Air Fryer Bacon? Yes! (But With Conditions)

Bacon is the Duct Tape of the Kitchen

A couple of weeks ago, a fellow bacon-loving friend and I were discussing our favorite porcine ambrosia and she asked if it were possible to cook bacon in an air fryer. My immediate response was an emphatic “no.” I said this based on what I had previously read about numerous air fryer drawbacks, one of which is that foods with high fat content do not do well in an air fryer.

According to various manufacturer's troubleshooting guides, cooking high fat foods can result in white smoke emanating from your appliance. This is because fat splatters around in the enclosed environment and gets on the heating element. I had even heard rumors about air fryers catching fire due to high fat content cooking. And since bacon is definitely a high fat food, I just said no, don't do it.

But then I got to thinking. I've never actually tried it myself, so maybe I was being a bit hasty. I Googled the subject and was rather surprised to find scads of recipes for perfect air fryer bacon. Hmmmm. Could I be missing something?

Now, to be sure, not everybody had a wonderful experience with bacon in the air fryer. One correspondent even entitled her piece, “Why You Should NEVER Cook Bacon in Your Air Fryer.” She went on to detail the nightmare scenario of thick white smoke billowing from her fryer and of pools of piping-hot bacon grease and ultimately ruined bacon.

And hers was not the only negative I found. The folks in Food Network's test kitchen, for instance, weren't sold on the process either for basically the same reasons: lots of grease and lots of smoke.

But still, there were more positive than negative responses, so I thought I'd give it a try.

Following the most common directions, I laid a couple of slices of bacon in the basket of my air fryer, set the temperature to 400 degrees and the timer to ten minutes. And I started it up. I took a peek in the basket at about the halfway mark and everything was going well. Lo and behold, in ten minutes, I had two slices of crispy, moist, tender, perfectly cooked bacon. My mind was officially blown!

I'm a traditionalist, okay? You cook bacon the way I learned to do it at my mother's knee some fifty-eight years ago. We had a griddle plate in the center of our gas stove and that's how you cooked bacon. You slapped it on there and turned on the heat. You stood over it with a turner and flipped it a couple of times, and when it was done, you drained it on paper towels and served it up. If you didn't have a griddle, a skillet would do. Yeah, it was gonna splatter and be a little messy to clean up, but that was the nature of the beast. It's just what you did.

Later, when I started doing volume restaurant-type cooking, I learned about the advantages of cooking big batches of bacon on a tray in the oven. I still prefer pan or griddle frying, but I'm not averse to baking my bacon when necessary.

One method I only use when there is simply no choice – or when I don't especially care about taste or texture – is the microwave. I'm sorry, the only thing rigor mortis bacon is good for is crumbling into bits for salads or baked potatoes or something. It is otherwise generally unfit for consumption.

But when you think about it, an “air fryer” is not really a “fryer” at all; it's a mini convection oven. It works by circulating hot air around the food being cooked. Not a lot different than my big wall-mounted convection oven, except it sits on my counter.

A couple of caveats, though, some things to be aware of. Many of the bad experiences I read about involved people trying to make a lot of bacon at one time. They were basically covering the basket of their fryer with bacon. Bad idea. That will definitely produce a lot of smoky grease. If you're going to use your air fryer for bacon, you aren't going to feed a large family. Two or three slices at a time will work. Anything more will likely lead to the smoky, greasy nightmares I cited earlier.

Time and temperature are also factors. My experiment/experience worked well with ten minutes at four hundred. Your results may vary.

One of the variants involves the bacon itself. I don't buy cheap supermarket bacon. There's lots of fat in that stuff and even more water. Supermarket bacon is brine cured: they inject it with water. So when you start to cook it, all that water has got to go somewhere and that somewhere is into your pan where it mixes with the hot fat rendering from the meat and turns it all into a spattering, smoky mess.

Dry cured bacon, like that produced by bacon-whisperer Allan Benton at his Madisonville, Tennessee smokehouse, is much less likely to spatter and smoke because there's no added water in it to negatively interact with the hot fat during cooking. That's true whether you're cooking it on a griddle, in a pan, in the oven, or in an air fryer.

Unfortunately (sigh) I don't always have Benton's bacon on hand. Sometimes I have to go with the product I get from my local butcher or from my restaurant supply house. It's not Benton's but it is several cuts above the thin, watery, fatty stuff you buy in the grocery store. And I almost always opt for thicker slices. On average, a good thick-sliced bacon (1/8 inch) will yield ten to twelve slices per pound. The higher-end grocery store bacon runs sixteen to eighteen slices per pound and the really cheap, paper thin, “bargain” stuff can contain as many as thirty slices in a pound.

So, obviously, if you cook six slices of cheap bacon in your air fryer at four hundred degrees for ten minutes.........you're not going to like the results. The solution, of course, is to buy higher quality bacon, use less of it, and experiment a bit with the cooking time and temperature. Depending on your machine and your product, you might have to go with three-fifty or three-seventy-five. And maybe it will take twelve minutes. Or if your bacon is thinner, maybe as little as eight. You just have to play with it until you get the results you want. The beauty part is that once you do that, you're set forever. Use the same settings and more or less the same product every time and you'll always get the same perfect results.

Are you gonna get some smoke? Yeah, probably. I did at first. In fact, after a couple of minutes my kitchen smoke detector started squalling at me. “Ooops! Dummy! You forgot to turn on the fan.” Once I flipped the switch on the hood, no more smoke and no more squealing detector.

Cleanup was easy. Because I don't use cheap, fatty bacon, there was very little grease collected in the pan of my air fryer. Maybe a couple of tablespoons. I let it cool and solidify and wiped it out with a paper towel. Same for the bottom of the basket. Then it was a touch of Dawn dish liquid and some hot water in the sink and the whole shebang was clean in about two minutes.

So bottom line: yes, you can cook bacon in your air fryer. Experiment a little to see what settings work best with your machine, don't overcrowd the basket with too much bacon, and always use good bacon to begin with. That much is true no matter how you cook it.

And remember two things, both of which I have inscribed in my kitchen: “bacon is the duct tape of the kitchen” and “either you like bacon or you're wrong.”

Remembering Charlie Daniels

A Truly Nice Man

I was shocked to my soul a few minutes ago by the news of the sudden passing of an old friend, the incomparable Charlie Daniels.

I use the term “friend” somewhat advisedly because I don't want to give the impression that we were lifelong buddies or anything. As an entertainer and a broadcaster, my relationship with Charlie was mostly professional. Mostly. But Charlie was the kind of person who could make even a professional association feel like a true friendship. He was open, honest, generous, friendly, and, above all, real. In the opening line to one of his many hits he says, “I ain't nothin' but a simple man.” Yes and no.

