Let Us Now Praise Famous Dishwashers

LIKE A KICK-ASS BUSBOY, nothing is more valuable to a restaurant than a great dishwasher. They carry all of us on their back. 

ONE COOK I KNOW, after working a charity dinner with Ken Oringer, had this to say about him: “Aw man, his food was sick. But the best part was that he rocked a dishwasher’s shirt.” One restaurant I know even prints the dishwasher’s name on the menu, right below the executive chef and the Sou’s. We’ve all seen restaurants run by themselves just fine without an owner, chef, or manager present – but a dishwasher? You’re closed without someone in the pit.

GREG, A COOK I WORK WITH, goes out of his way to take the Portugese-speaking dishwashers under his wing. He teaches them to speak the only English he thinks they will need to know. Primarily they consist of quotes from movies (“I am Indigo Montoya. You have killed my father. Prepare to die”), creative curses, and random phrases and words from his own vocabulary (Damn dog! or Word! Word! or I’m just chillin’).

GREG TALKS ALL DAY to one Brazilian dishwasher in particular, and they both understand each other perfectly, although they actually share only a handful of each other’s words. If Greg isn’t at second, he’s usually in the dish-room, trying to put the dishwasher’s head in the machine or else just trying to grab his ass, of course disrupting everyone into hysterics. Most of the time, he’s passing down a nice plate of food for the man in the 130-degree hellhole. “If that guy can always have a smile on his face, dammit, so can I,” Greg will say. The positive energy of their affection for each other floats the kitchen even during the hardest times. When either one of them is off for the day, their absence causes a dimming and slowing down of the hours.

EMERSON BAROLA, THE DISHWASHER TO WHOM I AM NOW PAYING HOMAGE, is a Brazilian with a farm and large family back home that he is supporting. His nickname is “Pootytang.” Emerson got a nickname within the first week, a sign of how well he is liked. A true nickname has to arrive organically and Emerson’s came the best way: in the heat of his first crazy service. The cooks were swamped, pots and pans were flying, but the line was tight.  Everybody was silent in their intense concentration, except for the occasional exclamation of “Pootytang!” to release the tension or as a victory yelp when they successfully made it through a particularly rough push. You see, the Chef had watched that very same movie that morning before work, and “Pootytang” happened to be the word stuck in his head. Which got stuck in everyone else’s head. And when Emerson started parroting the guys as he climbed between them with their pots and dishes, Pootytang stuck to Emerson. Now, I don’t think everyone even knows Pooty’s real name.

ONCE, GREG CAUGHT POOTY AT THE BACK DOOR, CRYING. He missed his family. He carries their pictures around with him in a small album. His children are gorgeous, his wife sweet-faced. Their farm is vast, green and filled with animals. All of us were struck into deep silence when the two of them, obviously just crying, came back inside, facing the group of us sitting and folding napkins. Pooty saw our stricken faces and raised his hand in acknowledgment, shaking his head at us for being upset: “S’okay, s’okay,” he laughed at himself, ducking his head. He went back into the kitchen and five people burst into tears. Someday, when we’ve passed through this era of our lives, and we look back at our time at Bistro X, Y or Z, figures like pooty will figure largely into each of our memories because they gained so much territory in our hearts while we knew them.

POOTY, HEAR THIS homage, which I pay not only to you, but to the Courage And Tenacity That Sleeps Within Us All.