Edit: sorry gentlemen, I meant to post this is M4F! Couldn't figure out how to edit the title. No hard feelings, hmm? ;)

We're behind.

It's 8:30 on a Saturday night, and few things are going right. The seafood delivery was late, the wait list is full, customers have been particularly demanding, and Alan, my sous, cut his hand and probably needs stitches. Jose and Kate are busting ass to pick up the slack, but we're still hard pressed. The rail is full. I'm running head and yelling more than usual.

There are seven plates on three tickets dying on the pass.

What the fuck? I hit the bell again and yell "PICK UP" in a particularly nasty tone, vaguely hoping to put the fear of god in Chuck. He runs front of house, and customers absolutely adore him, but he has no sense of urgency.

He pops through the door. "Boss, trouble at table four, he needs to speak to you." He rolls his eyes dramatically and heads to the pass.

I give him a look that would strip paint at thirty feet as he picks up an order and backs out the door, giving me a friendly wink. Thank god he's thick skinned and good natured.

The problem with nice restaurants is that you have to be nice. People don't pay $55 for a rare cut of veal. They pay a premium for the service, and if they don't think they're getting it ... well, it's a sure bet everyone will hear about it on Yelp.

I take a deep breath, wipe my brow, practice a quick smile, and step out front.

I spend the next three and a half minutes swallowing my pride while a guy drinking ice water attempts to explain that he and his date are on a keto diet and "not really seeing anything" he can eat on the menu. I'm not in the mood to accommodate, so I offer him a bottle of the house red (keto that, buddy) for his trouble and pleasantly recommend a spot down the street that might better serve his tastes. Yes, I'm good friends with the owner. Yes, of course you should say I sent you over. No no, you're welcome, it's my pleasure, sir.

I want that table cleared for someone who's actually going to enjoy the food and pay for some drinks. I grind my teeth and get back to it.

I'm walking past the bar when someone touches my elbow unexpectedly. I turn, surprised, and see .. you.

Sitting at the end of the bar, alone, with half a glass of white wine and an empty plate in front of you. In the midst of the evening's chaos, its wonderful to see someone who looks relaxed and happy.

"Excuse me ma'am." A genuine smile spreads on my face. "Let me take care of that for you," I say, clearing your plate and silverware.

"Are you the chef?"

"Yes," I nod. "And owner."

"I just wanted to say thank you, that was really wonderful."

I give you a tiny bow, and grin, my eyes sparkling. "Thank you. It's my pleasure!"

There's nothing like a compliment from a beautiful woman to take edge off a rough night.

Back in the kitchen I assess the situation. The pass is clear and the line looks good. Chuck pops in with a new ticket, and I pull him aside.

"Bar twelve -- tiramisu, and if she wants to stick around until after the push, a glass of the Manincor '11 Bianco with my compliments."

Chuck smiles, and steps out to deliver my offer.