Charles Edward Daniels was born in Wilmington, North Carolina in 1936. Already skilled on guitar, banjo, mandolin, and fiddle by the time he graduated from high school in 1955, Charlie formed a rock 'n' roll band and took to the road, where he spent the rest of his life. He moved to Nashville in the '60s, married “Miss Hazel” in 1964, and worked as a session musician for just about everybody. His first major hit was the quirky “Uneasy Rider,” released in 1973, but it was 1979's “The Devil Went Down To Georgia” that really hung his star in the country music firmament. The tune reached number three on the Billboard Hot 100 that year and achieved even greater success the following year after being featured in John Travolta's hit movie, “Urban Cowboy.” From there Charlie never looked back as he charted one Top Ten hit after another, eventually joining the membership of the Grand Ole Opry in 2008 and being inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2016.

I first saw Charlie perform with his eponymous “Charlie Daniels Band” sometime in the early 1980s when he was the opening act for the then-mega star group, Alabama. While I was quite impressed by the show Randy Owen, Teddy Gentry, Jeff Cook, and Mark Herndon put on for an enthusiastic audience, I was completely floored by Charlie Daniels. I was immediately struck by one thing: energy. After watching Charlie perform and then seeing Alabama take the stage, I came away marveling at Charlie's ability to command the whole stage from within about a two-foot circle. Randy and company spent nearly two hours running from one end of the stage to the other. They jumped and clapped and raced around and used every inch of space available to them. Charlie, on the other hand, barely moved from his center stage spot. He danced in place a little and he twirled around a bit. His fingers flew and his bow arm moved like a churning piston until the rosin-coated horsehair of that bow began to fray and fly. But I don't think he moved more than a few inches off the mark during his entire set. And yet he absolutely electrified the audience. For all Randy's athletic antics, Charlie outperformed him practically standing still. His understated energy and innate showmanship flat blew Alabama off the stage. Sure, I had seen the big movie and I had heard Charlie's songs on the radio, but after one look live and in person, I was a Charlie Daniels fan for life.

It wasn't long after that I got to meet Charlie in person. I interviewed him for my radio show and after about five minutes, I felt like I had known him for years. The interview quickly turned into a conversation and the conversation became one of many more that Charlie and I would have over the course of the next twenty years. Most often, we would meet at various venues where he was performing. He was easily one of the most accessible “stars” with whom I ever worked. One call to his longtime publicist and right-hand, Paula Szeigis, and I was backstage with Charlie wherever he was.

Knowing that I was in Nashville on business one time, he invited me to visit him at his home and office in Mount Juliet. As if you couldn't tell by the huge hat he always wore, Charlie was a big-time Western and cowboy fan. In fact, he was close friends with one of the all-time great Western writers, Louis L'Amour, who dedicated his 1985 book, “Jubal Sackett;” “To Hazel and Charlie Daniels – His fiddle-playing would bring the Sacketts right down from the hills.” Charlie, in turn, titled one of his albums “High Lonesome” after a L'Amour book of the same name. So it was no surprise that Charlie's log-cabin office was a Western shrine/museum filled with amazing art and artifacts. Unfortunately, schedules and circumstances prevented me from going over to his house, but after a brief tour of the office facility, Paula showed me in to Charlie's personal office. The big man stood to shake hands and all I could say was, “Darn, Charlie. Never mind the house. Just let me live in your office.”

Charlie was performing at a state fair somewhere. I had watched the show from the sidelines and had headed back afterward to meet him at his dressing room trailer. When I got there, there were a couple of people standing at the door; a young boy and his mother. Apparently, the boy had a chronic ailment of some kind that severely limited many of his activities. But he was a huge Charlie Daniels fan and had somehow been afforded the opportunity to meet his idol on this occasion. Charlie came out to meet the boy and his mom and I could tell he was pretty much all in. He had performed outdoors in unrelenting heat with his usual high wattage and he was still red-faced and perspiring when he opened the trailer door to his young fan. But you never would have known he was the least bit fatigued as he chatted with the boy and then stepped back inside for a moment, returning with the tattered and frayed bow with which he had hammered through the show. As Charlie handed him this treasure, the boy started to cry and I wasn't far behind. Such a generous man.

One of my favorite memories of Charlie is one I share with my wife. Early in our relationship, I discovered that she was a big fan of his. I was skimming the newspapers at my desk doing some show prep one day when I saw a notice that Charlie was appearing in town the following night. I made a quick call to Paula and got set up to meet him backstage. I didn't tell my wife who we were going to see; I just said we were going out to a local club. She badgered me all the way there, but I kept up the premise as best I could until we arrived and there was a big banner shouting “Welcome Charlie Daniels” over the door. I think I made a few brownie points as we breezed past the long, long line that stretched deep into the parking lot and picked up our all-access passes at the box office. Then we headed backstage, her feet barely touching the floor, and waited for Charlie to appear. The bus had just pulled in and, of course, my other favorite member of Charlie's entourage, Joel “Taz” DiGregorio, was the first person off. He saw me and approached with his customary warm greeting and then shook hands with my still slightly shocked wife. Charlie got mobbed as soon as he stepped off the bus, so I waited until the crowd dissipated a bit before taking her over to meet him. He was seated behind a table, but he took her hand and pulled her down onto his lap by way of greeting. I will never forget the look on her face. It's actually pretty easy to remember because I have a great picture of it. I kidded her for weeks about not washing either her hand or her butt after that experience. When the band assembled onstage to begin the show, I escorted my fangirl wife to the stage left wing, pulled up an empty equipment crate, and said, “There you go, honey. A box seat.”

We hung out with Charlie and the band at fairs and festivals and concert halls many times over the ensuing years and every occasion was just as special as the first and the last thanks to the warm, welcoming presence of the head man, who, for all his bewhiskered long-haired country boy looks and attitude, was a big teddy bear.

I was distressed when I heard that Taz was killed in a car accident a few years ago while on his way to a gig. But the news today is far worse. Charlie had his share of health issues. He almost lost an arm when an auger caught his shirtsleeve back in 1980. A brush with prostate cancer, a case of pneumonia, and the implanting of a pacemaker didn't slow him down much. He even survived a mild stroke about ten years ago. But this one got him. A hemorrhagic stroke at age 83 has forever silenced that phenomenal musical talent and has taken from among us something that we can scarce afford to lose in these trying days: a truly nice man.

Goodbye, Charlie. I hope you and Taz have a great time regaling the angels with the story of how “The Devil Went Down To Georgia.”

Restaurant Review: Tartini Pizzeria & Spaghetteria, Orlando (Pine Castle), Florida

I Ran Out Of Italian Adjectives

This will be a brief review by my usual standards because my COVID-19-influenced visit to Tartini Pizzeria & Spaghetteria was unfortunately brief. I hope to go back some day and rectify that.

In Orlando for business and tired of cooking for days in our well-appointed hotel suite, COVID be damned, we just HAD to find a good Italian place on our last night in town. Previous stops in “The City Beautiful” have taken us to Mama Della's Ristorante in the Loews Portofino Bay Hotel. Alas, “Mama” had been forced by the virus into temporary closure, so we went on the hunt for someplace else where we could get some good Italian food. And, my oh my, did Tartini Pizzeria & Spaghetteria ever fill the bill!

