June 2016

Why, no matter what I order from room service, does it always take twenty minutes?  Without fail, around the world, it seems to me someone on the other end of the line will say, “That’ll be twenty minutes”. If it’s a burger or bottle of water.  Twenty minutes. A roast chicken for four with stuffing.  Twenty minutes. A latté. Go ahead and have uncaffeinated sex, unless you’re Sting or a character from a Jackie Collins novel that has sex for hours, because you’ve got twenty minutes. If it’s eggs Benedict, you guessed it, twenty minutes.  Just FYI eggs Benedict were listed by GQ and David Chang as the best breakfast to have after sex so maybe order it with the latté or you’ll have to wait another twenty. And if you think you’ll need water…if it’s all those things together. The foods I mean. Twenty minutes.

Okay it may not actually be twenty minutes, but my point is a latté takes as long as a roast chicken. Water as long as eggs Benedict. Why is that?

Okay it may not actually be twenty minutes for every hotel, but every hotel has an arbitrary time that doesn’t think a latté and a roast chicken are any different.  Or water and eggs Benedict. Why is that?

I have ordered a latté at the fanciest of coffee shops and they manage to intimidate me, introduce me to hazelnut milk, and do pretentious cocoa art all in less than ten minutes. So as the room service department there would still be enough time to grab a tray and a silver dome thingy to cover the latté, walk to the elevator, Google the real word for “silver dome thingy”, learn that the word is “cloche” which is French for bell, contemplate how much the thingy looks like a bell, get to the room, gently tap on the door and say, “Room Service!”

I have also tried to make a roast chicken in twenty minutes. I spent fifteen searching for “Twenty minute chicken” recipes and then got distracted by “Four unexpected nail colors for all types of bride” which I had to read because I really needed to know just how “unexpected” nail colors can actually get considering the rainbow is somewhat set.

And what about those post-sex eggs Benedict? I have pouched an egg in three minutes. Toasted an English muffin in three. But a Béarnaise sauce? The New York Times lists just the sauce as a twenty-minute affair. That’s twenty-six minutes in even before there’s a cloche, or a throat clearing to say “Room Service!”

Needless to say a bottle of water is easy enough to secure in way under twenty minutes unless you feel the need to go to Evian itself. Or have to go to a well in which case you might want to rethink spending your money on room service.

So why can hotels not commit to a food appropriate time? Did they all just get together and start to white board out the standard times of every dish and it just got overwhelming? Coffee – two minutes, burgers – twenty minutes, roast chicken – really long, water – really quick, eggs Benedict…oh what they hell let’s just average this out. Then they all high-fived, made silly hats with cloches and went back to their rooms and ordered room service? I do wonder how long they were told it would take.

Recently while waiting for my twenty-minute room service I was curious to see what else could be done in this time, and to see how wildly those activities varied. I found an article from USA Today that listed “Try not think about penguins”. bemorewithless.com suggested “Defining fun” which sounded decidedly unfun, even for a minute. I also found a Woman’s Day article, which suggested, “Write your own obituary” and “Envision yourself reaching a fitness goal”. I liked this one because it didn’t involve actual exercise. So I imagined myself as an Olympic champion javelin thrower with a steroid problem but Madonna-like arms and great neon pink athleisure gear until I heard someone clear their throat, gently knock on the door and say, “Room Service!”

How exactly hotels landed on their time allotments we might never know. Just the same way we might never know why they all fold the end of the toilet paper into points like an arrow aimed at the shittiest target, why they all make the tissues look like flowers so you always feel bad blowing snot into them, or why the minibar is so expensive you have to drink to comprehend why 50ml of vodka costs that much, how check-in time came to be 3pm so you never actually even spend twenty-four hours there, or why we/I always feel compelled to steal all the mini shampoos like hotels might stop doing this one day.

All that said I would never stop ordering room service. Because despite all the things we can do in twenty minutes – “exercise”, obituarize, avoid penguins – there’s still nothing that beats the sheer joy of eating eggs Benedict in a robe someone else will wash, in a bed someone else will make while you watch Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, or read a Jackie Collins novel, all washed down with a latté. Exactly why that is, is a beautiful mystery to me that will never be solved. No matter how much time I’m given.

Every time a server in a restaurant says, “Our dishes are small plates that are made to share family style,” all I hear is, “Our dishes are made to share famine style, ” and while they run through their favorite small plates I’m either mapping out where the closest In-N-Out Burger is on the way home and panicking that we might not be done before they close, or I’m wondering when the UN will have to start doing food parcel drops over the gentrified neighborhoods that have too many of these “family style” restaurants we are all going to, and all quietly starving in because of this share plate craze. And then I wonder if we’ll even recognize the food parcels if they are not wrapped in phyllo with a sweet tamarind dipping sauce.

