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August 14, 2006
T.W.B. (TIPPING WHILE BLACK)
So the boyfriend and I finally made the trip across the bridge to dine at Billyburg's infamous Peter Luger's. I read all the reviews about the less-than-chipper greeting we should expect, so I wasn't too surprised when I opened the big wooden doors that I wasn't welcomed with a smile. In fact the bartenders in their starched, white shirts and black bow-ties stared blankly at my boyfriend and I. I didn't know if it was because we were the only Black couple in the restaurant, or because, as I had been warned Peter Luger's wasn't a warm fuzzy, "can I help you sweetie?"-kind of place. No worries. I prepared myself by donning a third layer of tough skin this morning. I gave my boyfriend the "don't worry honey," look-I could see he was a little worried. I assured him that I would take charge of the situation. Since nobody offered assistance, I took matters into my own hands...
We stood in the foyer, all eyes on us for longer than comfortably normal, nobody has said a word to us, and so I take matters into my own hands. I notice a stairway and proceed to climb the stairs, assuming that that's where the host or hostess was. I leave Ray waiting uncomfortably at the bottom of the stairs and no sooner than I take my first step, there's a waiter tapping my boyfriend on the shoulder. "Do you have permission to go up there?" He calls me back down.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I say, I thought that's where we check in."
"You check in right here," he says and points to the end of the bar, where I noticed a bunch of people in line. I didn't want to be embarrased again, so I got in line behind a couple who I assumed were waiting to be seated. I begged my boyfriend to go up to the hostess and tell her we had reservations. He refused and began to make idle conversations about the Zagat survey accolades posted on the wall trying to appear inconspicuous. We both had no idea how Luger's worked and we both didn't want to embarrass ourselves, especially since we stood out enough as it was. However, it was even more embarrassing standing there, not asking questions. It was better for me to embarrass myself by asking questions or have someone embarrass us. So I dusted my shoulders off, picked up my pride, and asked the couple in front of us if they checked in. (I was hoping they said no, and that we could just stand here and wait to be asked, "how many?")
"Yes," they said, without even looking at me. Well, I knew then what I had to do. I left my boyfriend at the bar to examine the Zagat posters, took a deep breath, walked up to the hostess and was caught by surprise when the hostess said, "Hello, how are you?"
She caught me off guard.
"I have reservations for two, at 1:45."
"O.k," she said and went back to what she was doing. I walked back to Ray, thinking it was a little odd that she didn't ask my name, or check the reservation book, especially after I noticed that a party of three walked in after us, and were seated right away. Normally, I panic, but I remembered where I was, and for some reason, the fact that we were the only two Black people in the place weighed on my mind, and prevented me from acting like the haughty diva I sometimes pretend to be.
"Hey Ray,don't you think it's strange she didn't ask my name or check the book? She checked the book for those people who just came in."
He shrugged, still keeping himself occupied with those damn Zagat surveys, while I began to panic. "Is it cuz we're black? Are they intentionally ignoring me?"
No. In a few minutes, she beckoned for Ray and I to follow her to the dining area, which we did, with baited breath. I felt like all the eyes in the restaurant were on us. I tried to catch someone staring, and give them "the look", but really, no one could care less about us. They were too busy devouring their steaks. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as we sat down at our table. It was nice and spacious. I looked around at the decor. They weren't kidding. No frills. No table cloths or fancy decorations. Just plank wood and a few chandeliers. Nice...
Finally our waiter comes by to take our order. He doesn't bring any water for us, like the rest of the patron's waiters did.
"Can I get you something from the bar?"
"Yes, can I have a Brooklyn Lager please? (When in Brooklyn, and in doubt-order a Brooklyn Lager you can't go wrong)He nodded.I was safe.
"And for you sir?"
"Can I get a Sam Adams please?"
"No Sam Adams," said rather briskly.
"Oh...what do you have?"
I don't remember what he listed,(I do remember they were all domestic) but Ray ended up ordering a Brooklyn Lager.
When our waiter arrived with our chilled beer mugs, and Ray took a suspicious sip of the delicious liquid gold, I know he knew he made the right choice. And so did I. The beer was crisp, smooth and awesomely refreshing. I'm not just saying that because I'm from Brooklyn. Brooklyn Lager is a fine lager which paired quite nicely with our "well done" choppped steak, Canadian bacon and french fries and onions. I was a little miffed that my boyfriend, who I planned to spoil rotten, didn't order steak, but he promised he would next time.
We ordered two more lagers, cheese cake and apple strudel. The cheesecake was divine, and served with whipped cream so thick and fluffy you could eat it alone, which is what I did. Ray was happy with his strudel, but he was more impressed with my cheesecake, which is nothing new, as my food always seems to taste better than his.
Our waiter was attentive enough, but I was still a little put off that he didn't ask us if we wanted water. Nor did he check on us as frequently as other waiters checked on their tables-could it be because we ordered the chopped steak? Or was it because we're Black or perhaps both? Finally, he came to clear our table, and with a stiff smile said as he cleared our table, "I see you enjoyed. You ate it all." We did. There was not a trace of food left on our plates. The food was completely satisfying. I don't remember the last time I had such a well prepared and fulfilling meal.(except for last week's bbq at Ray's house, of course.)
And here comes the bill...
Our meal is a little more expensive than Mcdonald's, but I also expected to spend way more than I did. Herein lies my dilemma: There is a stereotype that Blacks are cheap and do not tip well. Hence, the lack of Blacks at fine dining establishments. That being the case, whenever we find ourselves in a restaurant that is not frequented by many Blacks, we tend to over-tip. I am guilty of this. It's one thing to go to a place and worry that your Blackness is a blight, but it's another to have to leave yourself broke in order to make the blight go away. I know racism won't disappear cuz I dig deeper into my pockets than I have to, but it makes me feel like I've gained a victory for Blacks, (and others) like Ray and I who are often stereotyped,(and we tip quite well) and are intimidated to eat in fine dining establishments because they are afraid of how they'll be treated. It's an uncomfortable feeling. And I have to be honest, I didn't like that we were the only two Black people in Peter Luger's. I will also admit that we weren't treated any better or worse by our waiters than any other patrons despite being the only two Black people there. Although, I will always question wether or not our waiter forgot our creamed spinach on purpose. (How could he forget the creamed spinach???) And yes, we overtipped by 30% (I was going to leave 35% but Ray put his foot down)because we felt that we had to, despite the fact that our waiter messed up our order. Also, he didn't look to happy when I asked him for change, he raised his eyebrows as if to say "aha! I knew it," which made me even more determined to prove him wrong.
Perhaps I'm a little sensitive when it comes to matters of race. Perhaps nobody cared that we were the only two Blacks at Peter Luger's. But when your Black, you don't have the luxury to disregard those feelings. You always have to go that extra mile, play harder, perform harder, work harder-in order to gain respect. Unfortunately the same rule applies to restaurant etiquette.
So would I recommend Peter Luger's? Hell yeah, we're going back next week-and this time, we're having steak for two. If they forget the creamed spinach this time, I may have a case!
Posted by renee at August 14, 2006 2:34 PM