Manners Cost Nothing

IT'S NOT ENOUGH to note that good service is important. Of course good service is important. No one wants to be treated like garbage before, during or after paying for a meal. A meal that, at least in the mid-range, could be approximated at home with enough elbow grease, a substantial cookbook and much attention to detail-at a steep discount, and with your own choice of music rounding out the scene.

But much like surviving heartache or appreciating a cute baby or complimenting a tattoo, one can appreciate the best in show only after seeing the worst.

This, in my mind as the waiter at Chimichurri Grill offered us a sample of the unknown Luigi Bosca viognier, a white from Argentina. It was light and crispy, not unlike a slight pinot grigio, and quite delicious, so we ordered a bottle. He pulled the cork and poured the conventional taste into my glass. I declined, and instead indicated that he should simply pour out the first glasses. And then: He poured my date's glass first. This is how it should be done, of course, but as of late I've been given the first glass on too many occasions. Or, worse: The waiter has reached across the table to pour the group. Or, less worse: The waiter has poured from my left side.

Shoddy service is fine for a cheap place in the East Village, but not when-

Actually, no, it's not fine. Manners cost nothing. Just as it's proper to set the knife on the right (and facing inward), even the cheapest bottle should be poured properly. Because again, that meal could be served at home, with three bottles uncorked by my amateur hand for the price of one served professionally.

More than offering pitch-perfect service, the waitstaff at the Argentine Chimichurri made the night by the manner of their presence. My girl and I will soon travel to Guatemala for a couple weeks, so we've been practicing our Spanish-me, trying to unlock a buried vocabulary, she, sharpening her conversation skills. Our waiter was even a good sport as we stumbled through the appetizer and entree orders.

His good nature brought to mind a cruise I took with my in-laws, years ago, back when I still had in-laws. The trip to Alaska was meant to serve as the honeymoon we never had; that they would accompany us was the price paid to the devil for services rendered. They treated, you see.

On a seven-day cruise of this type, where stale suburban money is blown before it can be left to greedy children, guests are expected to dress for dinner: casually on two nights, semi-formally two nights, formally two nights. Seating is also assigned. This, meant to help passengers get to know each other by way of consistent dining companions. (It may be the same on all cruises; I've only taken one.)

Similarly, barring complaint, the waitstaff would be the same each night. Our headwaiter hailed from Central America (Guatemala, perhaps), and there's no denying he was friendly and well-trained. Like the Bedouin tour guide who took me and five other travelers on a trip into the Moroccan desert, our waiter had a well-rehearsed act designed to appeal to tourists. Only in this case, the routine was offering impeccable table service for older white folks. He answered questions and took orders without missing a beat. He replaced dropped forks before they'd even hit the carpet. He smiled and remembered our names and did everything short of holding out his hand.

My in-laws were convinced that only a "certain kind of person" could provide such fantastic service. They believed that Paco, or whatever his name was, genuinely enjoyed serving people. He wanted to be there. He was fulfilling a destiny by explaining how the grilled salmon was prepared and getting medium-medium-rare just right. Hell, they were doing him a favor by playing the role of master to his servant.

Not interested in controversy during my "honeymoon," I let it slide. Paco probably didn't spit in our food, but he sure as shit wasn't the "certain kind of person" who's built for food service. He was a hard-working man with a wife and kids back home; he spent half the year living in a ship's bowels, tiptoeing around a stringent dress and behavior code, kissing the asses of diners whose idea of a sophisticated meal was the early-bird special at the local Sizzler. The man was there for the money, just as we're all, at some level, working our jobs for the money.

So then. How to distinguish this cordial but clearly commercial relationship from my experience at Chimichurri, where I was convinced that the waiter enjoyed our company, even when we mangled his native tongue to his face for no good reason?

I can't. All I can hope is that we were good customers. I hope it was clear we appreciated his efforts to offer a worthwhile meal, well-presented and not spit upon.

Our meat entrees were, really, fantastic. My date's filet mignon was tall and narrow, served with a cabrales cheese sauce and polenta french fries. My 14-ounce steak special was taken off the grill at precisely the right moment, and served à la carte with simple yet delicious mashed potatoes. We shared an appetizer of grilled asparagus and swapped halves of each of the day's empanada-one with Swiss chard and manchego cheese, the other beef.

The viognier was a good choice. Just as "beer before liquor, never sicker" eventually proves itself to be a useless juvenile convention, forget the "red with meat, white with chicken and fish" rule of thumb. It was a thick and sticky evening. We were prepared to burden our digestions with a pound and a half of beef between us, but red would've sedated us beyond use. Hence, the viognier.

I can't say for sure that had the restaurant been crowded, our service would have been as wonderful. But why second-guess? We were two of six patrons at 10 o'clock on a Monday night, so we didn't have the place to ourselves. But you wouldn't know it from the waitstaff. Attentive and available, they made the c-note drop on two steaks, asparagus, empanadas and wine a pleasure.

Back on that cruise ship, the cabin literature kindly provided a gratuity guideline. We were politely asked to leave so much for the chambermaid, so much for the chambermaid's pit boss; so much for the sommelier, so much for the host; and, of course, so much for waitstaff. Everyone got a piece of us, with several mid-managers benefiting from a largesse based more on guilt than gratitude. As for our waiter from Guatemala, we put quite a bit extra aside for him. The poor guy, really, worked for his tip. o