Touted on Google as a “polished yet casual stop for pasta & wood-fired pizzas, with a modern decor including leather seats,” Tartini is all that and much more.

We dropped by early in order to avoid any potential crowds. In that we were successful, being the only couple in the place at five o'clock on a Friday afternoon. A few others filtered in while we were there but social distancing wasn't a problem. Well, there was a slight problem: our cameriere was a terrific guy, very friendly and enthusiastic. I knew he was smiling under his required face mask because his eyes were smiling. But he had to stand so far away. Between my slight hearing difficulty and the recorded music that, though perfect for the atmosphere, may have been a trifle too loud, and the fact that he was talking through a mask, communication was not all it could have been. I, too, was wearing a mask, of course, and the combination of English and Italian we were exchanging was challenging at the least. Not his fault. Mask and distance impaired communication aside, the service was impeccable.

And the food was divino! Mio dio, after buonissimo, delizioso, meraviglioso, il migliore, and several other words of praise, I simply ran out of Italian adjectives.

Let's start with the antipasto. They had the usual mozzarella sticks, caprese, calamari and such. They even offered Italian nachos. But I'm a sucker for good garlic knots and the five decadent twists of garlicky, cheesy, olive oily warm, wood-fired bread that we were served moved my long-time favorite knots at Best Italian in Gatlinburg, Tennessee into second place. These were – as I employed my first adjective of the evening – spettacolare! Ah, but the wicked little morsels were but a harbinger of things to come.

I was torn between pasta and pizza. This was also a “spaghetteria,” after all. But ultimately, my wife's suggestion that I would never forgive myself for not sampling the wood-fired pizza won out and I ordered a simple cheese pizza. They had lots of fancier ones on the menu, including the San Danielle made of pomodoro sauce, mozzarella, prosciutto, arugula, and shaved Parmesan. That looked good. So did the house specialty Tartini pizza that added salami, sopressata, and Italian sausage to the pomodoro sauce and mozzarella. But I've always found that a restaurant can best be judged by how they prepare simple classics, so I had a simple, classic cheese pizza. The. Crust. Was. To. DIE. For! I'm writing this days after and I'm still dying for more of it. Easily one of the best pizze I have ever had.

And she who convinced me to try the pizza had absolutely no complaints about her choice of pasta. She chose the Pasta Mare E' Terra, a rich combination of penne pasta in a lobster cream sauce with sauteed beef, shrimp, zucchini, and spinach. It was a toss up between that and the restaurant's signature dish, Pasta alla Ruota; their “show-stopping” spaghetti, flamed with Hennessy brandy and tossed in a wheel of cheese. Next time. Definitely next time.

We both went into the place with the intention of having no leftovers since we had a long road trip facing us the next day. Yeah. Right. So much for intentions. This is an Italian-American restaurant, you know? So when our friendly cameriere came by to check on us, I first told him, “Mi hai rovinato! (You have ruined me!)” Then I instructed him to carefully and lovingly package every last droplet and crumb of the cibo straordinario as if it had to travel five-hundred miles, because it did. There was no way I was leaving a bit of anything behind. We had coolers. We were good. The leftovers would be perfect for dinner when we got home the next night, and they certainly were.

Dessert? Uffa! Che pazzo! But the choices were tempting. Cannoli, tiramisu, gelato, zeppole, Nutella cheesecake........but my resolve was strong. And my stomach was full.

Tartini has a nice wine list and they feature Peroni on tap as well as the usual choices of soft drinks, tea, coffee (American and Italian) and Aqua Panna and San Pellegrino waters.

In addition to being delicious, everything was very reasonably priced. Even the signature Pasta alla Ruota clocked in at less than twenty-five bucks.

One slight critique is offered only to satisfy the pedantic pedagogue in me: spelling on both the printed menu and the website is absolutely horrendous. I would let it slide if it was written by an Italian struggling with English, but even some of the Italian words are misspelled. Oh well. Chalk it up to part of the charm of a small, local place.

You can find Tartini Pizzeria & Spaghetteria at 6321 S. Orange Ave, #101 in Pine Castle (suburban Orlando) Florida. There's adequate parking and limited outdoor seating. Reservations are accepted but not required. Dress is casual. A kids' menu is available. As of this writing, open for dine-in, takeout, and delivery from 11 am until 10 pm Monday through Saturday and from noon until 9 pm on Sunday. Phone (407) 704-8011 or log on to http://www.tartinirestaurant.com. And bear in mind that COVID may force changes to hours and/or services.

Move over, Mama Della. I've got a new favorite Italian restaurant in Orlando.

Do You REALLY Know How To Wash Your Hands?

More Important Now Than Ever

The original idea for this post was to discuss the importance of handwashing in relation to food safety. And while handwashing is still essential for food safety, in these days of viral pandemic it is even more important than ever to wash your hands frequently and well. That said, you'd be surprised at how many people don't really know how to wash their hands.

Studies from 2019 show that only about five percent of people wash their hands correctly. Most people only wash for around six seconds and thirty-three percent don't use soap. Only twenty percent wash their hands before preparing food and just thirty-nine percent wash up before eating. The same percentage don't wash their hands after sneezing, coughing, or blowing their noses, and men lead women in the “not washing after using the bathroom” category by a rate of fifteen percent to seven percent.

Now I'm pretty sure some of these stats have changed as the pandemic broadens, deepens, and raises awareness. I know from personal observation that there are a lot more men heading for the sinks in public restrooms than there used to be, but how many of them are doing any better at washing than they usually do?

I learned proper hand washing technique some forty years ago when I was in nursing school. Oh sure, my mama taught me how to wash my hands many years before that, and likely yours did, too. But my nursing instructor taught me how to wash my hands like my life depended on it – because it did. And the lives of my patients as well. My brief days as an ER nurse are now long, long behind me but the skill I learned back then is still with me.

So what's so hard about washing your hands, right? Anybody can do it. You turn the water on, hold your hands under there for a few seconds, maybe rub them together a little bit with some soap if you've got any, then shake them off, dry them on your pants, and you're done, right? Easy-peasy!And you only have to do that if they are really dirty, like after you've been into something nasty, you know? After all, as long as you can't see any dirt, they must be clean, right? And if you've got hand sanitizer around, well, you don't need to wash them at all. Squirt, squirt, rub, rub and tah-dah, clean, safe, sanitary hands.

In a word: no.

There was a time when hand washing wasn't a thing at all. Doctors didn't even do it. In fact, when Hungarian Dr. Ignaz Semmelweis, an early pioneer of antiseptic theory, mandated hand washing among students and doctors at the Vienna General Hospital in 1847 and later took to the stage to present the practice to the Vienna Medical Society, he was roundly ridiculed by the medical community, who faulted his science, his logic, and probably his sanity. His ideas about “cadaverous particles” and “decomposing organic animal matter” earned him professional scorn Despite compelling evidence that hand washing reduced mortality rates, the Vienna Hospital eventually discontinued mandatory hand washing and Semmelweis struggled with gaining acceptance for his theories until the day he died, possibly from an infected wound on his hand.

