To reward great service, add bill correctly

It was one of those really good dining-out occasions. The FSN gang descended on Chicago for the NRA Show, and, after a day wandering the convention floor at McCormick place, FSN ad guru Nadine and I were looking for a good meal at a locally owned, independent joint. It was a perfect night to sit outside and eat good food, drink good wine, and wind up with a perfectly reasonable bill. Adding to the pleasure, our server was great; he recommended the dishes and the wine, with an eye for folks on a bit of a budget. Two days later I realized I screwed up that experience, for the server, anyway.

I don’t need any prodding to go to Chicago. I lived there while I was in graduate school, and quickly got used to not needing a car. How much money do you save by not driving? An absurd amount. I lived on a part-time job’s wages and a student loan, and rented a nice, one-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood with no gunplay. One block from an El station, the train was my transportation. That and my feet, and the occasional bus and bike ride. Considering the environmental kick most rational people are joining (and it’s a significant theme in this issue of FSN), it’s somewhat ironic that the largest metropolitan areas of the country provide the best opportunity for its residents to reduce their individual environmental impact.

Chicago residents concerned about how much pollution their car emits don’t need to drive one—they can take the train. Most neighborhoods have everything one needs—including a grocery store—within walking distance of home. Those wanting to make their homes and businesses more efficient can join Mayor Richard Daley’s green crusade. To see the effect of this, take an elevator up to a high enough floor in downtown Chicago building and look out a window. An increasing number of roofs are covered with plantings, which conserve energy, absorb rainwater, reduce CO2, ozone, smog and ambient outdoor temperature. The Twin Cities has climbed on that bandwagon recently, but one would have thought, with our “outdoors-y” reputation, we would be leading the charge. Better late than never, though. Where was I? Oh, yes. How I shafted a great server, one Jorge L.

Emilio’s Sol y Nieve tapas restaurant on East Ohio Street was about a block from our hotel. While Nadine and I waited for a table on the patio, we had a glass of wine at the bar. With dinner, we had a bottle of tempranillo, recommended by Jorge. Somewhere along the line, my math skills—never my strong suit—evaporated. The bill came, I slapped down my card, and, because the server was great, factored in a very nice tip.

Fast forward to Monday. Running through my expenses, I realize—to my horror—I neglected to carry a number when adding the bill and the nice tip, which resulted in Jorge receiving only two bucks.

Ouch. I felt horrible. I still feel horrible. Did the guy think I was just an intoxicated boob or a genuine jerk? Which was worse? Hopefully, he saw what I wrote in the “tip” line and was able to correct my error, but then altering a tab—even when justified—probably isn’t allowed.

I called the restaurant from work and spoke to a manager, trying to explain my problem. “I meant to give him this, but I added wrong, see?” He didn’t have access to Saturday’s receipts. I gave him the tab number, the date, and the server’s name. “Jorge, he was great, I just want to make sure he got what I really wanted to give him.” The manager made a call, supposedly, to where the night’s receipts were being reviewed, then assured me that the server would get his full tip. Relieved, I hung up the phone. But I still wonder if it worked out. I need to check my card statement when it arrives.

I thought about this episode after a friend of mine went out with her husband recently for a romantic dinner at one of the Twin Cities’ old romantic spots. Their server was divine, she said, humorous, described the menu in detail, and made a wine recommendation. It was with the wine they felt things go awry, but were too polite and, wanting to maintain the mood, didn’t want to cause a fuss. The wine their charming server recommended was a half-bottle and exorbitantly priced (something he neglected to mention). That’s not a good server, folks.

But Jorge at Emilio’s on East Ohio Street in Chicago, now that guy was great.


Mancini’s

There isn’t much I can add to what’s been said about Nick Mancini’s passing. Mancini’s Char House on West Seventh is a special spot for most St. Paul residents, myself included. It’s no secret that Mancini’s represents old-school St. Paul. And St. Paul, for those in the know, is old school through to the bone. And Mancini’s still serves up one of the great steaks in the entire Twin Cities.

The lady friend and I used to go there monthly when we craved a good steak, and, while our lives have gotten busier, we still make it down there at least a few times a year. I also shared many memorable evenings there with my father. It’s a place we gravitate to when we feel we need a lift, I think, and Nick was a big part of that. With the thousands of faces he saw throughout his career, I’m sure ours didn’t stand out. But we’d never know that when he greeted us, or walked by the table. “How’s it going?” or “Everything’s good?” he would ask.

There were nights with my father, when the dining room would be clearing out and we would still be deep in conversation, Nick would wander through and say, “You guys look like you need a drink.” And there appeared a drink.

It’s a sad loss, and a reminder of the unique place a restaurant and its owner can occupy in a community. But Mancini’s still stands, and is in good hands—sons Pat and John—for the next generation. We can be thankful for that.