Leave your winespeak at the door. At Uncorked: The Unpretentious Wine Bar, no one's checking your viticultural references.
Heading out to Uncorked: etc., etc., I'm feeling humbled over how wrong I can sometimes be. If that seems an odd admission for a restaurant reviewer to make, take it as testimony to the truth that any opinion- no matter how informed- is still just an opinion. After all, it was me who perceived serious flaws in the business plan of Uncorked's owner, Ali Amundson, back in the days before her wine bar was born, when she and I merely dreamed proprietary dreams while waiting tables together at Kierland's snazzy Zinc Bistro.
For starters, I hated the name. Like serious dog breeders who attach run-on titles like Rufus Regal Red Pencil to some champion sire's pet name, Ali's choice struck me as an exercise in TMI. As for the implied mission statement, I wondered if it might offend many of the very customers wine hangs court; those viticulturally verbose types who take at least as much pleasure from digesting wine with conversation as they do in the literal sense.
Happily for Ali and husband Tim, folks haven't been put off by either the marquee or the message since the venture came to life, and corks have been popping in Uncorked's friendly confines like so much kettle corn ever since. So, regardless of whatever I sample from the menu, I remind myself, a glass of something that complements the taste of crow may be in order as well.
What impresses me from the get-go are good directions to Uncorked found on its website (uncorkedwinebar.com). As advertised, I find the place in a corporate center courtyard, just south of that big, blue spire spiked on the southeast corner of Frank Lloyd Wright and Scottsdale Roads. As congested a corner of commerce as this is, the precise roadmap comes in handy.
On a hot, sunny May afternoon, I can't see getting comfortable on the exposed patio. Inside, there's more than just AC contributing to a much cooler air. Making the best of a wine-in-a-box space, Uncorked's halved into proper bar and dining/lounging areas. The former boast comfy, contoured barstools lining a crescent bar great for gazing around without goose-necking. The latter's like an Ethan Allen showroom, with an admirable inventory of armchairs, tables, sofas, and loveseats laid out in tasteful arrangements. Walls brushed with burnt orange, brick red, and Goldenrod cast the ambience in an almost autumnal light. Twinkling, stained glass lanterns hung from the high ceiling by almost invisible wiring seem to hover overhead like the dining hall special effects in Harry Potter movies.
While I'm starting to feel the magic, Uncorked's virtually unoccupied when I pop in just before five on a Monday. Aside from me, there are only a few other early birds pecking at small plates and dipping into the fifty-plus wine selections and ten-finger assortment of beers. I don't suppose concepts like this make much hay while the sun still shines, but I'm told folks craving catered, group luncheons have begun flocking here, as have the real housewives of Maricopa County, who love washing down their greens and gossip with a good Pinot Grigio.
Cued by the warm weather, I ask lovely, laugh-a-minute Alex (she's a longtime friend, and Uncorked's manager) to pair a flight tasting of white wines appropriate to my order of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheesecake ($8). Flight #3, "White and Fruity" ($14), touches down moments later, on a placemat outlining the three labels I'll be sampling. When my food arrives, I mix and match. A sip of One Last Kiss, a Muscat-sweetened, seven grape blend, washes well with the sharpness of the savory cheesecake. Foxy, a crisp, floral cuvee of Chenin Blanc and Viognier complements, too, as I chomp accompanying crostini and fresh pear. Once I've had my fill, the frizzante of an Argentine something-or-other pleasantly surprises and refreshes. As gorgeous as she is, belive me, Alex isn't just eye candy. This girl can juggle her grapes.
Sadly, the kitchen can't manage the same balancing act with my poached pear salad ($10). It never rises above a monotone of base flavors. Julienne tomatoes are waxy. Belgian endive sings a predictably bitter note, and too many toasted hazelnuts turn my greens to near-granola. Tossed with gobs of sherry vinaigrette-stifling goat cheese, there's no harmony to the orchestration, rendering its port- infused centerpiece a solitary saving grace.
On the other hand, let me lead the choir in singing praises for Uncorked's KC Sliders ($12). Four ethereal focaccia buns proffer ground beef patties redolent with garlic and earthy portobello mushroom. Crowned with crisp pancetta, wine-braised onions, and molten bleu and Parmesan cheeses, it's a cult classic transfigured into a more high-minded munchie than Harold and Kumar ever envisioned. Dude, this is the perfect food.
