stint would commence with six weeks in the cheese department of the newest store. My bosses know I am cheese-obsessed and cheese-experienced, and so this would be the first and longest leg of my training tour. Through percussive rain, my training mentor and I rode the bus to the shiny, new store.

Impeccable rainbow rows of candy! All the chocolates a serious baker could want! Olive oils as far as the eye can see! He introduced me to the cheese manager, wished me luck, and bid me goodbye.

The cheese manager threw me a white chef's jacket and a baseball cap emblazoned with the store's logo, and I got to work. I wrapped up buttons of ash-coated chevre in slick bundles of plastic, labeled and dated them, stacked them symmetrically on the shelves. I scooped up feta and feta brine and weighed out the packages. I built beautiful sculptures of goat gouda, and comte, and sheep's milk yogurt.

Meet Team Cheese

The cheese guys—there is one woman to a dozen men—are great. One has been with the company for 30 years, and most for at least several. They were warm and welcoming and showed me how to slice big wheels of Etorki with wire, explained the difference between the Greek, French, and Bulgarian fetas, and took me through the aisles of cream cheese, mascarpone, jalepelno spiked cheddar, figgy stilton, and mozzerella di bufala.

It's been a few days, and I'm feeling pretty comfortable behind the cheese counter. Here I am explaining the difference between the 6, 12, and 15 month Manchegos. Here I am hawking samples of mozzarella, just made downstairs by the tattoo-ed Indonesian man with a big laugh, and still warm.

I helped a posh lady plan a cheese plate for her gallery's fashion show. I introduced a fifth grade blue cheese-lover to buttery sweet Cambozola. I guided a stinky cheese adoring couple through the stinkers: Grayson, Stinking Bishop, a particularly offensive, ripe, wonderful batch of French Munster.

Sometimes, I enjoy the challenges of the cheese novices the best.

"I'm looking for a cheese that's aged several years, and also very soft."

The best response: "What are some cheeses you like?" I go from there.

Different World

Like restaurants, we are all about service. There are a million places to shop in Manhattan, and our goal is to make people happy to choose us. The staff is a hospitable, patient bunch. At the deli, they will slice "lite" cheese into perfect one ounce slices for a grumpy dieter. At the cheese counter, we will let the little old lady try cheeses until her taste buds must be confused, knowing full well that she might buy a quarter pound of our most affordable selection, or nothing at all.

This operation is on a different scale than a restaurant, even a big one. At one time, there are some 300 workers making sure the store shelves are full of plums and peaches and beautiful teas and fresh bread. At our flagship location, there are about 80,000 customers a week! 80,000! At my restaurant, a busy week entailed about 400 covers.

Cooks and servers and even managers do a lot of cleaning at restaurants. I'm used to breaking down boxes, taking out trash, even plunging toilets. At the grocery store, there are a whole army of porters who float in and out of the cheese counter, emptying our garbage and sweeping the floor.

Like a restaurant, the work goes by fastest when the place is busy and buzzing, which it most often is. It's a beautiful controlled chaos. It's been three days, and I already feel I could get addicted.

Just replace folding linens with pricing Parmesan, and selling meals with selling their ingredients. We are a part of people's lives—every day lives, not just special occasion lives. That makes me happy, and it makes me feel good.

But I wasn't ready to apply to law school, or teach English in Thailand, or send resumes to consulting firms. I thought about packing a bag and heading off to see the world, but I couldn't quite muster the zeal or financial resources that such a mission requires.

So I thought instead about the path behind me, and where it might lead.

There are many parts of my job I truly loved. Going shopping for gooey, stinky cheeses and light, fresh cheeses never got old. And when big boxes of goat gouda and lemony chevre arrived with my name on it, I felt like I was receiving a birthday present. Talking with guests about food was always great—whether listening to a serious cook talk pickles or witnessing a revelation: "I do like beets!"