A few years later, Scottish surgeon Joseph Lister had a little better luck promoting hand washing in the medical community and soon after, Louis Pasteur's groundbreaking development of germ theory – much of it based on Semmelweis' work – forever changed the medical landscape. Even so, it took nearly another hundred years before hand hygiene was officially incorporated into American health care with the institution in the 1980s of the first codified national hand hygiene guidelines.

The importance of clean hands when handling food is something of which we are all aware nowadays. Besides having your mother drill it into your thick little head, there are signs posted in every restaurant rest room in the country assuring us that employees are required to wash their hands after “visiting” the rest room. (I love that term: “visiting.” Sounds so warm and inviting, doesn't it? Like you go in there to socialize and maybe have a spot of tea.) And you find yourself just hoping they all adhere to the requirement. Foodborne illnesses are no fun and lots and lots of them are caused by improper (or non-existent) handwashing. (Salmonella is a particular favorite, along with Norovirus, Clostridium perfringens, Campylobacter and the always popular Staphylococcus aureus.)

But these days we are all being hammered by the specter of a more potentially deadly threat: COVID-19. And proper handwashing is promoted as one of the key elements in controlling the spread of the virus that causes the disease.

I don't care who you are and how disciplined you think you may be, you're gonna touch your face. A recent study published in the American Journal of Infection Control says people touch their faces more than twenty times an hour on average. About forty-four percent of that time, the touching involves contact with the eyes, the nose, and/or the mouth. All three of those areas are made up of mucous membranes that act as direct pathways to your throat and your lungs. And that's why the CDC, the WHO, your doctor, and your mama all tell you to wash your hands.

Most soap and water handwashing doesn't actually kill germs; it removes them. “But what about the antibacterial soap I use,” you ask. “Doesn't that kill germs?” Meh. The FDA says there is no real scientific proof that using soap labeled as “antibacterial” is any better at preventing illness than using good ol' ordinary soap and water. Truth be told, all soap is technically antibacterial. And because many of the germs you're worried about – including the novel coronavirus – are viruses rather than bacteria, “antibacterial” soaps are even more superfluous.

Handwashing comes in different flavors, the most intense of which is surgical hand hygiene. This is what you see the doctors on TV doing when it's time to “scrub up.” Employing water, scrub brushes, and heavy duty antimicrobials like CHG (chlorhexidine gluconate), iodophor, or PCMX (parachlorometaxylenol) and utilizing specific scrubbing techniques, this level of fingertip-to-elbow cleansing isn't practical or necessary for everyday hygiene.

What is practical and necessary is social or routine hand washing. This is what you want to do to remove dirt, organic matter, and most nasty transient organisms. How often you do it depends upon how often you come in contact with said dirt, organic matter, and nasty transient organisms. In these days of hyper-awareness, it's a good idea to be cognizant of how many times you lay your hands or fingers on things like light switches, elevator buttons, ATM keypads, door handles, sink faucets, stairway handrails, etc.; things that scads of other folks have laid their hands or fingers on before you. And you need to adjust your handwashing regime accordingly. Most people come in contact with three hundred or so surfaces every thirty minutes. Think about it with the realization that whenever you touch something somebody else has touched, you are touching everything that person has touched. Then look at the people around you. That alone should make it easier for you to remember to run for the soap and water.

And soap and water is all you need to perform routine handwashing, the caveat being that if you don't do it right you might as well not do it at all. How do you do it right? Glad you asked because that is (finally) the point of this long-winded exercise.

This is the basic technique recommended by the Centers for Disease Control (CDC):

1. Wet your hands in running water and apply soap. Neither the temperature of the water nor the type of soap you use (antibacterial or otherwise) impacts how many microbes are removed.

2. Lather the soap by rubbing your hands together. The friction will increase the number of microbes removed.

3. Scrub for at least 20 seconds, or the approximate amount of time it takes to hum the “Happy Birthday” song twice.

4. Rinse your hands completely in clean, running water.

5. Dry your hands either on a clean towel or by air drying them.

Okay, let's go a little deeper. As the first item says, and contrary to popular belief, you don't need hot water. You can wash your hands in ice water if you want, but hot or at least warm water feels a lot better and it generally improves the lathering ability of most soaps. However, in order for water to be hot enough to have any germicidal properties, it would have to be far too hot for your skin to tolerate. So don't worry about water temperature.

Now, the CDC guidelines say to “lather the soap by rubbing your hands together.” Sorry, but that's way too general an instruction. Look at your hands for a minute and consider all the acreage involved. You've got palms, right? And fingers? Those are the spots that will get nice and squeaky clean if you just rub your hands together. But what about your fingertips and the area in between your fingers? And the backs of your hands? Will you get there or under your fingernails by just “rubbing your hands together?” Not so much.

There's a specific six-step order that people who wash their hands as part of their livelihood are taught. Step one is rubbing palm to palm, at least five strokes. Then you want to rub your right palm over the back of your left hand and then repeat left over right, again about five strokes. Step three goes back to palm to palm, this time with interlaced fingers. Then you want to curl your fingers and rub the backs of them into your opposing palms. Next, make sure your thumbs get in on the act via rotational rubbing of the right thumb clasped in the left palm and vice-versa. Finally, get those fingertips and under the nails by bunching the fingers of one hand together and rubbing them into the palm of the other. At least five strokes for each motion. And while you don't have to scrub up to your elbows like the doctors do, how about giving your wrists a little attention? It sounds like a lot, but believe me, it gets to be second nature after awhile. If you do it right, it times out to about two choruses of “Happy Birthday.” (I know: I just tried it as I was describing it. Which I'm sure made me look like a demented Captain Queeg to anybody who might be watching me type.)

Anyway, rinse your hands thoroughly, making sure you rinse all sides and surfaces, then move on to drying.

Single use disposable paper towels are the best option. Electric hand dryers have long been under scrutiny with numerous studies raising concerns about whether or not they live up to their health hype. The thought that these little tornadoes-in-a-box might actually be blowing leftover germs all over hell and gone is particularly concerning in these days of COVID mania.

Obviously, unless you have a paper towel dispenser mounted in your home bathroom, a cloth towel is what you're going to use there. Try to make it a clean one even if it means doing a little more laundry. In theory, you're wiping your freshly cleaned hands on the towel so how can it get dirty, right? I'll give you half a point on that one, but I'll also invite you to sniff that damp towel after a few uses and see how clean you think it is. Damp surfaces and germs just go hand in hand, no pun intended.

Finally, let's look at the much-hoarded darling of the coronavirus age; alcohol-based hand sanitizer. Hey, as long as you've got hand sanitizer, you don't need all that birthday song rubbing and scrubbing and soap and water and paper towels. A few squirts and a couple of rubs and you're instantly ready to deal with whatever Mother Nature throws at you, right? Not right.