Sampling some reds on a subsequent visit, I hop on flight 11, "Syrahz (sic)" ($14). Whetting my appetite, Australia's Layer Cake is a fruit-forward shiraz (dare I say, jammy, Ali?). By comparison, a French Tortoise Creek Syrah is all old world austerity and astringency, while a Rosenblum (California) version of the same varietal strikes a balance between the two, with more roundness ans softer tannins. Take that, Robert Parker.
Famished after taking such exhaustive tasting notes, I perceive my oven flatbread a feast for the eyes. Four models run $8-$9. Mine- gilded with garlic, goat cheese, roasted red pepper, and ribbons of fresh-cut basil, tastes good as gold. Left to bake, brown, and crisp just a bit longer, it would've been more the gem.
By the time dessert's dished out, my trio of reds have had time to loosen their belts and breathe. They each make their own music with my Blackberry jam tart and vanilla bean ice cream ($7). Taken together, it's a warm, fuzzy finish a la mode. And while I regret not getting around to one Ali's cheese plate presentations ($16), I promise myself a return visit on some Wednesday when they're all five bucks cheaper (Uncorked's "Hump Day Special").
Having taken a second opportunity to review the Uncorked blueprint, I can't but help admire Ali's chutzpah. She's more than chased her dream, she run with it.
You go, girl.
Uncorked: The Unpretentious Wine Bar
16427 North Scottsdale Rd., Suite 130
Scottsdale, AZ 85254
480-699-9230
http://www.uncorkedwinebar.com/
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
His Freudian Slip was Showing: Another Story from the Food Biz...
Back in the late eighties, I did a server stint at a Scottsdale seafood restaurant. Just a few days into learning the ropes, my corporate trainer and I waited on a Ken and Barbie couple. The guy's look was right out of Miami Vice, down to the soft pastel T-shirt and the ivory sport jacket. The girl, on the other hand, could've been Tawny Kitaen's video stunt double. Suffice it say, the star of her fashion show was a studded, patent leather bustier.
I thought I was distracted. When my trainer took the order, it was his libido that stole the show.
As part of the meal deal, guests at restaurant XXX were given a choice of either rice or baked potato. Instead of focusing on the order at hand, my fearless leader was obviously ogling the girl's goods.
"I'll have baked potato, butter only," I remember the guy blurting out, forgetting his ladies-first manners.
"And for the lady?" Fearless Leader leaned in, presumably listening hard.
"I'll have the same." Tawny II cooed.
"And would you care for sour cream, butter, or chives on your tits?"
What he said only occured to him the instant after he said it. There was silence for maybe a moment. Fearless leader looked at me. I looked at him.
"Excuse me, asshole?" Ken stood up.
"Sir, I apologize, I don't know what to say." Certainly, if I were ever to ask a bombshell what toppings she might like me to spoon on her boobs in front of her boyfriend, fearless leader was offering me a crash course in how to handle the consequences.
"Sir, if you'll pardon me, I'll get my manager." Fearless Leader had figured out his exit strategy. He handed me his order pad, walked away from the table, turned down the hallway in the opposite direction of the manager's station, and walked out the front door.
"Give me just a minute, sir, I'm new here," I scrambled to recover. "Ive got a feeling Rod (Fearless leader's actual name, believe it or not) won't be back, and you obviously need to talk to somebody."
I learned two things that night, thanks to two things. One, that we men do tend to think with, well, something other than our brains in certain situations. Secondly, I learned the value of looking folks straight in the eye when there's something to discuss.
"You handled the situation about as well as could be expected," my manager complimented me after my shift.
"Shucks, it was nipples, er, nothing I mean!" I answered back, in an instant of comedic inspiration.
True story.
I thought I was distracted. When my trainer took the order, it was his libido that stole the show.
As part of the meal deal, guests at restaurant XXX were given a choice of either rice or baked potato. Instead of focusing on the order at hand, my fearless leader was obviously ogling the girl's goods.
"I'll have baked potato, butter only," I remember the guy blurting out, forgetting his ladies-first manners.
"And for the lady?" Fearless Leader leaned in, presumably listening hard.
"I'll have the same." Tawny II cooed.
"And would you care for sour cream, butter, or chives on your tits?"