I loved solving problems and creating systems. How can we make sure every table gets gougeres at the right time? How to handle big happy hour crowds when we are used to a handful of bar customers? Why do we lose water glasses as fast as we buy them?

Even if I still have plenty to learn, building my team of bartenders, servers, runners, and hosts was amazingly fun and totally rewarding. On the first day, Rich was intimidated. What the hell is a crosne? A roulade? Two weeks later, he is eloquently explaining these things to a captivated table. He is selling big ticket wine bottles and asking the kitchen: "No pommes maxim today?" when he doesn't see the translucent potato rounds on the sea bass.

Then there is the thrill of a jamming service. To build a beautiful machine, and then see that machine in exquisite action. The magical, addictive energy of a busy restaurant. Tables cleared and people sat, champagne popped and glasses filled and refilled, ducks roasting and souffles baking, knives and hands whizzing and whirring, laughter and stories and espressos.

False Starts

What else could I do that was still food and people centric?

A bakery, a cafe? I liked the idea of early morning hours, but these things still smelled of restaurants.

I called some of my favorite cheese suppliers. Yes, they told me, I could work behind a cheese counter. But no, I couldn't make much more than $12 an hour. This was my starting pay in my hostessing days, and I quickly got a raise. I want to be able to support myself, so cheesemongering was out.

That led me to think—I could be a host, a cheesemonger, even a waiter—and spend my non-working hours cultivating my writing career. But I know myself well enough to know it would be hard for me. I'd want more shifts to make some more cash, and my writing time would get squished. I need structure, somewhere to go each day, and I'd feel more like a server than a writer. Also, this scenario wasn't too far from what I was already doing. And I was pining for change.

Hello Groceries!

When you're looking for a job, people advise, "Connections! Networking! Reach out to everyone!"

I thought about who I actually wanted to reach out to. I thought back to some people I've spoken with, and I remembered a great interview I had with a cheese guy / author / grocer. It was conversation that left me smiling and inspired and a bit stirred up. I sent him an email. He wrote back.

A week later, "his people" called as I was on a bus to New York.

I loved the grocery store. If you're a New Yorker and you like cheese, or olive oil, or smoked salmon, you probably like this grocery store, too. It has a staunchly loyal, cultish following.

I've always had a grocery fetish myself. Growing up, it frustrated my poor mom—grocery shopping consumed vast gobs of time when I was involved. Wegmans was the worst. Any aisle—produce, cereals, vitamins, yogurts—and I'd get swept away in the vast array of choices. Flax, bran, oats, and every combination thereof! I happily could examine boxes (or fruits, or cheeses, or ice creams) till the cows came home. I entered into a grocery-induced fugue state, and it required an iron will to pull me out.

Markets are still happy places for me. Farmers' markets make the top of the list, along with food shopping destinations like Essex Street Market in New York or Reading Terminal in Philly. Then come great stores like Wegmans and Whole Foods. My boyfriend and I have spent many a long afternoon joyfully navigating the aisles of Wegmans.

After many interviews, phone calls, rescheduled interviews, rescheduled phone calls, and days nervously waiting, I accepted an offer with this great New York grocery store that I love. I'm excited now, thinking about it. Goosebump excited!

My job title? I don't have one yet!

I'm going to learn the business by spending time in all the departments. I've never worked in the grocery biz, and there are a dizzying amount of things to understand: buying, butchering, pricing, catering, staffing, stocking, receiving, and much, much more.

Then—and this is the cool part—they're going to sculpt a job that fits what they need, what I'm good at, and what I love. It's probably going to involve some writing, some marketing, and some cheese. It's all up in the air.

So here I am, packing boxes and feeling happy and sad, excited and terrified, and very much nostalgic. In a few days time, I will resume my identity as a New Yorker. In a few weeks time, I will try on a new identity of grocer. And I'll be writing about it every step of the way.

I've put in time as a server, and time working with servers, training servers, and managing servers. Whenever I get the chance, I love to dine out and get served a little myself.

