An occasional look at my communication with readers.
For a response, I turned to Bill Addison, the former national critic for Eater responsible for taking his own photographs — no small task, considering he ate more than 500 meals a year away from home for work. In the majority of places, he didn’t ask to shoot his food. “They’re expecting, if not happy for it,” especially in casual places, he says, citing Instagram and other social media. Customers were a bigger concern. “I got plenty of dirty looks” from other diners, says Addison, who, as one of two restaurant critics recently hired by the Los Angeles Times, no longer has to take his own pictures.
While I had him on the phone, I asked Addison for some photo tips. In his Eater days, natural light was his friend; he often shot near a window. In dark places, he employed the napkin trick, in which a white napkin is held in front of the flashlight on a phone, to soften the ultimate image. “I like to catch textures and levels,” Addison says, which might involve (carefully) positioning a plate on the edge of a table, with carpet or tiles as background. “People love the messy shot” — a crowd of dishes, sometimes involving diners’ hands — which is best taken standing over the table. (Snap quickly to avoid those dirty looks.)
As for myself, I tend to take pictures mostly for the purpose of remembering food presentation; in formal establishments, I generally ask permission and avoid using the flash. Only a few places of my acquaintance ban photography, Komi in Washington being the most prominent.
One of the benefits to asking permission was highlighted by my chat participant: “The nicest part is that a good deal of the time, a server will offer to take a picture” — of the customers, with their meals — “which makes a lovely souvenir.”
Climb every mountain
Dining at the two-story Sababa in Cleveland Park recently, Pauline Sobel realized she has a problem with stairs. Not for herself, but for “the poor staff who have to carry heavy trays up and down steps all night,” writes the District resident. She and her husband “seriously feel guilty asking for anything, [so] we try to order everything at once and have them bring everything at the same time, because we don’t want to wear them out.” Sobel writes, “Why don’t these places have little elevators to move trays between floors?”
Lifts for food are “definitely expensive to install,” says Brett Carnahan, the general manager at Sababa, especially in buildings that weren’t designed to accommodate them. (The Middle Eastern restaurant replaced Ardeo after a run of two decades last year.) The 22 steps between the ground floor, where the kitchen is located, and the second-floor dining room are indeed a trek. Carnahan says “I lost eight pounds” in the month and a half he’s been working there. Sobel shouldn’t feel too bad, however. The servers and food runners assigned to the top floor are rotated during the shift, says Carnahan.
A mini-survey of other establishments involving climbs for staff includes Zaytinya in Penn Quarter, where general manager Farhat Haq calls the 17 steps between the main dining room and the Greek restaurant’s airy loft “a good workout,” exercise made easier thanks to a service station with extra utensils — “but not a bar” — at the peak.
Sobel’s missive ran through my mind during my recent dinner at Little Coco’s . Owner Jackie Greenbaum graciously agreed to count the steps between the first floor and the upstairs kitchen — 24, with three landings “for relief,” she texted — and noted her staff doesn’t complain about the climb, partly because of the stairs’ width, which allows for two-way traffic.
Still, I sympathized with the workers. “No dumbwaiter?” I asked a server, whom I caught descending from on high. “I’m the dumb waiter!” he shot back, earning every bit of his 20 percent tip.
Something fishy
Several readers took me to task for writing about one of the 20 courses offered at the luxe Sushi Nakazawa (Magazine, Feb. 10). “Bluefin tuna is on the brink of extinction,” wrote Victoria Price of Silver Spring. “Please consider that if you continue to promote these restaurants and these meals, our American palate may just wipe out what it loves to consume.”
She’s got a point, and duly noted. The Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch, which advocates for healthy oceans, flags bluefin as “at risk.” While I resist becoming a food cop (because where would I stop?), at a minimum, I should have pointed out the plight of the featured fish and let readers decide for themselves whether to partake — much as I pointed out the location of the high-end Japanese restaurant, in the controversial Trump International Hotel.
“I’m in the middle, too,” says Masaaki Uchino, Sushi Nakazawa’s chef, who gets his bluefin from between Massachusetts and North Carolina, depending on the season. He says he serves the delicacy, which feeds on sardines, squid and mackerel, primarily because bluefin is “the king of sushi” fish, with an incomparable texture and flavor. For guests spending a minimum of $120 on his omakase, or chef’s choice tasting menu, he wants them to feel the experience was “worth every penny.” While Uchino says he’s encouraged by companies investing in the expensive business of farm-raising the tuna, the sample he’s tried from Spain is “just okay.”
I’ve eaten a lot of things in the name of research over the years, and even refrained from some foodstuffs as I’ve learned more about them. Off my list, for instance: shark fin, considered a delicacy in parts of Asia but criticized for the manner in which it’s acquired. Unless and until stocks are replenished, I think I’ll rely on my taste memory in future encounters with bluefin tuna, too.
How to serve mankind
“Love your reviews,” writes Dave Wachtel, figuring that flattery might get my attention. “What I don’t love lately are sharing dishes that come without serving spoons.”
The Chevy Chase reader has clearly given the issue some thought, offering “options for coping,” all of which he considers bad: “I could bring extra spoons from home. I could share germs with the rest of my table. Or sacrifice a dining spoon or fork and mix together the flavors of every single dish. Maybe stay home until this whole sharing trend is over. Or encourage a prominent restaurant critic to take a stand. What do you suggest?”
Wachtel is preaching to the choir. The day I received his plea, I had just returned from a new restaurant where a group of us were required to use our own utensils for transporting portions from A to B. Allow me to stand on my soapbox and say it out loud: RESTAURANTS, REMEMBER TO OFFER SERVING UTENSILS WITH DISHES THAT CALL FOR THEM.
I feel better now. And I hope Wachtel does as well.
Next week: A review of Urbano 116 in Alexandria.
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