What he said only occured to him the instant after he said it. There was silence for maybe a moment. Fearless leader looked at me. I looked at him.
"Excuse me, asshole?" Ken stood up.
"Sir, I apologize, I don't know what to say." Certainly, if I were ever to ask a bombshell what toppings she might like me to spoon on her boobs in front of her boyfriend, fearless leader was offering me a crash course in how to handle the consequences.
"Sir, if you'll pardon me, I'll get my manager." Fearless Leader had figured out his exit strategy. He handed me his order pad, walked away from the table, turned down the hallway in the opposite direction of the manager's station, and walked out the front door.
"Give me just a minute, sir, I'm new here," I scrambled to recover. "Ive got a feeling Rod (Fearless leader's actual name, believe it or not) won't be back, and you obviously need to talk to somebody."
I learned two things that night, thanks to two things. One, that we men do tend to think with, well, something other than our brains in certain situations. Secondly, I learned the value of looking folks straight in the eye when there's something to discuss.
"You handled the situation about as well as could be expected," my manager complimented me after my shift.
"Shucks, it was nipples, er, nothing I mean!" I answered back, in an instant of comedic inspiration.
True story.
RENAISSANCE MAN
Not too long ago, a firebomb nearly burned Richardson Browne's Dutch steakhouse to the ground. Browne not only rebuilt, he renovated. Now the Rokerij's back. Better than ever.
Richardson Browne should write a book. Given his success and maverick reputation, it could doubltess become required reading for anyone who gets a hair up their assets to make a go of it in the restaurant business. After all, the guy's an Emiril Lagasse-Hunter S. Thompson gene-splicing experiment. His business cards make no bones about rattling his critics (although his "kiss my ass" message is articulated in Spanish), and he's hurled $100 bills at folks who've bitched while waiting for tables, presumably, so they'd eat elsewhere. If he's part of the attraction, make no mistake: It's the wildly creative cuisine at his two, New Mexican-style eateries that keep Browne's places playing to packed houses day and night, year after year. Heck, even President Bush schlepped there for turkey enchiladas. Tantamount to cannibalism you say? Shame on you.
As surely as Richardson's and Dick's Hideaway stand as monuments to Browne's business acumen, his Rokerij- which debuted in 2004 in tribute to Browne's libertine home away from home, Amsterdam- remains his work in progress. From the get-go, the steakhouse's old Dutch vibe brought a mixed bag of reviews. Some enjoyed the genteel feel, others didn't quite know what to make of the whole Euro-paean picture. Even for a guy generally considered a mad genius of dishes and design, tilting with windmills may have struck even his biggest fans as a little out there.
Enter fate. One night, God knows who- and for God-only-knows what reason- lobbed a Molotov Cocktail onto Rokerij's roof, charring a good chunk of the restaurant. Browne faced a fair-sized restoration project. instead, he went back to the drawing board.
Pulling in for a first look-see since the rebuild, I find parking at a premium and a valet directing traffic in Rokerij's lot. Save for a tip, the service is free. The hardcore frugal can save even that buck or two by hoofing it a half block from the street spots lining Maryland east of 16th Street, just north of the property.
At the door, one must choose either the high or low road into Rokerij. I opt for the latter, wondering what had become of the the sultry, subterranean lounge at the bottom of a tunneled flight of stairs. Happily, I find it just as it was; dimly lit, twinkling in candlelight, and cat-in-a-shoebox cozy. The fireplace is still there crackling and fringed with plush armchairs and a sofa. So, too, the burnished copper bar with its cushy barstools, and the deep dining booths that bookend a beautiful room.
Heading somewhat apprehensively upstairs to dinner after a drink, my thoughts turn to what about Rokerij may have risen- for better or worse- from the ashes. I recall the neat but otherwise nondescript dining room looking almost museum-like, its walls plastered with reproductions of works by Rembrandt and such. Granted, that motif had some relevance here, but I can certainly see how it may have come across as a bit staid. Putting the wooden shoe on the other foot, it's hard to imagine any bistro abroad articulating American steakhouse Zeitgeist through the works of Whistler and Winslow Homer. If the affinity between Amsterdam's legendary libertarianism and Browne's own Bohemian bent was the message, trying to capture it through Renaissance-era imagery may have muddled it a bit.