Being a great server is no walk in the park. Anyone who's spent time taking orders and whisking trays to the hungry masses knows waiting tables well is a challenging, sometimes formidable, feat. I've been dining out frequently recently, and as always, paying a lot of attention to the service, or lack thereof. Here are my conclusions as to what stellar service entails, and how to achieve it.

In a Nutshell

A wonderful server's job is to make sure each customer has a happy experience.

A server must pull this off within the confines of their place of employ. My cheese and wine bar had a dairy-focused menu, so accommodating vegans was a challenge. But wine is vegan! If they wanted, we made them roquefort-less salad and cheese-less grilled cheese.

Happy experiences come in all colors of the rainbow. There are fast food and slow food successes. There is great service with ample and expansive interaction and impressive service where your waiter becomes miraculously invisible.

Some Dos and Don'ts

Do develop razor-sharp people-reading intuition. Jenny is thrilled to spend all night picking your brain about raw milk cheese laws. James would rather do his taxes.

Do know your restaurant's menu and wine list like the back of your hand. Know that the shallot jam is cooked for three days and that the secret to the ravioli's miraculous richness is foie gras. Know that the restaurant was built in 1987 by Bob Bilson, a champion rugby star. Information is power. Use your knowledge generously but sparingly. Remember: Jenny is titillated; James is indifferent.

Do check with the kitchen. Even if you know the menu like the back of your hand. At my chain restaurant, unaware of sneaky garlic powder in the cheese toast, I almost killed someone with an allium allergy. And I nearly got myself fired.

Don't patronize. I know tomatoes are in season right now, and I know what boquerones are. If I don't, I will ask. In which case, it's also not OK to be condescending. My boyfriend is an accomplished chef, but English is his second language. Don't treat him, or anyone else, like they're stupid. (Even if they are.)

Don't ignore anyone, even if you're so deep in the shits you're going to scream. Even if they're from a section eons away and there's an emergency unfolding in your section. Tell them politely: "I'll be with you in one moment," and follow through. Perhaps send someone else.

Don't ever tell someone "you have to order with your server," or something to that tune. Hearing that makes my skin crawl! Say, "Great! Tempura green beans and fish tacos," and relay that to their server. Write it down if you must.

It's painfully obvious that chatting with your coworkers and texting where guests can see you are big don'ts. You're working, people. Have some respect.

Also prominent on my don't list: throwing down a plate in front of someone. Deliver the dish as if you're delivering a precious gift. Tell them: "this is the grape gazpacho with polenta croutons." And remember, your guest needs a spoon with which to enjoy that.

Do be you. You don't need to leave your personality at home, unless your personality sucks. In which case, be someone friendly, interesting, knowledgeable, helpful, warm, and professional.

Do enjoy yourself. Your job can be a great one. If you do it well, you get to make people happy.

I've put in time as a server, and time working with servers, training servers, and managing servers. Whenever I get the chance, I love to dine out and get served a little myself.

Being a great server is no walk in the park. Anyone who's spent time taking orders and whisking trays to the hungry masses knows waiting tables well is a challenging, sometimes formidable, feat. I've been dining out frequently recently, and as always, paying a lot of attention to the service, or lack thereof. Here are my conclusions as to what stellar service entails, and how to achieve it.

In a Nutshell

A server's job is to do what it takes so that every customer has a wonderful experience. They do that within the confines of their place of employ. At my cheese and wine bar, where the menu was entirely cheese-focused, we had difficulty giving that great experience to vegans. We did our best, though! Wine is vegan! And we'd make roquefort-less salads and cheese-less grilled cheeses if that made them happy.

Great experiences come in all colors of the rainbow. Fast food, slow food, expansive and ample interaction, barebones interaction. The rockstar servers can read tables and respond accordingly.

Do's and Don't's

Do know the menu, the wine list, and everything you can about the restaurant like the back of your hand. Be generous, but discerning, sharing your knowledge. One of your guests is dying to talk about raw milk cheeses; another might

It saddened me that I couldn't be a customer at my Philadelphia restaurant. We are open only five days a week and only for dinner, and each of those days I could be found chatting with guests, assembling plates of cheese, and...working!

