Services

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Scott Vogel

For devoted fans of romantic schadenfreude, there are few things that compare to watching someone else’s relationship unravel before your eyes, and few better places to witness this than one table over from a warring couple in a restaurant. You’re close enough to catch all the expletives, but safely distant should anybody decide to weaponize the breadbasket. Of course, this sort of feasting need not only involve endings. Awkward first-date conversations can be entertaining, as can fears that someone swallowed the ring in the soufflé, or cake proposals with unspellchecked frosting. ("Mary me?") Sit in a restaurant long enough, and you’ll be privy to every sort of liaison in every stage of health. No less interesting, however, is a relationship often overlooked, though just as complex, perilous and perpetually misunderstood: the one between diners and restaurants themselves. 
It’s also a relationship that’s gotten more attention of late, courtesy the pandemic, and one that proceeded in several stages. When the virus first raged, restaurants were things to be feared. Then, as they began to disappear one by one, they were things to fear for—namely the extinction of the species, which in less than 250 years of existence had become integral to cultures all over the world. But restaurants came roaring back as the emergency eased, and diners showed their gratitude by patronizing them every chance they got, along the way forgiving everything from server shortages to supply chain snafus.<a data-onecms-id="contentid/storywidget.1.50482588" data-onecms-type="storywidget" href="#/content/contentid/storywidget.1.50482588">Story Widget Link</a>
 