Suffice it to say, I find changes to the original canvas applied in broad strokes. Rokerij's had more than a little work done up top, enough so to make even her gorgeous sister restaurants envious. Simply put, she's gone from Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring to Scarlett Johansson in a little black dress.
Settling on a big, comfy barstool again, I'm bellied-up to and bowled over by a bar that's been gloriously extended and wrapped around a brand-spanking-new exhibition cooking island. A seat in the old main floor lounge seemed almost punishment; its few stools tucked away in a corner, and butted-up against the clatter of a kitchen line where cooks and service staff barked back and forth. But from where I sit now, I'm nearly the center of attention, and more of the room's makeover flirts with my perceptions. Lights are low and inviting. Smoldering pecan wood perfumes the air, and the sight of a prime rib roast being massgaed with a dry rub works like foreplay on my palate. Bed-sized booths once draped in sensible upholstery are stretched in seductive, black leather, and the former private dining room- crammed into a space too close-quartered for comfort- has been dropped for a gorgeous new number decked out in Wi-Fi, a high-def TV of drive-in-like dimensions with DVD, a stellar sound system, and a laptop. From the looks of things, Rokerij's emerged from her Holland-daze, to become a saucier smokehouse (that's what Dutch rokerijs are, by the way). It's definitely an improvement, and decidedly more Richardson-esque.
For the better, too, is the buffeted menu. While many presentations are Rokerij's own, I recognize other selections- mainly seafood- staged, sauced, and even salsa'd in ways familiar to Richardson's faithful. Browne's doing a little co-branding here, and why not? Some of the same goods he used to secure his Southwestern corner of the market should help turn the corner with Rokerij.
My appetizers demonstrate the hybrid approach. Oysters Rokerij proffers three plumb specimens baked with fresh Dungeness crab, spinach and bits of smoky bacon, all topped with that addictive jalapeno-spiked hollandaise perfected in Browne's New Mexican kitchens. Calamari- whose distinct flavor and delicate texture were, alas, frittered away by over-frying- provided a mop for an equally muy bueno red chile sauce. It's not until I savor silky steak tartare- pristine, prime beef tenderloin minced with fresh herbs, egg, cornichon and capers- that things take a turn for the purely Occidental. Let me assure you: As of the time of this writing, I'm exhibitng no Mad Cow symptoms whatsoever. For those of you who shudder at the notion of eating raw red meat of even the highest grade and proper handling, consider; you run as much a health risk ordering your favorite sushi, and frankly, you've no idea what you're missing.
Finishing up preliminary courses, four sea scallops in a wrap of crisp bacon pair with a trio of dipping options; sauces of roasted onion, red pepper, and another helping of plate-licking hollandaise. Glutton that I've been, it's a good things I'd arrived early enough to feast on bargain pricing. From 4-6, seven days a week. small plate options like these and others can be had for a song ($5). Otherwise, such petite pleasures run nine bucks apiece (or two for $16, three for $22). Order any wine from the glass list before the clock strikes four, and you'll sip for seven dollars.
Filling up before dinner on my first visit, I make the same mistake the second time around. A charcuterie platter is available at two pricepoints ($14 or $24), and I order what figures to be the small one to save room.
What I'm served is nonetheless cornucopial. Generous samplings of cheeses- a habanero-flecked havarti, a mustard seed-studded Gouda, and a white wine-cured chevre- fringe a platter laden with pepper-crusted dry salami, rosemary-scented ham, and a course pate' I find akin to the kishka- a blood sausage- a learned to crave as a kid. Mixing and matching all these foodstuffs with wine-poached pear, roasted garlic, and good, salty imported olives, I'm done in again. It's all good, though, and too much to resist.
For dessert, I take a few bites of the baby spinach salad ($8) that sat around watching me make a pig of myself. It's tossed in bacon vinaigrette and, if nothing fancy with simple chopped egg and crumbled feta accompaniments, it's simply delicious.
Shamefully, I've precious little to report on the entree front. But anyone who knows Richardson Browne's restaurants can tell you that, if you like how something on the menu reads, you'll love the consistency his kitchen crews demonstrate in translating it to the plate. Whether it's that crusted prime rib ($32) I watched being readied for a long, lazy roasting, the double cut lamb chops I've enjoyed on previous visits ($25), slathered in mint jelly as God intended, or a slow-braised veal shank served in rich wine gravy over papardelle ($30), everything tastes as good as advertised.