Micky shared tastes and bites with me every once in a while. An airy wisp of hamachi collar. Fresh spring peas and favas. Wheatberries that became emerald with spinach puree. The flakiest phyllo layered with almond cream and caramelized peaches.

What delicious moments! But I knew the experience of seeing the dishes after they've come together—those nutty wheatberries topped with many-day-brined short rib and carrot confetti and mustardy turnips—was something altogether different. One brushstroke does not a painting make.

I also wanted to see the front of the house from the vantage of a table, to see my staff in action. The corporate steakhouse people had emphasized dining as the best way to see what was really going on at your restaurant. Were you waiting for that martini, and still waiting? Was your rare burger on the fire a few minutes too many? Was your server cracking her knuckles repeatedly and rhythmically? (I've seen it!)

My dad's birthday coincided with my last day at work, and I felt like it was time for dinner at my restaurant. My parents had dined there a few times, with friends and family and with each other. I wanted to join them.

My dad does not eat red meat, and my whole family loves seafood. Micky knew this, and I felt something was up his sleeve when he started to quiz me about what my parents liked. Duck? octopus? He was ordering ingredients especially for us. This dinner was going to be a big deal.

Dinner Is Served

Just how big a deal, I didn't know until I arrived at my restaurant to see the private dining room set up with sunflowers (my favorite) and the nice wooden table they had to drag over from the room nextdoor. The private dining room is in the hotel, a separate building from the restaurant. It is unfairly charming, a 1786 living room with book-lined walls and a fireplace. It's a small pain in the ass for the staff, who have to bring dishes outside through the garden, and run back to the restaurant to get another glass of ice.

But it's a perfect place to enjoy a meal. "I didn't want you to feel like you're at work," Micky explained. In the colonial oasis where I had so many times set up buffets and cleared wine glass-littered tables, I did and I didn't.

He had made us menus, scrolls wrapped with roses. I knew there would be no overcooked burgers or knuckle-cracking waiters.

It was a little weird to be served by my staff. My dad talked history with our history PhD candidate waiter. He poured us rose champagne, the pinpoint small bubbles sliding down my throat, and incredible Burgundy. But it wasn't weird at all to see, eat, experience Micky's food. It was wonderfully fun.

The meal began with a honeydew and tapioca gazpacho. On the plate beside it, leaf thin potato rolled into a cone and filled with tagiasca olive oil powder. It was a delicate, transporting experience—mellow sweetness of honeydew, snappy crunch of the potato, nutty depth of the powdered oil, which entered a more liquidy state upon contact with the tongue.

Next up: a seemingly never-ending cascade of truly realized dishes, the theater of a perfect dinner. Falafel made with fresh chickpea, smoked eggplant, yogurty tahini. Oat cavatelli with toy box tomatoes and crispy parmesan. Eggplant agniolotti turned puckery sweet by fire truck red pepper coulis. A giant hazelnutty, brown buttery, scallop. A riff on paella: fresh farro with many veggies, bright green pea puree, octopus and lobster confited until freakishly tender.

Watermelon cooked under pressure with yuzu and ponzu. Celery sorbet. Then tempura'd sea bass in a gingery, lemongrassy broth with crunchy candied fennel. We all sat there, smelling the broth and smiling. Duck sausage, little gels of foie gras and cherry. Sheep's milk cheese from Corsica with medjool date and our own brioche. Pastry layers with frangipane and wineberries for dessert.

There was an aspect of weirdness, for sure, dining in the restaurant I helped bring to life. But I made an effort to push aside the sadness, and enjoy the hell out of it.

I felt so lucky to be sitting in this room. Micky made menus for each of us with sweet, personal notes. He bought us the best champagne he could find, and ordered the fattest scallops, and peeled chickpeas, and rolled out pasta dough. He brought his beautiful glassware from home.