“Family style” really is just proxy for lots of small plates, usually with things rolled into very small balls, very small stacks, on small kebab sticks or in a pâté dish with four half slices of bread even when there are six of you at the table. All these small plates come with big plate prices though – the little plate that could! – which means you will always leave with an empty wallet, and an empty stomach, with the exception of a few tiny balls of something rolling around like some sort of abandoned game of digestive pinball.

If you have not experienced any of this, let me lay out the course of events of eating “family style”. There are usually at least six of you dining, family style.  You are usually seated at a long table, family style.  At your servers recommendation you will usually order, “A couple of dishes per person,” so everyone can have a taste, family style.

If you live in LA half of this family will be vegetarian, vegan, or only eating animals who are organic grass fed vegetarians.  Obviously you’ll all be allergic to wheat.

The dishes will be ordered accordingly.  Everyone will look to the server who will then count how many dishes you’ve ordered to ensure you’ve ordered enough.  Well, they will appear to count dishes but really they are counting how many homes in Malibu with ocean views and good martini glasses the restaurant owner will have after you all leave.  They will then smile and suggest you maybe add one or two greens on the side, like the Brussels sprouts which are delicious.

Then this “family style” meal will be placed across this long table.  And the one dish you actually wanted will be at the other end of the table, a mini meatball mirage simmering in the far distance, while you share the gem lettuce salad with no lardon and no cheese – so the real gems are missing – because you’re sat next to the vegan.

Seeing the actual size of the plates all of you realize you are about to be starved to death, and all overcome your wheat allergy enough to eat the only substantial thing on the table – the four half slices of bread. It’s Lord of Flies, but with the wild pig on Barbie plates with sourdough bread.

Directly after this moment of suburban savagery the Politeness Meatball Phenomenon  – or PMP as I call it in my circle of me – will kick in.  PMP is not limited to actual meatballs but is an overarching term that stretches across all of the last foodstuffs left on the plates that everyone is suddenly too polite to eat.  The Politeness Meatballs will stay on the table, all night.  Too small to be divided amongst you, but just big enough to make you hungrier even as they congeal in their own cold gravy.

Of course there will be plenty of the server recommended Brussels sprouts. They will come in a proper grown-up sized bowl and there will always be more than one Brussels sprout left. Brussels sprouts are never Politeness Meatballs.  This is because they are not delicious. No one ever ordered them as their last meal on earth.  I checked Google.  At first it laughed at me and said, “You know the answer to this,” and then it double checked, and it turns out one Gregory Resnover did order Brussels sprouts as his last meal. Sentenced to death in Indiana Resnover ordered fried chicken, whipped potatoes, giblet gravy, Brussels sprouts, salad with French dressing, cranberry sauce, ice cream with chilled peaches, buttered dinner rolls, milk, sugar and coffee. He then declined the meal.  Okay, he swore he was innocent so this was likely his last act of defiance against the system, or, it was because he realized too late Brussels sprouts are not a good last meal.

Google also told me about the white people who seldom get wrongfully sentenced to death coffee table book called ‘My Last Supper, The Next Course’ by Melanie Dunea. Chefs David McMillan and April Bloom both list Brussels sprouts in their death rider.  It should be noted Bloom has been photographed with a whole pig on her back, and McMillan owns a restaurant called Joe Beef. Brussel sprouts are a conduit for pork gravy, and a crunch with a forkful of roast beef, but they are not a bowl of deliciousness any family is going to dig into.

Wow.  Big diversion.  Anyway. I looked into where this whole family style thing came from. It does have benefits.  None of them are listed as “feeling satisfied and full” but mommy bloggers like Jill Castle do rave about the benefits in children.  It helps fine tune motor skills as they pass dishes around. It also teaches politeness, and sharing.  And I buy that, because in most homes dishes are full dishes, big dishes.  Meatballs are not the same size as your peas. And Brussels sprouts are reserved for Thanksgiving.

So, I’m giving the restaurant version of family style the finger. I’m doing this largely because after years of eating family style at home my motor skills are pretty finely tuned now, in fact they are spectacular. And I’m doing this because I’m tired of being polite. I want to go out to dinner with good friends, eat my own meatballs, off my own big plate while I share the things that are actually worth sharing; conversation, opinions, gossip and really good wine. Isn’t that why we all go for dinner together in the first place? I think it is. If you agree, share this post. I’m not opposed to that.