There are limits to how well sanitizers sanitize. Even ones with the recommended sixty percent alcohol content don't remove all types of bacteria and viruses. This is due largely to the fact that while they might nominally disinfect, they don't actually clean your hands. They're okay if you're working in a clinical setting or an office environment where you're not actually getting your hands dirty. But if you're working with tools or equipment or handling food or chemicals or playing sports, etc., hand sanitizers just aren't up to the task. Plus, most of us don't use them the right way to begin with. Hand sanitizer is ineffective if you don't use enough of it or if you wipe it off before it's completely dry. In short, hand sanitizers are better than nothing and okay in a pinch but are not a replacement for soap and water.

Oh, one more thing: I've heard it everywhere these days; “All that handwashing is killing my skin!” Yeah. Kind of an occupational hazard, I guess. But fear not, the American Academy of Dermatology has good news for you; you can use hand cream to hydrate your dry, red hands. They say to apply a pea-sized amount of fragrance-free cream containing mineral oil or petroleum jelly to your skin and work it in well. Only a little is needed. Too much may cause greasy hands and then you're back where you started.

Final final thought: if you don't feel like humming or singing “Happy Birthday” twice, you might try a chorus of Dolly Parton's “Jolene” or Prince's “Raspberry Beret.” Twice through the alphabet song/”Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” works, too, as does a rousing rendition of “God Save the Queen” if you're an anglophile or “My Country 'Tis of Thee” if you're not. Culture Club's “Karma Chameleon” is a good alternative choice or you could try the chorus to “Mambo No. 5” by Lou Bega. Just be aware that you may wind up with the damn thing stuck in your head for the rest of the day. If you want to be an overachiever, try humming the “Jeopardy” theme. It's thirty seconds long but what can it hurt? The famous handwashing chorus to the Bee Gee's “Stayin' Alive” is certainly appropriate these days and definitely a more uplifting choice than the chorus to Don McLean's “American Pie.” I mean, do you really want to be singing “this will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die” while washing up these days?

Which reminds me, the Lord's Prayer is also about twenty seconds long. Hey, it can't hurt.

So They're Banning Plastic Straws and Bags. So What?

Convenience Does Not Equate To Need

Okay. This is just a rant. Pure and simple. Nothing to do with food, cooking, restaurants, entertainment or anything else usually seen in “The View From My Italian Kitchen.” It's not even an Italian rant. It's just one of those “I'm entitled to my opinion.....and so are you” things. So here goes.

What in the hell is wrong with people today? When did we as a society become so wimpy, whiny, and “needy?” I'm talking specifically about the people who “need” their precious plastic straws, plastic bags, and etc. in order to have a complete and fulfilled life and who will weep, wail, whine, and protest every time somebody moves to ban what they consider to be one of their life's essentials.

PUH-LEEEESE! Not a single damn one of these things is anywhere near “essential.” They are, at best, conveniences. But in the world we've constructed for ourselves in the last fifty years or so, comfort and convenience are king and queen and anything that robs us of those things is abhorrent. It's as if the Founders who alluded to “the pursuit of happiness” and ranked in in importance with life and liberty were actually fomenting for the right to the acquisition of unabashed luxury.

I can't help but notice that the vast majority of these whiners are not old geezers like me. If they were, they would, like me, remember a time when the things they claim to “need” didn't even exist and we all got along without them just fine, thank you very much.

First there was the enormous brouhaha that ensued when plastic straws came under fire. OMG, you'd have thought that King Herod, in the guise of Uncle Sam, was going door to door seeking first-born sons! Somehow, when I wasn't looking, plastic straws became not only a convenience but some perverse form of entitlement and a necessity of life. Something without which society would face certain extinction or, at the very least, gross vexation.

Okay, so here comes the old guy doddering in with the inconvenient observation that until I was in my early teens, I had never even seen a plastic straw because they simply didn't exist. They came about as the result of another plastic product; the to-go cup lid. Sometime in the 1950s, when McDonald's, Burger King, et.al. started slapping plastic lids on paper beverage cups, it was noticed that the venerable old paper straw, around since the 1880s, couldn't stand up to the sharp little points that resulted when you pushed one through the perforated “X” in the plastic lid. Those points just shredded the paper and so it was deemed necessary to find an improvement. A few attempts were made in the '50s and early '60s, but it wasn't until around 1970 that plastic straws really took over. Then novelty items like jumbo straws and twisty straws came along around 1980, by which time a new generation had totally forgotten that non-plastic straws ever existed. And so plastic – the new standard – became at first ubiquitous then essential. Plastic production rose from about 1.5 million metric tons in 1950 to a staggering 359 million metric tons in 2018. And now, with the world trying to recover from its plastic pollution hangover, some tiny voices started saying, “why do we need plastic straws? What's wrong with paper or metal or even silicone?” And as those voices grew in number and volume and cutbacks and outright bans on plastic straws began to arise, so, too, did the shrieks and howls of protest from those who were willing to swear that they would literally die without access to plastic straws. Die? Really? I cast back in my memory to the '50s and '60s and tried to recall seeing the streets littered with the dead victims of a lack of plastic straws and I just couldn't seem to recall any. Am I missing something?

Moving on, I was reading an article the other day regarding New York's new ban on single-use plastic bags. And the same shrill protesters are at it again, tenaciously clinging to the position that plastic bags are some kind of Constitutionally guaranteed right without which they cannot survive. “Don't take my bags,” they keen. “I ne-e-e-e-d my bags! How will I shop without them? How will I feed my family?” I'm serious. These are questions that are being asked.

Again we go back in time, and again not very far. The first plastic shopping bags were produced in the late 1960s. Oddly enough, they were lauded at the time as a device by which we could save the planet from potential deforestation at the hands of paper bag manufacturers. Who knew back then that there would quickly come a time when the accursed things would be blowing around our streets like polyethylene tumbleweeds, festooning our trees, languishing by our roadsides, polluting our lakes and streams, and accumulating in great slow-to-degrade heaps in our landfills, piles that will take anywhere from ten to a thousand years to decompose.

The first ever “shopping bag” was made of burlap and was in use as the eighteenth century turned into the nineteenth. By mid-century a machine was invented that would cut, fold, and paste heavy paper into bags. By the turn of the twentieth century – 1912 to be precise – a Minnesota grocer figured out that people who had to carry cumbersome packages bought less stuff in his store. So he developed an inexpensive, easy to use, prefabricated method for carrying a lot of stuff. It was a simple sack made of heavy paper with a cord running through it for extra strength and stability and to provide a handle. The idea caught on. Within three years he was selling more than a million handled shopping bags annually.

By the time I was bagging groceries at a supermarket in 1968, paper grocery bags came in all sizes, from great big ones for great big orders down to little bitty ones for a handful of penny candy. Occasionally a customer would come in with fabric shopping bags of some sort, but they were usually either really old people or the new hippie weirdos. Either way, nobody used plastic grocery bags......because they didn't exist! And yet somehow the world continued to turn, people managed to shop and to feed their families. They even got to make cool crafts.