Which brings us to roughly September 2021, when, owing to various lingering frustrations, things began to get ugly in the New York area. There were shoving matches at hostess stands, signs in windows commanding diners to BE KIND, the bitterest of Open Table reviews. Just as divorces spiked during the pandemic, many restaurant-patron marriages seemed headed in the same direction, and anything resembling a healthy relationship seemed the exception. 
Still, they existed. A thorough perusal of social media, online foodie colloquies and crowdsourced platforms, not to mention my own conversations with Long Island diners, suggested that there are places where the love between diner and establishment remains as vibrant as ever. Amid the past year’s challenges, a handful of places continued to earn high marks for exceptional service and hospitality. I recently visited six to learn why some restaurant relationships work, why some don’t, and why some—through dint of poor communication, lack of empathy, money issues and unrealistic expectations—could use couples therapy.
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"It’s not about what really happened. What really happened doesn’t matter. For the diner, perception is reality." Charles Kim, seated in the dining room of Opus Steakhouse, the swanky, cavernous Jericho restaurant for which he serves as general manager, chose his words carefully. On a busy night, 500-plus diners enter this cathedral of marble, leather and wood, a large number of them celebrating birthdays, anniversaries and other events of significance, and Kim has the unenviable task of satisfying all of them—he and his 20 servers, four bartenders, five or six runners, two or three hosts and a couple of floor managers. 
"We’re here to make an experience," he instructs them at preshift staff meetings that often include weather updates for outdoor dining ("we’re like meteorologists who have to know what conditions are hour by hour"), written quizzes ensuring that servers are aware of what the branzino’s celery-root purée is served over (answer: chimichurri, Fresno peppers), and stopwatch-timed demonstrations so they can appreciate how interminable a two- or five-minute wait can feel when you’re a diner. "Making an experience," said Kim, "means putting yourself in the guest’s shoes." 
"I like the ones in sports or who are going into the military. They understand rules," laughed Elmer Rubio. Attempting to preserve his fine reputation for service at Chachama Grill in East Patchogue, the chef and owner resorted to hiring high-functioning high-schoolers, some of whom had never worked in restaurants before, even as he conscripted his 17- and 14-year-old sons for host and busboy duties, respectively. These days, Rubio himself can often be found, for the first time since opening Chachama in 2003, splitting his time between manning the kitchen and tending bar.
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Even so, he has only put a dent in his labor needs. (A survey in September by the National Restaurant Association revealed that 78 percent of restaurant operators believe they are understa ed.) Rubio’s restaurant used to serve lunch and dinner daily, now it’s open five nights a week for dinner only. "I tell the new servers, ‘Probably, you are going to see people who are not happy. But if you do, call me and I will go to the table. We need these people to come back.’" And they do, again and again. Most, but not all, are forgiving of his staff’s rookie mistakes. "I want to say, ‘Be a little more patient with the new employees. You can see that they are young people.’ My oldest bus person is 18!" 
Jerry Dicecco, of Jerry and the Mermaid in Riverhead, finds himself managing expectations as well. "When we first reopened back in 2020, people were completely understanding," said the chef, whose father, Jerry Sr., opened the seafood restaurant more than 25 years ago. "It could take an hour to get your food, they were just happy to be back in a restaurant. In 2021, diners’ expectations went back to where they were in 2019. Last year was all thanks and praise, this year is ‘Well, why did it take so long?’ " 
Another point of contention between restaurants and loyal patrons is what might be termed the coconut shrimp problem. When diners open menus and discover that a dish they’ve loved for decades is temporarily unavailable, it feels like a betrayal. "Everybody always thinks that we are blaming it on supply chain issues and we’re full of"—um, beans—"and we’re not," said Dicecco, who begged seven of his usual purveyors for shredded coconut last fall, to no avail. Diners were incredulous when he 86ed the shrimp for a month. "They were like, ‘What do you mean? We’ve been getting it since 1994!’ "
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Jerry and the Mermaid’s fans love being met by Dicecco in the dining room, all the "personalization and greeting people and caring about what they have to say and where they’re going to college or who’s pregnant." He and his father, who these days can often be found in the front of the house "shaking hands and kissing babies," have long treated their customers as extensions of the family, and they won’t be 86ing that approach, come what may. "We have to stay true to who we are and what we think hospitality is." 
Dicecco and most other restaurateurs appreciate criticism more than you might expect, although there are limits. Since opening last August, almost all the online reviews of Pecado, a busy new Mexican spot in Bay Shore, have been positive, according to owner Ian Coughlin, but he approaches the negative few as an investigator might, poring over footage captured on in-house cameras and interviewing employees. One review chastised Pecado’s hostess for texting instead of greeting guests ("She was actually texting me"), another called the food bland. "What did they order, you ask? A quesadilla and apple juice. And that’s how they judge my modern Mexican restaurant." And then there was the guy who tried to send his entrée back after he’d eaten 90 percent of it, prompting a table visit from Coughlin. "‘What was wrong with it, sir?’ ‘It was cold.’ ‘You ate the whole thing!’" Nonetheless, Coughlin offered to reheat what was left, and later a cocktail on the house. The man refused both. "He proceeded to give me two bad reviews on two different platforms, to which I replied in kind."
