Perspectives
Danny and I are manning the breakfast buffet at the resort on Christmas morning. The vibe in the lodge, an aging, rustic building with threadbare carpets and worn but comfortable chairs, has changed markedly. The easy-going, casual atmosphere created by dedicated skiers has become more serious with the arrival of people from America’s largest cities. Busy, fast-paced places like New York, Chicago, and L.A. In the New York Times Magazine or Sunset they see holiday advertisements for a small lodge with “old world charm nestled in the mountains of Utah only minutes from the airport.” Hooked by the proximity to the airport, they arrive with absolutely no idea of how rustic the place is. There’s no shopping, apart from the small store downstairs selling toothbrushes and emergency ski gear. The nearest fine dining is two hours away, by plane, in Boise. There’s zero entertainment, unless you can appreciate the theatrical value of an employee passing out in the sauna.
When a woman approaches the far end of the buffet line Danny looks at me and says, “Waddya think? New York or LA?” Danny, a middle-aged guy who heads the maintenance crew, is not particularly good at playing well with others. He’s especially disdainful of people whom he deems unreasonably needy.
I glance at the woman and turn back to Danny, who’s scraping at a tray of eggs as if he’s removing old insulation from a boiler.
“I don’t know,” I say. “The hair’s definitely LA but the coat looks awfully New York.” We both look at the woman, who’s eying a platter of rolls with suspicion. Her brown hair is fatally bleached and wafting from her head like disturbed spider webbing. A form-fitting coat with a thick, furry collar completes the scene. It suggests that a photo is imminent.
The woman reaches down, grabs a plate, and goes stiff. She looks over at us with surprise, her lips tightening under a taut face. She sighs and says, “These plates are cold.”
Danny and I exchange knowing glances.
The woman looks down at the plate and says, “There’s nothing worse than hot food on a cold plate.”
I scoot down the buffet and grab a plate, promising to heat it up in the kitchen and return quickly. I head back down the line toward Danny, who’s jabbing at a tray of greasy sausages. He jams the spatula a bit too hard, loosening a link and sending it over the edge of the tray onto the worn carpet. As I approach he looks at me and says, “Nothing worse? How about biting down on a file and having someone rip all your teeth out? I think that would definitely be worse.”
Christmas is a strange time in this casual alpine setting. A high-maintenance culture arrives, expecting the snap-to-it service common back home, but encounters a nonchalant tribe that is rarely in a hurry. That is, unless they’re heading out to the slopes after a big storm. It takes a while for guests to get used to the bohemian setting and its foreign pace. Arriving wound-up, they usually manage to slow down and relax, just in time to catch a flight home.
I lope into the kitchen and plop the plate into the microwave, setting the dial for two minutes to make sure it’s evenly heated, an aspect of plate warming etiquette that I suspect will matter. I power-down a quick cup of coffee, grab the plate, and return to the buffet line.
The woman has navigated her way through the culinary hazards lining our backwoods buffet and is now even with Danny. She’s in the process of quizzing him on the quiche when I arrive and hand her the plate, using a neatly folded napkin. She grabs the plate without comment and continues her inquiry: Are there egg yolks in the batter? Has the cook added salt?
Danny’s no fool. He has no idea what’s in the quiche, but he answers each question in the negative. He knows that no one asks if an ingredient is in food if they want that ingredient to be present. In an act of brotherhood and pain-sharing, I back up his responses.
The woman grudgingly accepts a quiche on her warm plate. She grabs her second plate, a freezing one filled with fruit, and heads to a table. As the woman walks away toward her table, Danny looks at me and says, “She has such beautiful blonde hair. I wonder why she dies the roots brown.”
Despite the fact that alcohol consumption seems to be on the rise, the wait staff is managing to hold on. Everyone is longing for the non-holiday days, when complaints about the level of service are negligible. The few needy people tend to be gracious, thanking everyone for special accommodations. Like the guy a few weeks ago who always insisted on having a table facing the door. Over beers in the bar, which he purchased for the crew, he revealed that at one time he had a contract on his life. The hit had been called off, but he wasn’t taking any chances. No one could blame him. He became one of our favorite guests.
The Coffee Guy walks into the restaurant in a bright neon, one-piece ski suit. He looks distracted. Despite his presence at one of the finest ski areas in the West, he doesn’t seem all that happy. All the servers know this guy, having endured his legendary mistrust. With each coffee refill the guy looks up at his waiter and says, “Are you sure this is decaf?” This usually follows a three-course meal infused with three episodes of serious questioning. When floor assignments are made for dinner, the staff prays to avoid his table. One waiter even paid another to avoid a repeat encounter with The Coffee Guy. Protection money of sorts.
When The Coffee Guy walks up to the buffet line Danny looks at me and says, “Jesus, I don’t need this right now.”
I tempted to extract some concession or money, but Danny took the heat on the last one. I look up at him and say, “Hey, why don’t you take a break. It’s slow and I can handle this no problem.”
Danny’s eyes go wide. He looks down at me, smiles hesitantly as if I’m screwing with him, and says, “Are you serious?”
I nod and say, “Yup.”
A good ski bum never leaves a comrade writhing on the holiday battlefield.
Danny glances at the guest and says, “You’re a god. I just don’t get wealthy people. So damn needy.”
Danny darts away just as The Coffee Guy shuffles up to end of the buffet. He’s holding a cold plate with a pile of steaming eggs. He stops in front of the two urns, which are marked “regular” and “decaf” by book-sized placards.
The Coffee Guy looks over at me, points to an urn, and says, “Are you sure this is decaf?”
From the edge of the kitchen I hear Danny laughing in disbelief.