I left feeling full and high and happy and sad. I would miss this place. I was proud of Micky—he is an extraordinary chef. He was also an extraordinary boyfriend. And me, I'm extraordinarily lucky.

But to my Ivy League peers, I was the worldly one who had more of a life off campus than they thought possible. I was master of the "real world," arriving in the wee hours from work or parties or adventures. I felt like a half student, until waking up to Lacan and to bang out dozens of pages in dozens of groggy hours. Then I knew I was the real deal.

I didn't plan that my college years would coincide with a restaurant business love affair. But they did. Upon graduation, a career in restaurant management seemed almost inevitable.

After working in a company that was enormously wrong for me and now at a restaurant that feels like home, I am coming to a somewhat sad realization: I don't want to be a restaurant manager when I grow up.

My parents are both successful professionals who claim they still don't know what they want to "be when they grow up." I didn't know how to answer this question, even as a small child. I still don't. I'm making peace with that, learning there is probably no job title that can encompass my identity. That's a good thing.

My mom and dad are reassuring about my career journey. They argue that for many, the process of finding what's right involves doing things that are very much not right. Through these experiences, you learn, or should learn.

What do I love and hate to do? What am I good at? What inspires me, frustrates me, terrifies me? What do I have to contribute? What do I have to learn? What am I looking for?

I can answer these questions so much better than before. That itself is progress.

I think back to my college years, and realize the balance between the library and the wine bar was what made me happy.

I have been thinking about what is next for me career-wise for some time. Micky (my boyfriend and my restaurant's chef) and I had some rocky moments that precipitated my giving notice sooner rather than later.

Turns out working (a lot!) and living together in a city new to both of us was enormously stressful on our relationship. There were tears involved both in making and announcing my decision.

I will miss my restaurant. I will miss my staff most of all.

They have become a second family. I will miss my wonderful, eccentric boss who told me I was like a daughter to her and commenced bawling when we discussed my leaving. I will miss coming to work each day and arriving at a place so beautiful, comfortable, and friendly. It was a place where I could both be myself and push myself.

I'm trying to make room in my sadness for other emotions. Under there, this is definitely excitement for what's ahead, even though the specifics remain unknown at the moment.

There's also a bit of pride. When I arrived at my restaurant, it was a pretty poor excuse for a restaurant. There is still ample room for growth and improvement, but isn't there always? I helped create something special.

I'm wrought with emotion, which makes it hard to write. I bet you can tell that much! In the weeks to come I will chronicle the strange transition to our next GM, my amazing first and last meal at my restaurant, Micky's change of heart and menu, and my search for what's next in my life.

A few months ago, I wrote about my complicated relationship with food. It's a relationship made all the more tangled and messy by my food-centric career.

Loving food and fearing fat (body fat, not butter or avocados or triple cremes), have dominated my thinking since a pretty young age. I am not alone in that, unfortunately. Nor am I alone in being embarrassed by my obsession. I am a smart, educated, woman of some depth. Instead of worrying if I should eat the bucatini laced with ramp pesto, I could be writing a poem, or learning a language, or a million other, happier things.

It's a sometimes painfully sensitive topic. My boyfriend Micky knows to pick his words really carefully when broaching the subject of weight, or diets, or what I'm eating and not eating. I hope soon he can stop walking on eggshells, and I can laugh at myself a little, and occupy my mind with bigger and better pursuits.

But first: to tackle this.

Writing about my journey from normal to unhealthily skinny and back again in April felt like a big step, even though some of your comments were a bit harsh. Other comments were so supportive and lovely. Because people struggling with food issues often relegate most of their turmoil to the space inside their heads, it was enormously helpful to hear from people who have gone through similar stuff.