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 Somewhat unusually for a new restaurant, Pecado’s service has been singled out for praise by many diners, a feat all the more impressive when you consider that staffing challenges have meant that Coughlin sometimes busses and waits tables himself, roping in his wife as needed. And while hospitality remains paramount, he also rejects the old model of the restaurateur as a paragon of deference. "I don’t bow to every request," he said. "I operate on the idea that the customer is not always right, more so now because of the amount of debt, the amount of risk." And as chancy as that might sound, no less a dining arbiter than Food &amp; Wine agrees. In September, the magazine generated buzz with its "New Rules of Dining Out," which decried such kowtowing as "outdated, a servile relic of a former (pre-pandemic) time." 
Relic or not, if there’s one dining category where customer entitlement will likely continue to reign supreme, it’s steakhouses. Joe Bruton, a managing partner of Scotto Brothers, which owns Opus, demurred when asked if the customer was always right. "Whether they’re right or wrong is irrelevant—I need that guest to come through the door," he said. Fewer people are eating out these days, Bruton explained, and com- petition for high-end diners is fierce. "So if they’re not enjoying the steak, I’m making another one." 
Complicating matters are those little words rare, medium and the like. "In my opinion, out of any restaurant, steakhouses are the most difficult to work in, to manage and to be a chef at," said Sean Whalen, general manager of George Martin’s Strip Steak in Great River. "Because the main event, the reason why you’re here—it’s so easy to not get right." Many diners have an image in their mind of what a medium steak should look like, for instance, but steakhouse kitchens use the only gauge that truly matters, the meat’s actual temperature. "Sometimes we’ll get a steak back and it is medium," said Whalen. But, he then added, what many people think of as medium is actually something else.
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It helps to have an experienced and proactive waitstaff. George Martin’s patrons ordering the marbled rib-eye, say, are forewarned that it’s the fattiest cut on the menu. Even so, some will send it back for the filet mignon. "We’ll still fix it," said James Cavorti, the long-time executive chef. "But when they go from a rib-eye to a filet, you know that they’re really not sure what they’re ordering or eating." 
Good communication is vitally important, and it goes both ways. "If you call and say, one of my party is a little overweight and we don’t want to walk far," Whalen said, "I’ll put a note in the reservation that puts them at a table that’s probably bigger than I would normally give them, because I want them to be comfortable." From the moment guests are seated, servers will watch for nonverbal cues as well. "If you even suspect that there’s a problem—it could be a marital problem—I want to know that something doesn’t feel right," Whalen tells his servers. "They have to be able to read people. That’s what sets you apart from Outback and other places." 
 During this unprecedented period, communicating with diners about staffing issues is critical. Consider La Coquille in Manhasset. The restaurant, which made its debut in 1969, was started by the founders of Lafayette, a legendary Manhattan spot in the ’70s, also known as the place that once turned away Jackie Onassis for wearing blue jeans, and John Wayne for not wearing a tie. (The Duke fashioned his shoelaces into a bolo.) "Even now, people expect more professional service, delivery and execution here," said Michael Miller, who for 15 years has owned the white-tablecloth establishment.
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COVID did present huge challenges. "We ran into some serious problems. There were definitely nights when we had to apologize profusely to customers and say, yes, we’re understaffed. For the most part, though, with a little gratuitous dessert or cocktail, as well as a good apology and a smile, I’d say most were understanding." 
They could certainly see that Miller was trying, dividing his time between giving tours for the New York State Liquor Authority, which at one point was making unannounced COVID-compliance visits twice a week, and hurrying through the dining room bussing tables and tending bar. 
"The hardest part is, people recognize you and want to chat a little bit, and then you have that fine line between being polite and running for your life to put out the next fire." 
They haven’t been putting out any actual fires since the pandemic, as La Coquille’s most popular dish, duck à l’orange, is no longer flambéed tableside. Gone too are the dessert carts that used to be wheeled around the dining room. But the treats themselves are still made in-house, said Miller, and flambéing was always a mixed blessing. "Tableside creates its own issues. Some people always got upset about the flame." 
Five of the six restaurants I visited are doing better business than they were before COVID, and Pecado, the post-pandemic spot, is enjoying crowds as well. Great service is undoubtedly one of the reasons, but there are others. Outdoor tables, which La Coquille didn’t have till 2020, turned out to be an excellent advertisement for the half-century-old Northern Boulevard restaurant. "People who had driven by here for 10 or 20 years said, ‘We never even knew you were here.’ It opened up a whole new customer base for us." 
All said it’s been worth it—the staffng short- ages, impatient diners, supply chain issues, occasional bad reviews—for the pleasure they get from cooking food and serving it well, even now. Or in Elmer Rubio’s case, especially now. 
"I had COVID in 2020, right in the beginning," said Chachama’s chef-owner. "Anybody who’s had COVID looks at their life a little differently. After that, it feels like a gift to be healthy."

