Servers with Special Needs Deliver Outstanding Bistro Fare

It's rare you find a restaurant that does everything right. One that can transform a mere meal into a truly exceptional dining event, where every detail is seamlessly carried out and the food so exceptional that you as a diner only focus on your enjoyment of it.

I wish I could say this about PB Boulangerie in Wellfleet, Mass. The food is bang on, top shelf, fantastic. The service so lacking it's silly. A friend thinks it's on purpose. Done so the stand out dishes stand up for the attention they deserve. I don't buy it.

Perhaps there's a volunteer organization on the Cape that helps servers with special needs find employment. I suppose the training program is horribly underfunded.

The decor of the newly opened bistro, just off route 6, hits the right mix of comfortable and chic. Mustardy yellow walls adorned with copper jelly molds, Parisian posters and even a horseshoe crab wall sconce create a warm and casual room. Sage green booths edge dark cherry wood tables on one side while a snaking bar caps the other. Bar patrons have the best view of the open kitchen where Chef Philippe Rispoli executes some of the best food found anywhere I've eaten on this sand dune.

Cooks in crisp white jackets and royal blue caps move effortlessly in their stations preparing deliciously simple plates, like shaved prosciutto, Parmigiano Reggiano and melon--triangles of cantaloupe cut so thin you can see through them--all strewn out on a long bed of peppery baby arugula.

And while the kitchen staff seem relaxed and confident the servers look as if one false move might land them in an over sized stock pot for tomorrow's soup du jour. Our waiter, red faced and perspiring, loses his train of thought on his opening line.

"Would you like something to drink or. . .,"

Or what? Were not sure.

Bottled water is poured almost immediately but our cocktails take another 20 minutes before they're in front of us, delivered finally by the hostess we befriend.

Serving is not an easy job but at a restaurant where the food is so exceptional, (a lemony tuna ceviche shines on a raw platter of local oysters and clams) a good waiter can guide his customers through the evening with ease, knowing whatever item they order will please them.

Our petrified server just can't seem to get it together; we don't get to taste the bottle of wine we order he just pops the cork and pours. Empty glasses linger on our table until we physically hand them to someone passing by. We're sure she worked there though, her face also visibly stressed.

But the faux pas don't start and end with our server, there's other oddities at play. A basket of house baked bread, including an amazingly soft and crunchy cranberry batard (a bastardized baguette) arrives with a dipping plate of churned butter, olive oil and an ice wine vinegar, yet side plates seemed to be 86'd from the room. We haven't been overlooked, they're not on anyone's table.

When a complimentary platter of amuse bouche is delivered--toasted country bread squares topped with thin slices of creamy foie gras and dollops of red pepper marmalade--again, no plates accompany it. Drips of jam run down our fingers and finally end up staining our place mats.

Hot-out-of-the-dishwasher plates are set down in front of us before the chilled platter of seafood arrives; and it's only when the table is reset with salad forks and knives that we realize we ate our apps with dinner silverware.

None of this matters at a truck stop diner or say, a Denny's, because it's well, cheap and easy. Twenty eight bucks for a seafood platter deserves to be served with side plates that won't cook the clams. I guess having plates at all should have made us happy.

It's a good thing Rispoli's cooking can shut up even the most judgmental of patrons. We're silent except for a few contented sighs when our entrees arrive. Buttery roasted cod tops pureed potatoes and leeks and wins the entree war, while a seared tuna encrusted with black pepper and served over crunchy veggies in a light yet fragrant broth is a close runner up.

The portion of shrimp risotto could use a little more heft but its fresh lemon flavour and perfect consistency make up for its size, though the spring peas were a little more al dente then they should have been.

Rispoli's best was actually saved for last. Tender crepes Suzette swim in a pool of vibrant orange flavoured syrup, their combined heat melting a single scoop of vanilla-flecked ice cream. A dark chocolate cream accompanies a baseball-size beignet, a warm and chewy vehicle for the intense sauce.

At this point our waiter has been banned from our table--the mutual loathing so evident Rispoli's wife steps into finish serving us. We cringe for a moment thinking we've perhaps been a little too harsh, then come to our senses. If the food wasn't so good we wouldn't be so critical.

The Bear Blog

"What's bear week?" asked a 60 year-old woman dining with her husband in my section last Saturday night.

"Do you know what a bear is," I replied?

"Well I know what a bear is. . ." she answered.

"Do you know what a gay bear is?" I asked.

She looked at me with a blank but curious face. "Bears are large, hairy, bearded guys and this is their week in town. The circuit boys packed up their Louis Vuitton valises and rolled out this morning and the bears took their spot."

"What's a circuit boy?" the two of them asked in unison.