My New Dieting Journey

Upon reflection, and viewing some tear-inducing unflattering pictures, I decided that I would be happier with my body if I lost some weight. I also decided that I couldn't possibly severely restrict myself the way I had before. A reader or two decided it looked like I employed reasonable, even healthy, eating habits. Let me tell you from experience: an ounce of cheese,even wonderful cheese, and a small frozen yogurt does not make for a sensible, nourishing day's intake of food.

This time, I was going to focus on my health, not just the scale. This time, I was going to be sane. I would permit occasional splurges, and eat things I loved, and forbid myself from obsessing. I felt determined to learn from past mistakes. I told myself: I deserve to live in a body I like. I deserve to eat nourishing, delicious food every day.

And so I built new routines for myself. I've been a consistent exerciser for years, so no change was needed there. I started to eat breakfast: Greek yogurt, whatever fruit was the best and cheapest at Whole Foods. No more processed food. If I was going to enjoy something caloric, it would be Bavarian blue cheese drizzled with lavender honey, or Micky's almond and berry pain perdu, or his buttery polenta, or Thai coconut milk gelato from Capogiro. Only things I loved and deemed truly awesome. I wrote down what I put in my mouth, religiously, which made it less tempting to nibble on mediocre candy in free milliseconds.

I used to snack a lot at work. I rarely ate real meals, so I was often ravenous and felt entitled to munch on preserved orange olives, just baked brioche, or the chopped off ends of chicken breasts, complete with perfectly crispy skin. When my staff brought in pita, hummus, and Swedish fish I helped myself.

My new intention is to try everything and snack on nothing. So when Micky offers me a silky bite from the big wild Alaskan salmon that was swimming in the Copper River yesterday, I say an enthusiastic yes. I will taste the oxtail risotto they served in little cups as a canape for a wedding last week, and then that's it.

The rest of my food comes from real meals. A lot of salads, veggies, soups, ratatouille, fish, tofu, and more veggies. Which happen to be my favorite things anyway. And they are foods that leave me feeling satisfied, and nourished, and with other good feelings.

Then there's the eating adventures that populate the life of any foodie. Dinner at Blue Hill Stone Barns for Micky's birthday or a trip to investigate our new competitor next door in Philly or an extravagant dinner party hosted by a chef friend or an excursion to New York that surely involves checking restaurants off our want-badly-to-try list. And tonight's a big one. I'm having dinner at my own restaurant for the first time ever, and I'm excited.

I'm also nervous. These culinary events are dangerous territory. I'm sure there's some perfect formula for conscious indulgence that leaves ones pleasantly, not overly, full. To savor the cherry-brined duck breast because it's unfathomably good, and not feel guilty about it. To have a bite of the chocolate cake then put the fork down. I've read plenty about it. For those not inflicted with eating issues, fears, phobias, and hangups, this comes naturally. But for me, putting these things into practice is a daunting challenge.

Now What?

I lost a considerable amount of weight. Do I feel better living in my body? A little. I like shopping for clothes more. Thirty pounds lighter, I still have days where I feel fat.

I flinch at those who tell me I look great now. The implication is that I looked not so great before. I was never officially overweight, but I guess I was officially less attractive.

"What do you care?" Micky says, "You wanted to do this for yourself, not for anyone else. And you're so beautiful to me whether you are more or less skinny." He gets an instant million and a half great boyfriend points. And he's right. I need to quiet my chronic people pleasing tendencies for my own well-being.

I worry more. There is a ton of butter in Micky's polenta, and in the sabayon on the chestnut cavatelli. Rather, in everything. Alas, the secrets of restaurant cooking.

It's a loop. I promised myself I would steer clear of obsession, but a little obsessing was a really helpful tool in losing weight.

I know I have a lot to learn still. I'm wishing for myself a delicious, fun, and non-neurotic dinner this evening. Any many delicious, fun, and non-neurotic meals to come. I will get there sooner or later. As a food lover and professional, it is really important to me.

The T-Dance was a great idea. Eric, our bar manager, laid it out very officially during our weekly meeting with the owner—there were bullet points and numbers galore.

