John Lindner swears he thought up this Shallow Thought Wednesday post before I wrote about Jesse Sandlin's butter tattoo. A likely story! LV
A friend and I met for drinks at the handsome B&O American Brasserie lounge where, along with beers, we had an interesting decor moment that prodded me to revisit the role of servers in creating ambiance.
Restaurant interiors work inward toward one of two extremes: either to confirm what we are (animals) or remind us of what we might be (angels). We sense, consciously or not, which it will be the moment we enter a place. The current default urges, "Be yourself." It's harder to find settings that assure, "You can do better than that."
Near as I can tell, B&O strives to remind and assure. Adults sensitive to surroundings feel not so much encouraged as welcomed to act their age. Which is why I raised an eyebrow when I noticed our waitress carrying an armload of tattooage. But I raised it not, heaven forfend, because I disapproved. On the contrary, I was surprised at how well her etchings fit into the environment, even carried the mood of the lounge, like a grace note lifting a slightly ponderous movement.
Once the proverbial porcine lipstick of the artistically incontinent, tattoos evolved (socially if not visually) into marks of solidarity with the aesthetically downtrodden. And today I find they are restaurant still lifes come to … life. Our waitress’ tattoos reminded me how integral servers are to ambiance. Think of the ninja black of Victoria’s Gastropub vs the shorts and tees of the average tavern. Tattoos are no less a signal of attitude.
It should be noted that our server’s integumentary canvas bore none of the gaudy, saturated depictions of skulls, dice or baroque serpents popular among the biker and maritime cohorts. Her hues bordered on pastel, her images gentle. A lotus, a pair of birds and something I couldn’t identify adorned her arm from tricep to just north of her elbow. Her epidermal scrimshaw gave just the right edge to her air of phlegmatic, almost icy, efficiency.
How ingenious of B&O to install a lily gilded with misspent ink. It lends a rebel edge to an otherwise delightfully staid (by contemporary standards) asylum.
P.S.: I have it on good authority that B&O is a ketchup ramekin establishment. As well it should be. A Heinz squeezy would be an abomination among its muted tones. One has to draw the line somewhere, eh?
Photo by Crystal Woroniuk, courtesy Stock Exchng