Maybe that's why so many who've beaten a path to Richardson's Browne's doors tend to quote chapter and verse on the man's proprietary talents.
His restaurants speak for themselves.
Richardson Browne should write a book. Given his success and maverick reputation, it could doubltess become required reading for anyone who gets a hair up their assets to make a go of it in the restaurant business. After all, the guy's an Emiril Lagasse-Hunter S. Thompson gene-splicing experiment. His business cards make no bones about rattling his critics (although his "kiss my ass" message is articulated in Spanish), and he's hurled $100 bills at folks who've bitched while waiting for tables, presumably, so they'd eat elsewhere. If he's part of the attraction, make no mistake: It's the wildly creative cuisine at his two, New Mexican-style eateries that keep Browne's places playing to packed houses day and night, year after year. Heck, even President Bush schlepped there for turkey enchiladas. Tantamount to cannibalism you say? Shame on you.
As surely as Richardson's and Dick's Hideaway stand as monuments to Browne's business acumen, his Rokerij- which debuted in 2004 in tribute to Browne's libertine home away from home, Amsterdam- remains his work in progress. From the get-go, the steakhouse's old Dutch vibe brought a mixed bag of reviews. Some enjoyed the genteel feel, others didn't quite know what to make of the whole Euro-paean picture. Even for a guy generally considered a mad genius of dishes and design, tilting with windmills may have struck even his biggest fans as a little out there.
Enter fate. One night, God knows who- and for God-only-knows what reason- lobbed a Molotov Cocktail onto Rokerij's roof, charring a good chunk of the restaurant. Browne faced a fair-sized restoration project. instead, he went back to the drawing board.
Pulling in for a first look-see since the rebuild, I find parking at a premium and a valet directing traffic in Rokerij's lot. Save for a tip, the service is free. The hardcore frugal can save even that buck or two by hoofing it a half block from the street spots lining Maryland east of 16th Street, just north of the property.
At the door, one must choose either the high or low road into Rokerij. I opt for the latter, wondering what had become of the the sultry, subterranean lounge at the bottom of a tunneled flight of stairs. Happily, I find it just as it was; dimly lit, twinkling in candlelight, and cat-in-a-shoebox cozy. The fireplace is still there crackling and fringed with plush armchairs and a sofa. So, too, the burnished copper bar with its cushy barstools, and the deep dining booths that bookend a beautiful room.
Heading somewhat apprehensively upstairs to dinner after a drink, my thoughts turn to what about Rokerij may have risen- for better or worse- from the ashes. I recall the neat but otherwise nondescript dining room looking almost museum-like, its walls plastered with reproductions of works by Rembrandt and such. Granted, that motif had some relevance here, but I can certainly see how it may have come across as a bit staid. Putting the wooden shoe on the other foot, it's hard to imagine any bistro abroad articulating American steakhouse Zeitgeist through the works of Whistler and Winslow Homer. If the affinity between Amsterdam's legendary libertarianism and Browne's own Bohemian bent was the message, trying to capture it through Renaissance-era imagery may have muddled it a bit.
Suffice it to say, I find changes to the original canvas applied in broad strokes. Rokerij's had more than a little work done up top, enough so to make even her gorgeous sister restaurants envious. Simply put, she's gone from Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring to Scarlett Johansson in a little black dress.
Settling on a big, comfy barstool again, I'm bellied-up to and bowled over by a bar that's been gloriously extended and wrapped around a brand-spanking-new exhibition cooking island. A seat in the old main floor lounge seemed almost punishment; its few stools tucked away in a corner, and butted-up against the clatter of a kitchen line where cooks and service staff barked back and forth. But from where I sit now, I'm nearly the center of attention, and more of the room's makeover flirts with my perceptions. Lights are low and inviting. Smoldering pecan wood perfumes the air, and the sight of a prime rib roast being massgaed with a dry rub works like foreplay on my palate. Bed-sized booths once draped in sensible upholstery are stretched in seductive, black leather, and the former private dining room- crammed into a space too close-quartered for comfort- has been dropped for a gorgeous new number decked out in Wi-Fi, a high-def TV of drive-in-like dimensions with DVD, a stellar sound system, and a laptop. From the looks of things, Rokerij's emerged from her Holland-daze, to become a saucier smokehouse (that's what Dutch rokerijs are, by the way). It's definitely an improvement, and decidedly more Richardson-esque.