I never heard of a T-Dance, nor had most with whom I discussed it.

My mom turned out to be a T-Dance expert though. "Of course! The gay boys love it!" she chimed, when I brought it up. She had worked in New Jersey with many successful, wealthy gay gentlemen. They spent their summer Sunday afternoons drinking by the beach, the sun shining and music pumping. And that, in a nutshell, is a T-Dance.

A Case Is Made

Our garden would be the perfect T-Dance spot, Eric explained. It is stunning, idyllic, and big. What better place to spend a springtime afternoon? Our restaurant is just a few blocks from the heart of Philadelphia's Gayborhood, where the street signs are emblazoned with rainbows, women smooch in the streets, and transvestites strut their stuff.

Our early crowd consisted mostly of older people from the neighborhood, families and pre-theater diners, but the second seating became substantially younger. Most of these guests were on dates, and many of these dates involved two people of the same sex. Could we create a T-Dance venue?

Money, Honey

The T-Dance itself would bring us big bucks, Eric promised. Minimum: a few grand a pop. He broke it down. T-Dancers would pay a $10 cover, which would buy them their first beer or cocktail. After that, we'd sell cheap drinks at really reasonable prices. We wouldn't need much staff, just a few bartenders and a few kegs. Our costs would be next to nothing.

One thing we were missing: an outdoor bar. The bar would be an asset to the restaurant. Passers-by would notice: "Hey, there's a bar in this gorgeous garden!" Who doesn't love drinking outside on a beautiful day or night?

Let the Dance Begin

The owners brought in a bar. It was an old green marble clunker of a thing, abandoned in an old building that they had a share in. The bar had seen better days.

Still, it was a bar. On a beautiful Sunday, we stocked it with a million lemon and lime wedges, plastic cups, bottom shelf vodka. We were ready to roll.

We had run a small advertising campaign in our own windows, email lists, and in a few of the local gay papers. Still, we answered many confused inquiries.

"Will there be high tea?"

"Will there be dancing?"

We clarified that it was a "tea dance" with neither tea nor dancing. "But there will be drinking," we explained, "And mellow music, and hanging out."

I was a little skeptical. We worked to get our guests, one great meal at a time. Eric was predicting the garden would be flooded with hundreds of people, that we'd have to turn some away. Our chef was very skeptical. But the owners loved the idea: easy money! So I bit my tongue and hoped my doubt would prove unfounded.

Where Are the Dancers?

The first Sunday afternoon, the sun was shining, the flowers blooming, and the music was rocking (we had bought outdoor speakers, with my dad's guidance). We were ready. We threw open our garden's wrought iron gates, and waited for the revelers to arrive. And waited.

A few of Eric's friends strolled in. They stood around the bar, drinking their Bud Lights. Some of the friends brought friends. Our biggest group was a young gay pastry chef who worked at a neighboring restaurant, and his coworkers. Hurrah!

We counted the cash. A few hundred dollars.

"It needs some time to catch on," we all said. Chin up.

That would be the most we ever saw from the T Dance.

The next week there were the same few friends, maybe about eight of them. The next week, five. The next week, one loyal friend. The poor old bar sat neglected.

Maybe we hadn't given the event sufficient press, or time. But I had the sneaking suspicion that the T-Dance wasn't quite right, wasn't us. It didn't jibe with who we are.

The owners thought, for a brief moment, we could host a big party and make big, easy money. But I think the best business practice of all is doing the very best possible job with what we do. Which is serving memorable, beautiful meals every night. And every night, doing that a little better.

It surprises me constantly how wonderful our guests can be. To serve people great food and create a memorable night: that is what my job is all about. When in turn people are warm, appreciative, and perhaps even fascinating, that makes my night a good one.

I will always remember the jewelry designer German lady who stayed at our hotel a few times a year and dined extravagantly with her colleagues, and other times alone. Without company, she gives me life advice that seems really wise and lovely, not trite. Maybe it's the accent.

