Before I was a chef, I was a busboy, and the waiters taught me everything. A grizzled Siamese named Vittorio showed me how to carry five plates up one arm. A shy tabby named Pearl taught me the art of the invisible refill. And a gruff old cat, whose name I never learned, taught me never to turn my back on a table of eight.
They are the soul of a restaurant, the ones who see the secrets, the spilt wine and the proposals gone wrong. My own waiters earn 14 percent more than the industry average and are given Thursdays off, and I have never regretted a single treat.
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