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Left:&nbsp;Jerry Dicecco, of Jerry and the Mermaid in Riverhead, greeting customers and friends, Frank and Jean Belson. Top:&nbsp;Jerry's famous lobster roll at Jerry and the Mermaid. Bottom:&nbsp;Coconut shrimp with honey aioli at Jerry and the Mermaid. Photo credit: Newsday/ Alejandra Villa Loarca

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Left:&nbsp;Ian Coughlin, owner of Pecado in Bay Shore, greeting customers. Top:&nbsp;Pollo en mole&nbsp;at Pecado. Bottom: At Pecado, fragrant burnt sage garnishes the Sage Jalisco cocktail. Photo credit: Newsday/ Alejandra Villa Loarca

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Left:&nbsp;Michael Miller owner of La Coquille in Manhasset. Top:&nbsp;Pan seared wild halibut at La Coquille. Bottom:&nbsp;Chocolate mousse at La Coquille. Photo credit: Newsday/ Alejandra Villa Loarca

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Everybody's a critic: What to know about good service at LI restaurants

Erica Marcus

Rei Hirasawa started her meal with kinpira gobo, stir-fried slivered burdock root and carrots sprinkled with sesame seeds. Soon it was joined by ika sansai, a salad of marinated squid, the two square stoneware plates nestling side by side on the table at Takumi in Commack, and a nuanced meditation on the simple pleasures of earth and sea. 
On this chilly day, Hirasawa had also hoped to find kamburi — what large amberjack are called when caught at their fattest and most succulent, in the winter. And sure enough, next up was a plate of kamburi sashimi. Takumi’s chef-owner, Yukio Okamura, had dabbed each glistening slice with a pinch of grated, pickled wasabi stem. 
A showstopper followed: a whole aji (horse mackerel) presented in spectacular fashion. The head and tail were still intact, but the meat of the fish had been neatly filleted and sliced into sashimi that was showered with chopped scallions. The fish’s clean frame was skewered and arranged in a curl on the plate, its head and tail in the air. 
After Hirasawa finished the sashimi, the frame was whisked into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later, minus head and tail and fried into a crisp, golden shard. "The bones are so soft, you can eat them," she explained.
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Such classic Japanese dishes are uncommon on Long Island. We may be drowning in a sea of ramen and sushi, but there are actually fewer than a dozen Japanese-owned restaurants on Long Island, and their numbers are dwindling. KuraBarn in Huntington shuttered last October, and Nagashima in Jericho and Taiko in Rockville Centre closed, respectively, in 2019 and 2018. 
Hirasawa was born in Japan but grew up in Queens and Nassau County. Her father worked for a Japanese multinational corporation in the United States for 20 years before returning to Japan, and, as the daughter of expats, her childhood included Japanese lessons, Japanese groceries and Japanese restaurant meals at the late, lamented Nagashima as well as Shiro of Japan in Carle Place, Daruma in Great Neck and Yamaguchi in Port Washington. Now living in Suffolk County, she’s had to cross KuraBarn off her list, but is grateful for Takumi. 
"It’s so important to me to have a restaurant that does things the right way," she said. Takumi’s menu is full of little-seen Japanese dishes such as unagi kogushi yaki (skewered barbecued eel), kabocha squash, satsumaimo (Japanese sweet potato), hamachi kama (grilled yellowtail collar), oyako donburi ("mother and child" rice bowl topped with dark-meat chicken and scrambled egg). When seasonal fish such as kamburi and aji show up, Kiyomi Okamura, Yukio’s wife and partner, calls regular customers to spread the word.
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"My husband was trained in Japan starting when he was 15," Kiyomi said proudly. "When you become a chef in America, there are things you don’t learn." She described the laborious process of correctly draining blood from a bonito fish, trimming monkfish liver for pâté. She explained the Japanese concept of shita goshirae, which translates to "preliminary work," but encompasses all the things a chef does to ensure the end product is as good as possible. "It is time-consuming, but it must be done," she added. "That is why we named the restaurant ‘Takumi,’ which means ‘artisan’ or ‘craftsman.’ " 