But terrible customers have a terrible power to turn these great nights into difficult ones. I hope that someday soon, I'll develop a thicker skin.

Serious Eaters: I'm sure we are a community of well-behaved diners. So just for kicks, here are a few nasty run-ins that I won't forget any time soon.

A Bad Customer Changes their Story

Food allergies are serious things, so we take them seriously. If nuts will make you swell into a balloon, and you tell us this, there will be nothing nutty anywhere near that cutting board where your duck breast is sliced. Rest assured.

We are also sensitive to non-medical dietary restrictions. I've heard tales of restaurants passing off spinach cooked in chicken stock as veggie-friendly. We would never go there. If you are a vegan, we will cook for you some earthy wheatberries, turn them emerald with wheatgrass, and fill the bowl with huge and mini zucchinis.

We've had guests who can't (or chose not to) eat butter, seasoning, gluten, carbs, dairy, nightshades, and the list goes on. In fact, sometimes people with complicated dietary needs bring us a list of what they can and cannot eat. I feel lucky for my strong, healthy stomach when these lists span multiple columns or pages.

We're happy to oblige, because we know dining out can be challenging for these folks. Our beautiful veggies, grains, and seeds usually mean we are well-equipped to make something quality. During busy times, this can be really difficult—but we will do it anyway.

Which is why I went to talk to a guest who requested our wild sea bass—absolutely no seasoning, no butter, no oil—served over plain pasta. I wanted to make sure we got everything right.

"I can't have any salt, or pepper, or seasoning," she explained, "not a drop," and then went on to deliver a little TMI about her colon troubles.

"Let me speak with the chef," I told her, "and make sure we can do that for you." It is always a good plan to speak with Micky.

He told me our sea bass had been brined in salt, pepper, and more good stuff earlier that day. But we could do the salmon for her sans seasoning: no problem.

I went back to deliver the information. "I don't like salmon." We are a small restaurant, and those were the two fish we had to sell that night. "We can prepare the pasta without fish," I offered.

But she wanted fish, she wanted the bass. "I'll take the sea bass."

"It's already been seasoned," I reminded her.

"No problem."

"But it's full of salt, and pepper, and citrus, and spices," I repeated. I didn't want to hurt the lady or her colon.

"It's OK," she said, "I understand, I'll take it anyway."

And so we served her the sea bass, but not over pasta since we only had parsley cavatelli and little pasta envelopes filled with smoked eggplant cream. Those things were not on her diet. As for my smirking, I did it in private.

A Bad Customer Doesn't Respect the Restaurant

I know we close early. We take our last reservations at 9, and start packing up the kitchen at about 9:30, or a bit later on the weekends if we're jamming.

This is because we are part of a boutique hotel. When we take out the bottles and clink them into the recycling dumpsters, when we clean up at the end of the night, we are loud. And guests complain. It's also because we are more about dinner and less about a bar scene, and because Philadelphia is an early-closing town.

Please, people, don't overstay your welcome. I know you are having a great time in our stunning garden, and you haven't seen your friends in a long time, and the night seems young. Kindly pay your bill and catch up elsewhere. We're tired, and have more work left to do, and want to go home.

Last week, a lady came in as we were shutting the light off in our garden. There was not a customer remaining.

"One for dinner," she said by way of introduction.

"I'm sorry," I told her, "We're closing down."

She huffed and puffed and crossed her arms. "I'm really hungry."

We're in Center City. Dining options abound. I told her about the restaurant next door, the bar down the street, the wine bar around the corner.

"Can't I just get a small bite here?" she said, "Something small?"

I went to double check that the kitchen was closed. The cooks had cleared out their stations and were bleaching down all surfaces.

"Yes, they're all broken down for the night," I reported. She let out another angry sigh when I delivered the news.

Why would she want to be the only customer in a closing restaurant? Goodnight angry lady. Some other business will be happy to feed you. We have glasses to polish, floors to sweep, and delicious beds awaiting our arrival.