My life as a dishwashing consultant.

I would like to thank the good people of Nostrana for constructing what is likely the greatest dish-pit in the industry. Thanks to their kindness and attention to detail I no longer have dishpan hands, a direct result of David’s purchase of Ivory dishwashing soap. Plunging my hands into fetid, food soaked water has never been as pleasant, freeing my mind from complaint and allowing me to move into a constructive phase of meditation. But alas, I cannot wash dishes there every night. So last night I decided to go there for dinner with a newly acquired friend.

It turns out there form does not always lead to function, as my replacement for the evening was buried beyond his head in plates, utensils, bowls, cups, cutting boards, cheese graters and Frisbee like pizza plates heavy enough to drop a troll if properly employed. I am here to rescue.

I consider Cathy, one of the owners, to be a friend, and I know that if she asks me on one of my nights off, when I am wearing pinstripe pants, a tie, and my nice new black sweater, to go back and help, she really really needs it. I am a dishwashing consultant.

The poor kid back there is just out of his mind with how much work he has to do. He can’t fathom how much longer he will be there.

The dishwashing machine is not running. That’s bad. At the end of the night the machine should never stop. Ever. As a dishwashing human, you are at the bottom of the chain. You are the last person to leave and people walk where you mop. You have nothing but your scrubby and your wits, except, of course, the only thing that reports directly to you: The dishwashing machine. It is mechanical, it cannot react and think for you, but when you press that button, it starts to assist you in the effort to get you done and sitting at the bar, your fingers slowly drying.

His hands are corpse-in-the-water white. He is washing silverware while there are literally bowls stacked over his head. Silverware is last, let the waitrons deal with it tomorrow. Bowls, cutting boards, sheet pans are your friends. You throw them in and press play. Clean, organize, meditate, but don’t ever let that machine sit idle.

A waiter comes in and dumps the last plates of the night in the heap that remains, leaving scraps of pizza and salad behind. Silverware not even casually tossed towards the five overflowing bins he hasn’t gotten to. When you are that far into the weeds, you get no respect and it works like lawn fertilizer, getting you even deeper.

“Listen kid, a place for everything and everything in its place. That son of a bitch shouldn’t be able to get away with that, but you are so fucked right now he can look you in the eye and screw you over even more. If you had trained the rest of the place to respect how you are doing your job, he would make damn well sure he scraped the plates himself, and put the plates in a neat pile. Even I can’t help you tonight, but if you have a job tomorrow, cultivate your stink eye early on.”

The pizza is the best I have tasted except for maybe two far-flung exceptions. The porcini are perfect, the company is good and the space is flawless. I have a good night and a new career: I am a dishwashing consultant. Thank you Nostrana.