My ever-frugal pack-rat of a mother saved every single paper bag that ever came into our house. Sometimes she would reuse them when shopping at a store. More often she would employ them to line household trash receptacles. My schoolbooks were almost always protected by book covers made from brown paper bags. Paper bags made great drawer and shelf liners, too. It seemed there was nothing my mother couldn't do with Scotch tape and a paper bag.

Then in 1969, some Swede came up with the plastic bag we know today and the race to build the Great Pacific Garbage Patch was on. At first, plastic bags were sort of a novelty. Then a few grocers started offering both paper and plastic. (Remember being given that choice at the checkout? I do.) In the early 1980s, major chains like Safeway and Kroger went all plastic and by the '90s, once again an entire generation had no idea there had ever been anything else. So now, when the Big Bad Man comes around and says he's banning plastic bags in order to keep the frickin' planet from being shrink-wrapped, the ninnywhiners who consider polyethylene to be a birthright of some sort start raising the roof and screaming all kinds of nonsense about economic hardship and such dreck.

I'm sorry. I went to a store the other day and neglected to bring one of my dozen or so reusable canvas bags with me. I usually keep a couple in both my wife's car and mine and the rest live in a big burlap bag in my pantry. And this was one of those places where you either brought your own bag or bought one of theirs. Oh, woe is me! What was I to do? I ne-e-e-e-ded a bag in which to carry my groceries so my family wouldn't starve! And these cruel, uncaring merchants didn't offer unlimited comforting, convenient, free plastic bags. Oh, the anxiety! Oh, the panic! What was I to DO?! I'll tell you what I did: I plunked down a nickel and bought a paper bag. And when I got it home, I put it in the burlap bag with the other reuseables. I am my mother's son, after all. I'll think of something to do with it. Point is, ain't nobody gonna tell me plastic bags are an economic necessity. Don't stand there sipping on your four-dollar-a-cup coffee and sucking on your five-buck-a-pack cigarettes and tell me you can't afford a nickel for a paper bag.

Trust me, folks, I'm not some loony lefty who's going to go out and strew recycled organic rose petals in Greta Thunberg's path. But I do believe that we've reached a tipping point in the plastic pollution problem and that we need to get a handle on it fairly quickly. So if I can help in any way by giving up an insignificant personal amenity for the greater good, I'll do it. I'll bring my own bags to the grocery store. After the initial purchase, they cost me nothing other than the inconvenience of having to remember them. And I dropped a few bucks on a nice collapsible metal straw that has a “safe and comfortable” silicone tip and comes with its own “convenient” carrying case. (See. I can pander to comfort and convenience with the best of them.) It fits in my pocket and I've gotten tons of comments and compliments from people who seen me use it. My wife's got one, too.

In and of themselves, neither of these actions are a great sacrifice to me personally. And neither are they particularly significant in the grand scheme. As a friend of mine pointed out, ninety-nine percent of the stuff I put in my reusable bags comes wrapped or packaged in plastic. But you've got to start somewhere and if everyone reading this would do something similar and give one tiny thought to something other than their own comfort and convenience for a minute, maybe something positive would come of it.

Get out of the sackcloth and ashes and stop mourning the passing of something that probably never should have been in the first place. Plastic straws, bags, plates, knives, forks, spoons, whatever are increasingly inconvenient conveniences. They are not necessities of life. We all did fine before we had them and we'll all do fine after they're gone.

Okay. End of rant. But watch out plastic bottles and plastic blister packaging: I'm comin' after you next.

What's The Hardest Thing About Running A Restaurant? The Answer May Surprise You

A Cautionary Tale – Or Two Or Three – For Potential Restaurateurs

I was catering a small event recently. A young man struck up a conversation as I worked and at one point asked me what the hardest part of running a restaurant or food service business was. My answer was immediate and emphatic: finding and keeping good help.

Oh, there are a million things that will kill you in a restaurant operation. Finances and budgets aside, something is always breaking down: AC, heat, walk-in, reach-in, ice machine, sandwich unit …something. Building codes, fire codes, safety codes and especially food codes and health regulations will drive you insane. Licenses are another headache. There's one for just about every circumstance you can think of and probably some that you never imagined. And if you're serving liquor, that's a whole 'nother animal. But all these things pale in comparison to the difficulty involved in the recruiting, hiring, and maintaining of anything near a decent staff.

“What's so hard,” you ask? “I'm offering people a chance to work and make money. How can that possibly be such a problem?” Oh, my dear lambs! Allow me to reveal to you the slaughter you're about to face.

The labor pool for the restaurant industry today is so shallow you can walk through it and barely get the soles of your feet wet. I don't care if you are the proprietor of a suburban fast-food eatery or the owner of the hottest downtown restaurant, the employee mill will churn and turn like a revolving door. A motorized door that spins like a centrifuge. Oh, sure, you'll find a good cook or server now and then; one who loves his or her job and enjoys working for you. An Italian friend of mine has as couple of cooks and servers who have been with him since he opened his doors more than a dozen years ago. I know of a waiter at another local place who has been there for more than twenty years. But believe me, employees like these are the statistically insignificant exception to the revolving door rule. In fact, recent statistics show that three in ten restaurant operators cite adequate staffing as a major issue. Another stat says that turnover in the restaurant industry is currently at an all-time high of seventy-five percent. According to Restaurant Insider, forty-two percent of front-of-house employees walk within the first three months.

Almost every candidate you're going to encounter in your search for a reliable employee is somebody who is not seeking a career but rather looking for a job. This means you hire them today and they find “something better” tomorrow and you won't see them the next day. No thanks, no notice, just no-show. It's called “ghosting” and it's a big thing among millennials and Gen Zers. Young people just take a job and then don't show up. Or they quit a job and don't let their employer know. According to the Randstad 2020 U.S. Compensation Insights survey, half of millennials and Gen Zers have ghosted an employer for a higher paying job opportunity elsewhere.

With increased demands for higher minimum wages becoming more and more commonplace, people new to the job scene expect to just walk in and be paid a whole lot of money for very little work. When they figure out that the job isn’t going to be a cakewalk (usually after the first ten minutes or so on the clock), a lot of them won't hesitate a second to find something “better.” And to leave you holding the bag.

Many of the ones that do show up and stick around do so because they can't find “something better.” The transient nature of restaurant work is legendary. While there are many, many, many dedicated, hardworking folks in both the front and back of the house, there are also a disproportionate number of, shall we say, “hard-luck cases.” These are people who are barely functioning in life due to alcohol, drugs, mental or emotional impairments, criminal records, educational deficiencies, or just plain laziness and lack of motivation. And they flock to kitchens like flies to – sugar.

