No we didn't get a taste; indeed how we ended up there at all last night was a big misunderstanding between our mouth and our stomach. Between a couple events around the neighborhood we developed a craving for the sticky sweet baked roast pork buns at Mei Li Wah. Only when we found a bench a few blocks later did we realize our "baked buns" translated as "big buns" and those even - and eaten best - with closed eyes were not the same thing. Our appetite refused to settle for anything but the savory-sweet and where else to sate that in SoHo but Tailor?
As is everyone's custom, we headed down to the bar for dinner and between the foie gras and the gummi bears we started to wonder who was sitting beside us. He had the look, build and weariness of a great chef, was modest yet commanding, and it seemed nothing could sate his hearty appetite while plate after plate of gratis massive dishes arrived, family style portions for he and his friend washed down by bottle after bottle of Stella. Then there was the bread, bread that looked as tempting to us as it must have tasted to him because he took home a loaf. We didn't even know Tailor served bread! Who was this man talking trade with such humor that the fawning was unnecessary? Forget getting service like him, how do we become him?The answer? By becoming a plumber.Apparently plumbing was an issue since before they opened. (And even afterward.) And this is the man who does more for your disposition at night's end than any digestif behind the bar. So forget being a cook, critic or groupie, consider there's a union, insurance, a better salary than any restaurant worker and the job security that comes from knowing as long as people are eating they'll need a certain comfort no kitchen can provide. (Click here to get started.) There's an expression about plumbers, "do your job right and nobody will notice, but when you fuck it up, everything gets full of shit."Don't believe it for a second, restaurants notice; and if you can take their shit, you'll eat anything but.
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