Currently, the front/back issue has become a recurring problem in our new restaurant in Stonewall. The door to the kitchen faces table 6. Normally, the door is tied open using a makeshift cord attached to one leg of the dishwashing station. The door currently only swings one way. The door's open state is clearly so to benefit the servers who must constantly enter and exit the kitchen with hands full of food, plates, and take-out orders. The kitchen staff could care less whether the door is open and in fact might prefer it shut.
Whenever a group comes in and seats themselves at the tables, however, or when the restaurant fills up and there is no other choice but to seat guests at table 6, one of the kitchen staff inevitably unties the kitchen door and lets it swing closed. In the role of the server, frankly quite frazzled by the additional trouble the closed door creates, I question my mother's decision to close the door, and her answer sounds like a paraphrase of Goffman's observations. My mother rants on about upholding whatever the customers imagine as happening behind the kitchen, which she pinpoints on the wearing gloves during food preparation. While my mother's concern and the expectation she perceives from the customers both seem absurd to me, I realize that I too expect a certain level of decorum in a restaurant kitchen, and if not gloves, I do perhaps insist on clean hands, pots and pans, utensils, and a general hygienic state of affairs backstage.
After all, that is what I present as a server. I make sure the table, chairs, plates, cutlery, and glasses are clean. I wipe condiment bottles and menus. I provide napkins and refill drinks. I wipe tables if something should spill. I clear plates to create the appearance of tidiness, even if the customer him or herself created the mess. The customer transfers the expectations that I have set through the service outside to the service rendered in the kitchen.
Clearly, the harried state of a busy kitchen cannot always maintain a pristine environment. And that is where the closed door comes in.
The metaphor of front and back apply best, I think, to situations involving irate customers. In the hospitality industry, especially in a small town, the customer really is always right, because they are wrong when they say that all press is good press. No matter who made the mistake, yourself or the customer or the kitchen, the server swallows the blame for the establishment with an apologetic smile and tone of voice and only begins her tirade once she enters the kitchen. In my case, an alternate language is preferable to further alienate the "audience" who may be listening beyond the swinging door. Here, backstage, voices that were previously demure and polite can escalate and attain offensive levels, never mind saying offensive things.
Goffmann's discussion of front and back leaves me with two questions, though.
First, by using the theatrical metaphor of stage and backstage, Goffman implies that the stage is where the performer performs his or her role and duties, while the backstage is where the performer can step out of the role. While he does not explicitly state so, Goffman's use of front and back can only work literally with experience of the server, who actually does perform in the front as though on stage and is able to relax in the back as though backstage. However, isn't the kitchen the stage of cooks and chefs and other kitchen staff? Or does Goffman consider the front to be the stage regardless of whom the performers are? Trying to think about front and back in relation to specific groups of people, rather than in generalities of a restaurant or other place of work, quickly destabilizes the front/back metaphor. The places can never end, as one person's backstage will inevitably be someone else's stage, thus requiring another backstage, and the pattern goes on.
Second, what if the misguided actions of the kitchen form an integral part of the authentic experience? In particular, I am considering the fact that the entire kitchen staff at our restaurant speaks Chinese, and in fact, some of them speak only Chinese. So, to be eating in a Chinese restaurant and to be able to hear the kitchen staff speak Chinese can only be reassuring to the audience member looking for an authentic meal and experience, no? In this way, then, the kitchen staff unwittingly becomes performers and their kitchen-as-stage becomes just as important as the stage on which the servers perform. It contributes to the image that the audience member constructs. Front and back become confused and intertwined.
Here is a picture of my father, looking out of place in the dining room in his cook's apron and baseball cap. The stains on the apron jump out at me, screaming, "Insanitary!" Regardless of whether I desire the aural proof of an authentic experience or not, my expectations when eating out remain the same. I expect a certain appearance and behaviour from the server. In the act of exchanging money for food, I tend to expect the presented food to be beyond my ability to create and I also imagine the cook as personally catering to my needs.
In some ways, the food presented to me takes on the magical quality of a commodity, and the more I pay for a meal, the more magical it appears to be. While a hunk of meat is still a hunk of meat, the fact that you pay $10 or $50 inscribes the meal with a certain worth, and ends up colouring the entire experience.
The incongruence of my father's appearance in the dining area as well as his unprofessional attire quickly work to lower expectations of both the food and the restaurant, as the common image of a hardworking man with stains upon his clothing and some tiredness in his eyes does not match the elevated image of a chef glowing in pristine white clothing, fresh and enthusiastic about making your meal.
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