Another bunch that the business seems to attract are the ones who have unrealistically high opinions of themselves and their abilities. They're just working for you because they never got the breaks that would have made them the next Bobby Flay or Wolfgang Puck or somebody. Believe them, they're doing you a favor by deigning to grace you with their presence. Don't try to tell them anything; there isn't anything they don't already know. They are legends in their own minds.

And, of course, as I alluded earlier, nearly every waiter or waitress you're likely to employ is literally waiting – for something else. They're “really” students, actors, models, social media influencers – any of a million things and they're just cooling their heels with you until their big break comes along or until they can get “a real job.”

You start out looking for bright, attentive, motivated people and I promise you in most cases you will end up settling for warm bodies. And the saddest part is you're going to get chapped lips and a permanently brown nose from all the ass-kissing you'll have to do in order to keep them.

Sure there are exceptions. My son is one of them – sort of. He started in fast food at age sixteen and over the next twenty years he worked his way up to management in a fairly high end place. The route took him through waiting tables, tending bar, and even doing a few turns in the kitchen. He was dedicated, hardworking, and good at what he did. And now he owns his own place. It's a retail craft and gift shop. He's out of the food business.

My grandparents owned a little place back in the '50s. He cooked and she served. No staffing problems there. No staffing problems at my uncle's eatery either; I had a big family and most of them worked for Uncle P at one time or another. And as far as my own involvement in the industry, I'm a personal chef these days. I have a full-time staff of three – me, myself, and I and I never have any problems with any of them.

So with four generations of idioti in the restaurant business, let me share a few stories from my own experience that illustrate why I tell people what I tell them about finding and keeping good help.

I could write a book about the fast-food employees who have screwed up my orders over the years. I'm sure you could, too. It seems almost de rigueur anymore. I never leave a drive-thru without checking my order. And the attitudes of most fast-food counter people! Uffaaaaa! Have you ever walked up to place your order and felt like you should apologize for doing so because you're intruding on the counter person's personal time or interrupting their social activities? I have. The only exception seems to be Chik-fil-A. Their employees are unfailingly efficient, polite, and attentive. I don't know what they do differently there, but they're obviously doing something right.

Unlike the careless kitchen employee at one of my favorite fast-food joints that I won't identify but its name comes from the initials of the Raffel Brothers who started it. I ordered a ham and cheese slider onto which some inattentive “cook” slid a little something extra: the plastic wrap from the cheese. I know. How did I know the difference, right? And yes, the manager apologized profusely and brought me a fresh one without the extra ingredient.

My own staffing luck was usually not so good. I once hired a cook who had attended Le Cordon Bleu in Los Angeles. Wow! Here I am with a little hole-in-the-wall place and I score a classically trained chef! Woo-hoo! But two problems immediately surfaced.

Problem number one was that the man couldn't make all the dishes in an order come out at the same time to save his life. He was a decent cook and he was great if he could focus on one thing and one thing alone. But that ain't the way the business works. My wife was on expo duty his first night and he almost walked because she was “so hard” on him. Just because I kept hearing her repeat the word “urgently” in regards to every dish he was not making that was not hitting the pass......He could muddle through a deuce okay but the “deer-in-the-headlights” look set in when he was confronted by a four-top and anything more than that had him so deep in the weeds he needed a machete to whack his way out.

Second problem: he may have learned to read a thermometer in culinary school but he had a little difficulty with a clock. He was never on time for his shift. Even though he lived a five or six minute drive from the restaurant, he had neither a car nor a license. So if he couldn't bum a ride, he usually hoofed it. And he was always late. This was especially problematic when he was the opening breakfast cook. The servers were there, the coffee was made, the doors were open and.......no cook. I mean, the opening cook needs at least a half hour prep time to light the oven and the flattop and the grill and to set up the breakfast mise and what have you. And this clown walks in five or ten minutes after the start of service. Che cazzo?!

So I told him one night, “I'm gonna pick you up in the morning. You be ready.” And I was in his driveway at the appointed time. No cook. I called his cell. His sleepy voice answered and said, “I haven't had my shower yet. Go on and I'll call a cab.” “Okay, bucko,” I said, “you've got thirty minutes.” “I know. I'll be there,” he replied.

Thirty minutes passed and no cook. I called him. “I'm the cab right now.” “Okay.” Fifteen minutes more go by. Remember, he lives five minutes down the street. And now he's not answering his phone. Another fifteen minutes and another phone call. Now he says he's in the cab and on the way. “From where?” I exploded, “CANADA?! An hour ago you told me you'd get a cab. A half-hour ago you said you were in the cab and now you tell me you're still in the cab when you only live five minutes away. You know what? I suspect you're lying to me.” He started stammering some excuse. I pressed on, “Are you lying to me?” “Ahhhhhhh.....ummmm......I was just trying to buy myself a little more time is all.” “GUESS WHAT, DUDE? YOU'VE BOUGHT YOURSELF ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD,” I roared, and then I hung up.

I saw him on the line at a Waffle House a couple of weeks later. A little while after that he was gone from there, too.

There's often a bit of friction between front-of-the-house and back-of-the-house. Everybody's got a job to do and frequently cooks have issues with how servers are doing their jobs and vice-versa. Usually it's fairly benign, although sometimes it can be intense to the point of being toxic. I think that point had been reached when I had to fire a cook who threatened to kill a waitress and a customer who had had the temerity to complain about something. I don't mean some off-hand “I'm gonna kill her” comment. No, this anger management dropout went into graphic detail. He was one of those “I am God's gift to the culinary industry! How DARE you question me?” types that I mentioned earlier. I put up with his posturing, I put up with his ego, I even put up with his adding his “personal touches” to our established recipes. But I wouldn't put up with his threats to customers and staff. Bye-bye.

How about this one? It's a Saturday evening and I'm in the kitchen doing prep work. I've only got one cook to begin with and he's working behind me prepping some chicken. I turned to ask him something and he's gone. Not only is he gone but ten pounds of raw chicken is sitting open and uncovered on his board. I deal with that potential health code violation and then go off to find him. And he's out on the patio smoking and laughing it up with some buddies. “Hey, man”, I tell him, “it's not break time. You need to get back in there and finish that chicken.” He's kind of sullen about it but he does it. And ten minutes later, he's gone again. Back on the patio with his pals. My wife goes out and tells him he needs to get back to work. He tells her, “in a minute.” I give him “a minute” and five or six more, then I go out and tell him, “I'm not paying you to smoke and talk. Get back to work.” Unreasonable, right? He must have thought so because he took off his apron, slammed it on a table and stalked off across the parking lot. Leaving me without a cook on a Saturday night. And five minutes after he's gone, a rush starts. So my wife puts on an apron and hits the flattop, I take the fry station, and a waitress works the grill. We got through it. Oh, and did I mention that I had already taken this guy back once because I felt sorry for him?