For the better, too, is the buffeted menu. While many presentations are Rokerij's own, I recognize other selections- mainly seafood- staged, sauced, and even salsa'd in ways familiar to Richardson's faithful. Browne's doing a little co-branding here, and why not? Some of the same goods he used to secure his Southwestern corner of the market should help turn the corner with Rokerij.
My appetizers demonstrate the hybrid approach. Oysters Rokerij proffers three plumb specimens baked with fresh Dungeness crab, spinach and bits of smoky bacon, all topped with that addictive jalapeno-spiked hollandaise perfected in Browne's New Mexican kitchens. Calamari- whose distinct flavor and delicate texture were, alas, frittered away by over-frying- provided a mop for an equally muy bueno red chile sauce. It's not until I savor silky steak tartare- pristine, prime beef tenderloin minced with fresh herbs, egg, cornichon and capers- that things take a turn for the purely Occidental. Let me assure you: As of the time of this writing, I'm exhibitng no Mad Cow symptoms whatsoever. For those of you who shudder at the notion of eating raw red meat of even the highest grade and proper handling, consider; you run as much a health risk ordering your favorite sushi, and frankly, you've no idea what you're missing.
Finishing up preliminary courses, four sea scallops in a wrap of crisp bacon pair with a trio of dipping options; sauces of roasted onion, red pepper, and another helping of plate-licking hollandaise. Glutton that I've been, it's a good things I'd arrived early enough to feast on bargain pricing. From 4-6, seven days a week. small plate options like these and others can be had for a song ($5). Otherwise, such petite pleasures run nine bucks apiece (or two for $16, three for $22). Order any wine from the glass list before the clock strikes four, and you'll sip for seven dollars.
Filling up before dinner on my first visit, I make the same mistake the second time around. A charcuterie platter is available at two pricepoints ($14 or $24), and I order what figures to be the small one to save room.
What I'm served is nonetheless cornucopial. Generous samplings of cheeses- a habanero-flecked havarti, a mustard seed-studded Gouda, and a white wine-cured chevre- fringe a platter laden with pepper-crusted dry salami, rosemary-scented ham, and a course pate' I find akin to the kishka- a blood sausage- a learned to crave as a kid. Mixing and matching all these foodstuffs with wine-poached pear, roasted garlic, and good, salty imported olives, I'm done in again. It's all good, though, and too much to resist.
For dessert, I take a few bites of the baby spinach salad ($8) that sat around watching me make a pig of myself. It's tossed in bacon vinaigrette and, if nothing fancy with simple chopped egg and crumbled feta accompaniments, it's simply delicious.
Shamefully, I've precious little to report on the entree front. But anyone who knows Richardson Browne's restaurants can tell you that, if you like how something on the menu reads, you'll love the consistency his kitchen crews demonstrate in translating it to the plate. Whether it's that crusted prime rib ($32) I watched being readied for a long, lazy roasting, the double cut lamb chops I've enjoyed on previous visits ($25), slathered in mint jelly as God intended, or a slow-braised veal shank served in rich wine gravy over papardelle ($30), everything tastes as good as advertised.
Maybe that's why so many who've beaten a path to Richardson's Browne's doors tend to quote chapter and verse on the man's proprietary talents.
His restaurants speak for themselves.
The Rokerij
6335 North 16th Street
Phoenix, AZ 85016
602-287-8900
Before we tell this week's restaurant story...
...Let's address today's Q & A question. Mary from Schenectady writes: "The gab during our last girl's night out had to do with tipping. A number of my girlfriends feel the standard these days has risen to twenty- not fifteen- percent. What's the story?"
Well, I don't recall receiving that memo, for one thing Mary. Secondly, any cost-of-living-based arguments for the increase really don't add up: As the costs of restaurant food and drink continue to rise, so do the commissions. Fifteen percent is service's slice of the pie, period. Anything more is icing on the cake, to be swirled on at your discretion.
Well, I don't recall receiving that memo, for one thing Mary. Secondly, any cost-of-living-based arguments for the increase really don't add up: As the costs of restaurant food and drink continue to rise, so do the commissions. Fifteen percent is service's slice of the pie, period. Anything more is icing on the cake, to be swirled on at your discretion.
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