By Yoji Yamaguchi, with additional reporting by Robert Seixas
Not every restaurateur believes the customer is always right; we check in to find out why
Not every restaurateur subscribes to "the customer is always right" school of hospitality. Just think of Seinfeld's Soup Nazi. Or the real-life versions you've encountered who dazzle in the kitchen but frazzle in the dining room with arcane rules, picky policies and other seemingly user-unfriendly quirks.
While we get plenty of complaints from survey participants about "grumpy," "abrasive" or downright "wacky" chefs and owners, we decided to get the view from the other side of the kitchen door by touching base with restaurateurs known for their rather iconoclastic approach to customer relations.
Ezra Cohen of NYC's Azuri Cafe
photo: Yoji Yamaguchi
Fans say that "excellent" "cheap eats" make up for any lack of coddling at this tiny Hell's Kitchen Israeli, which earned the lowest Service score (8 on a 0 to 30 scale) in our 2007 New York City Restaurant Survey.
"Every day, all kinds of things make me crazy," laments owner Ezra Cohen, whose approach to service is nothing if not straightforward: "I give them good food. That's it." You'd think that might be enough for thick-skinned New York foodies, but apparently not. People, he sighs, "expect me to be nice 24 hours a day. Smiling. So I have to be nice to them." He adds, "it doesn't happen all the time, though."
The "delightful" brunch and "irresistible" "homemade breads and jams" earn high praise at this New American in Chicago's Roscoe Village, but some surveyors cite a less-than-serene attitude.
"Brunch is a madhouse – like Disneyland at rush hour," says chef-owner Brett Knobel. Because it's not a high-ticket meal and the cafe is small, she needs to turn tables regularly to make it profitable. Yet some diners, she says, "think they're at Starbucks and linger eight hours over an $8 meal." Worse, in her eyes, are people who loiter when there are lines out the door. "The insensitivity of some people to their fellow diners drives me out of my mind," she fumes. "It's like 'I got mine, Jack.'" To those wont to plow through Remembrance of Things Past during a meal, she advises: "Come for dinner or lunch, when it's more relaxed."
"Just try and get a substitution, ha ha," say patrons who've been thwarted in their attempts to sway the "burger ***" at this thriving Santa Monica gastropub, where no modifications are permitted to anything on the menu and ketchup is verboten on the "legendary" burgers featuring dry-aged beef, bacon compote, blue cheese and caramelized onion.
Owner Sang Yoon does not see himself as a patty dictator. "We're not forcing anyone to eat our burger," he notes. "Nor are we taking away anybody's right to choose. There's still McDonald's. In fact, we're offering another choice." And contrary to popular opinion, he has nothing against ketchup. "Most hamburgers need [it]," he says, "but mine doesn't. We're confident in our product and not about to change." He gripes about what he calls "fearful" diners who only "want what they know," and urges them to "come with an open mind and take our advice." "Face it," he adds wryly, "most people can't cook. Letting them build their own burger is like asking them to build their own car."
A "true piece of Americana" in South Philly, this cheese steak specialist entered the national spotlight thanks to a sign posted next to its take-out window declaring 'This is America. When ordering speak English.' It also earned owner Joey Vento a discrimination complaint from the city's Commission on Human Relations. Despite the citation, the sign remains, and fans still "wait in line" for the "sloppy goodness" of his signature sandwiches.
The grandson of Italian immigrants, Vento insists his sign is just business: "We have long lines, and don't have time to sit around and negotiate every aspect of ordering a cheese steak. If you don't speak English, we can misinterpret your order." He bristles at charges of bias, complaining the "media made this into a Spanish thing," but he says, "it makes no difference what your native language is." Still, he is bemused by the attention. "Crime in Philly is up, and you're criticizing Joe Vento for saying you have to learn two words, 'cheese steak'? It's two words. We're not asking anyone to recite the Declaration of Independence. You're going to come here and tell me you can't even say 'cheese steak'?"
Diners have kind words for the fresh, seasonal creations at Deborah Shore's New American bistro in the Boston suburb of Arlington, but according to some you'll either "love or hate" the "leisurely" pace and "droll" ambiance.
Running an almost one-woman show, Shore concedes that "people who dine out a lot are used to a certain level of constant attention and quick service," and she'll go so far as to warn people at the door when she's busy. Her one wish is that "when you can't accommodate customers they'd understand it's not personal. When a place is really small – and even if it isn't – you can only do so much to please them." Still, she says she's resigned to the fact that "most people are clueless about what it takes to run a small business."
"Sit down, shut up and eat" at Kazunori Nozawa's Studio City sushi temple where a sign announces the house special: 'Trust Me' (the literal translation of omakase, or chef's menu), which, to many, sounds more like an edict than a suggestion. "Purists" praise his "passion for perfection," but his "dictatorial" style is "not everyone's cup of sake."
Nozawa's wife, Yukiko, who also manages the restaurant, spoke to us on his behalf, explaining his English is limited. One word he has no problem with, however, is 'out.' According to Mrs. N., the easiest way to offend the master is to "confuse American sushi for Japanese." When people ask for such things as mayo on tuna, "he kicks them out," she says with some pride. Nozawa was "taught by many masters" in his native Japan and is so traditional that any request for what she calls "new wave–style" sushi is grounds for expulsion. Complaining to the chef is another surefire exit strategy. And, since the mini-mall space is "very tiny," she says, "people who bother other customers" (read: cell phones) are also asking for a sudden sayonara. Regulars, she notes, "never commit these offenses. They know better."