"Oh, well, they're the gays with the perfectly smooth bodies, all sculpted and plucked and tweezed, sporting designer sunglasses and looks of mild disdain."

The both nodded, taking it all in.

I then told them about the Baby Dykes from Memorial weekend, Women of Color week, the leather daddies descending in October, and of course Carnival and (woop woop!) family week.

This week, town is overrun with big, hairy, manly men woofing at each other as they strut down Commercial toward Burger Queen.

Pool filters are working overtime.

A friend witnessed four grapefruit-sized hairballs extracted from the Ptown Inn filters on Monday and Possum snapped this shot earlier today at the Boatslip. We hung on the deck--no way was I getting in that stew.

There's not enough bleach in town to clean that pool. But in a good way.

My friend Addam invited me on the Bear Boat Monday for a sunset dance party. We set off from MacMillan Wharf on the Provincetown II with 900 burly men at 5pm, cruised into the bay then out into open water.

Addam and I are of similar height and build so we had to dance with elbows out, taking up as much space as we could for no other reason but survival. At one point all I saw were the nipples of giant bears towering around me. I could have stared at those for days.

Last night Possum and I turned the tables. He doesn't have any issues in his 6'3" frame but I can easily get lost on the dance floor so we jumped up on go-go boxes at the Paramount and danced the best two hours of our lives. Hundreds of bears thumping in unison to Kelly Rowland's Commander--it was like throwing a teddy bear picnic in a steam room with a massive sound system and $3 Rolling Rocks. You could see the testosterone in the air.

And because we were wearing matching sailor hats from a mariner-themed bear party we attended earlier, some of the revelers assumed we were hired help. Possum left with a sweaty crotch full of cash and I hopped down off that box with a not-so-crisp single.

I don't care if it was a pity dollar, I kept it anyway.

Bears aren't known for their genorous tips so I'll take what I can get.

86 Social Life

I'm glad I got my fun in last weekend.

Fourth of July kicked my ass and most of my coworkers at Patio. I've never heard so much screaming in that kitchen as I did last night around 8pm when it came to a standstill. Every one of the 200 seats in that restaurant was full and order tickets were cascading from the expediting printer to the floor. Roxanna was trying to get food out but the kitchen literally stopped cooking. They were so far behind and had no idea had to dig themselves out.

"If you're not running food get the FUCK out of the kitchen," yelled Joaquim (Mr. Patio) at one point.

Waiters and busboys scattered like roaches. I kept my back to the scene plugging yet another order into the clog jam.

I asked Dwight, working the salad and dessert station, to fire me some bread for a table when Roxanna turned to me and barked,

"Don't fucking talk to the kitchen, I'm the ONLY one talking to the kitchen. I WILL slap you."

I turned on point and retreated.

Then things got better. Before they got worse.

The fireworks were beginning to blast up from the bay creating a mass exodus from the restaurant. Finally allowing the kitchen to dig itself out of the weeds and the waitstaff and support staff to catch its breath. It lasted all of 20 minutes before the masses re-descended. We filled 3/4 again at about 9:45pm then the rain started.

Not enough to even wet the sidewalk but enough to send customers into panic mode, jumping tables to secure a spot under an umbrella to avoid a couple drops of rain. And after already working 12 hours I was mentally and physically spent. Nothing left in the reserves.

I worked straight through yesterday hoping to get an early cut so I could go out and at least have an hour of a social life at the A House. But it didn't happen. Instead servers who only worked the dinner shift were getting cut and cashing out while those working doubles were still taking tables at 11:30pm. I'd had it and the look of disdain on my face screamed it loud and clear.

That's when Possum coined this posts title, "86 Social Life".(86 is resto speak for running out of a menu item). And from that vantage point it looked like we were kissing ours goodbye.

But Possum had a plan and talked me down from the proverbial ledge. We cashed out at 12:45 and raced on our bikes to the A House. Good thing we know a couple of the bartenders; Flabio hooked us up with four Rolling Rocks the minute we crossed the threshold and Eric hooked us up with a couple more on the patio bar after last call.

I've said it before but it pays to know people in this town. Bartenders especially.

We even got two songs on the dance floor. Gaga's Monster and Madge's Like a Prayer, this year's last track of the night. It's played every night just before the lights come on and they kick us all out onto the street.

Next on Possum's agenda was Spiritus pizza, where everyone gathers after last call. When I say everyone I mean every gay man in town who's been out that night. It's not just about pizza, it's about the final chance to scoop up a date for the evening. Literally a couple hundred people gathered in the street and out front of the joint, scarfing down slices and rehashing the nights events.

Nobody, not even us wanted to hear tales from the Patio--that's why I'm telling you.

Okay, finished venting, now off to work.