Then there was the master chef who cost me two points on a health inspection because he apparently didn't know how to cook a chicken breast. We had a grilled chicken sandwich on our menu. Our meat vendor kept us supplied with very generous-sized boneless chicken breasts. I mean, if these hens were human, I'd suspect they had had work done, you know? BIG ol' chicken breasts. And, of course, any idiot could figure out that you had to cut these monster breasts down before you cooked them. For a couple of obvious reasons. In the first place, you could get at least two sandwiches out of one breast. In the second place, there was no way in hell you could cook that enormo-breast whole on a grill or flattop. Common sense would tell you that the outside would be toast long before the inside cooked to a safe temperature. The problem with common sense is that there are so many uncommonly senseless people walking around. My cook was one of them. And, wouldn't you know, the health inspector was there to witness his brilliant display of chicken cookery. When the inspector stuck his thermometer into that breast, I knew I was screwed. He “suggested” the cook start over and then he dunned me points with the notation “suggest serving smaller portions.” Ya THINK??!! How about “suggest you get another cook” instead? Because I did.

I was helping out a friend who was really struggling with his place. His biggest problem was that he was an absentee owner who only came around on Fridays to hand out the checks. The rest of the time, the inmates ran the asylum. The biggest “inmate” was a cook who probably should have been an inmate for real. He was selling drugs out in the back parking lot during his shift and he let all his friends eat for free whenever they came in. Guess who I fired first?

And the waitress my friend had making the schedule and “managing” the place hadn't a clue about restaurant management. For instance, she was buying cleaning supplies at the Dollar General across the street. When they ran out of ground beef, she'd just nip over to Walmart and buy twenty pounds or so. My friend used 80/20 in his burgers. His “manager” bought 73/27 because it was cheaper. He was using 60 or 70 count potatoes for his hand-cut fries. She found little golf ball-sized spuds at some kind of retail discount store and bought those instead. She thought doing all that was saving my friend money. His diminishing customer base definitely noticed the drop in quality. And his bottom line was headed for the toilet because his “manager” was stocking his restaurant with inferior product at retail! Oh, and she had worked a deal with my friend whereby she got paid extra to “manage” on top of her waitress wages and she also negotiated a “bonus” for running errands. And she would run to Walmart or somewhere six or eight times a day, hitting him up for her eight-dollar fee for each and every trip. So she was waiting tables for wages and tips and tacking on “manager pay” on top of it and then piling on her “errand fee” to ice the cake. In short, she was milking my buddy like a cash cow while driving his business into the ground. I didn't fire her; I just demoted her back to waitress and she quit.

I was traveling and stopped for lunch at a little place in Knoxville, Tennessee one day. The owner was behind the counter and it was little slow, so we started chatting while I waited for my order. He took a phone call. After he hung up, he looked at me and, shaking his head, said, “I just hired that kid day-before-yesterday. He's worked one shift. Today he's calling me to see if he can get tomorrow off. Where do these kids come from?” For the answer to that question, reread the paragraph about “ghosting.”

I was eating a late lunch in a nice little place that had decorative Tiffany-style lamps suspended over the booths and tables. As I said, it was late and the place was pretty quiet. Probably no more than a half-dozen other diners in the dining room. So the waitress was taking advantage of the lull to do some side work. And that's fine. That's what she's supposed to do; roll silverware and fill ketchup bottles and such. What she's most assuredly not supposed to do is climb up on a stool and dust the decorative Tiffany-style lamps while the customer's food is on the table! The manager apologized and comped my meal.

I don't do restaurant cooking anymore, but I still do a bit of restaurant consulting. I signed on with a guy a couple of years ago who wanted to open a place with a big city “high-end” vibe in a small, rural Southern town. He was a businessman with zero restaurant experience and I didn't think much of his concept from the beginning. And the very first thing I cautioned him about when he asked for my advice was the condition of the local labor market. But he had lots and lots of big ideas and piles and piles of money, so I watched as he funneled over a million dollars into his personal fool's paradise, spending tens of unnecessary thousands of dollars on every sparkly gadget and gee-gaw he could get his hands on. I told him to forget all the fancy toys like the $2,000 glass froster he bought for his bar. I advised him against the genuine top-grain white leather banquettes he was planning to install. I tried to tell him a lot of things, but the single biggest thing I hammered on was the potential employee base, or lack thereof. But I was whistling in the wind. “Oh, don't worry so much about that,” he pooh-pooed. “I'm going to pay higher than anybody in town. I'll have only the best people.”

Opening day approached and he hadn't even begun taking applications. I kept nagging at him to start developing his staff. We were less than a month out without the first employee on the payroll. Two weeks before opening, he finally took time from cavorting in the ludicrously expensive kitchen that had become his personal stainless steel playground and started interviewing for cooks and waitstaff. “Sei pazzo!,” I told him. “These people need at least two weeks to learn the menu and to train on procedures!” But he just looked at me like the bothersome nuisance I had no doubt become and continued to ignore me, believing his money would solve all his staffing problems. And the chickens came flocking home to roost when he opened the doors to admit the local labor pool and only a few drips trickled in.

High school kids. Tons of high school kids. None of whom we could hire because of labor and liquor laws. A bunch of people showed up whose only restaurant experience was eating in one. The first question nearly everyone who came through the door asked was “how much do you pay?” Sometimes that was the lead-in right after they gave their name. Now, you shouldn't judge on looks alone and it's illegal to refuse to hire on that basis, of course, but considering we were trying to staff a “high-end” establishment, we fielded more than a few applicants whose basic hygiene and, let's say, “sense of style,” made them low-end candidates for “high-end” employment. We had some applicants who couldn't read the application. One guy listed his cooking experience as “jail.” And then there were those who filled out applications and accepted positions and when we called them a day or two later for follow-up had already taken jobs elsewhere. Yep. We got “ghosted” a lot.

My client was badly understaffed when the place opened and the staff he had was untrained and unprepared. And the reviews reflected it. Not that I was there to experience those negative reviews. Having long since tired of being superfluous, I fulfilled my obligation to get his doors open and then I waded out of the deep end of the pool and onto dry land.

“Decent food, horrible service.” “Nice atmosphere, horrible service.” “Horrible management, horrible service.” The litany went on and on. But I didn't just read the online reviews. I also checked his health department inspections. Month after month of the same violations and infractions, nearly all perpetrated by careless and/or untrained staff. So much for his money buying “only the best people.”

Actually, even less-than-the-best people can cost money. Industry figures place the average cost of recruiting and training an hourly employee at anywhere between $2K and $3.5K. That's an enormous investment in somebody who is going to walk out the door seventy-five percent of the time.

So if you're still thinking of opening a restaurant, don't! Go soak your head or take a cold shower or run headlong and face first into a brick wall until the urge passes. If you still persist in pursuing folly to its inevitable conclusion, don't pretend you didn't hear the voice crying in the wilderness; the one that said “the hardest thing about running a restaurant is the difficulty involved in the recruiting, hiring, and maintaining of anything near a decent staff.”

And when you came to that conclusion, look me up. I'll be over here comfortably basking in the sunshine of “I told you so.”