Renewing my self-esteem with a short walk
When my self-esteem is low I know a sure-fire method of rejuvenating my ego levels. I choose to work the floor of Smollensky's. Immediately I feel like the Pope passing through his faithful flock, passing out benediction to the masses.
Years ago, before I worked in hospitality, I knew that customers had a tendency to defy restaurant owners. I knew because I too did some defying.
I once felt very insulted when chef-patron Mimo D'Ischia (of the eponymous restaurant) neglected to select me for salvation. There I was, trying to impress a hot date by claiming I knew the owner, and being given the cold shoulder. I nursed that wound for years. Twelve years on we met at a dinner party and I couldn't resist mentioning it.
A good laugh
We had a good laugh and I forgave him. At the end of the party I said my goodbyes to everyone except him and left feeling that justice had been done. I didn't really, but I can dream can't I?
It does, however, raise the question of why being recognised by the owner is so important to restaurant guests? Even now I am not sure I understand it. Certainly people like to be made welcome, like to be recognised and so forth. But getting recognition from the owner, rather than, say, a manager, takes on an importance that goes way beyond logic.
Exactly what human need does this fulfil? I can think of no other businesses where the owner's recognition gives people such satisfaction and stature.
But it is fun to play the role of patron. Okay, it's a cheap thrill of questionable value, but it feels good. It is also harmless and much cheaper than psychoanalysis when I am in need of a quick boost to my self-worth. (And you never know what useful information you are likely to pick up about the state of your business from your customers - but that's for another article.)
It is so much fun that sometimes I even kid myself, temporarily, into believing I am a genuine wit, even though I know I'm not. If you saw me "working the floor", you could be fooled into thinking that I was a regular Rory Bremner. The Cheshire Cat smiles of the people I talk to tell me everything I need to know about the pleasure they are feeling at being selected.
Honoured
The chosen are so honoured to be talking to me that they laugh uproariously at my feeble quips and jokes in a way that my friends and family never do. My wife, who on occasion has witnessed me working the room, sits slack-jawed in disbelief.
She demands to know how I can turn on such charm and wit at will when I am so lazy in other social circumstances. Of course I reassure her that the customers find me so charming and funny only because they see me as "the owner". But she doesn't believe me. She remains convinced that I have a secret store of charm and wit which I can pull out at will for the sake of business.
Acquainted
Anyway, now that I am in business and personally acquainted with lots of restaurant owners, I feel totally immune to the "I know the owner" syndrome. Yet some months ago, my wife and I were having dinner with another couple at one of London's more fashionable, enduring and universally wonderful restaurants. I know both owners so I won't mention its name.
And who do I spot working the room but one of the partners (not hard as he's 6ft 5in). As he glided effortlessly through the room, dispensing bon-mots to film stars, rock stars and the like, I felt a small shiver of anticipation as I awaited his certain arrival.
But he didn't come to my table that night. Did it spoil my evening? Not entirely, but it did teach me that being in the business does not immunise us from that mysterious desire to be seen to "know the owner". Which is all so silly, isn't it?