Yukio was already an accomplished chef in Japan when he was recruited by KuraBarn to come to Long Island. After the original owner retired, he worked at Kurofune in Commack before striking out on his own in 2008. He and his wife are well aware of Takumi’s status as a Japanese standard-bearer. A notice on the restaurant’s website explains "Why Takumi Doesn’t Serve Fried Rice. The reason … is simple: it’s not a Japanese dish." The coup de grâce: "We’re letting you in on the secret — shh! — crunchy spicy tuna is nonexistent in Japan." 
The Okamuras learned early on that the Japanese and American conceptions of sushi are wildly divergent. In Japan, it is served at dedicated sushi bars, not at all restaurants. And it is an altogether more restrained affair. "When I first came to the U.S.," Kiyomi said, "I saw those crazy rolls with mango and mayonnaise and panko and I wondered, ‘What is that?’ Our sushi rolls are about freshness of fish and balance of fish and rice." 
It’s hard to remember a time when sushi wasn’t available at supermarkets and steakhouses and most Chinese restaurants. But back in the last quarter of the 20th century, it was a rarity on Long Island. And before most Long Islanders developed a taste for sushi, our oldest Japanese restaurants — Shiro of Japan in Carle Place (est. 1972), Inatome in Valley Stream (1975) and Taiko in Rockville Centre (1979) — had a built-in audience among the Japanese expats who worked at Japanese companies (such as TDK, Canon, Olympus and Nikon) in western Nassau. 
"Working in New York was an elite position for Japanese businessmen," said Ron Zilkha, a semiretired travel agent who moved from Japan to Long Island in the 1980s. "And Port Washington became a hub — there was a network of realtors who specialized in renting homes to Japanese families who were here for a few years." 
It was that expat community that led Akira Yamaguchi and his wife, Yasuko, to open their eponymous restaurant (formerly Ichiban) in Port Washington in 1988. "It was a good location," Yasuko recalled. "Right across the street from the train station and with plenty of parking in back. So we took it."
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Akiko Blanchard was an early customer. Born in Japan, she had married an American and moved to Port Washington in 1977. "Ichiban had a chef from the Philippines," she said. "The food just didn’t have the right flavor. When Yamaguchi opened, the food had the tastes I grew up with." 
Blanchard recalled seeing the Japanese businessmen crowded at the sushi counter ordering omakase (chef’s choice) while she, on a budget, stuck to homey classics like nabeyaki udon, fat wheat noodles in a clear broth loaded with chicken, vegetables, poached egg and fish cake. 
While she cooked Japanese food at home for her family, Yamaguchi’s presence nearby meant that she no longer had to go to the trouble of deep-frying tempura. She was — and remains — particularly grateful for the restaurant’s chawanmushi, a delicate savory custard steamed in a special porcelain cup. "Mine always has a surface that looks like a moon crater," she said. "At Yamaguchi it is always perfect."
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Yasuko said that over the 34 years she and her husband have been in business, the number of Japanese-born customers has steeply declined. "In the old days, the men came every day for lunch and then, on weekends, for dinner with their families." (Zilkha noted that TDK has moved to Uniondale, Canon and Nikon to Melville, Olympus to Pennsylvania.) 
In 2013, the original Yamaguchi on Main Street was destroyed in a fire, reopening two and a half years later a few doors east. But, aside from the address, Yasuko said, Yamaguchi has not changed. "Our menu is like it has always been," Yasuko said. And it’s complicated. The four-page laminated light-blue menu lists the usual suspects — miso soup, salad with ginger dressing, sushi and sashimi platters, beef and chicken teriyaki, negima yaki (beef rolled around scallions) — but there are fascinating outliers such as tako su, sliced snow-white octopus served in a chilled, vinegared broth.
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Then there are the white menu inserts. The sushi list comprises more than 20 types of fish, not including daily specials. Maki (rolls) are notably restrained (a dragon roll with eel, avocado and cucumber is about as crazy as they get), but what you won’t see at many other places are maki filled with kampyo (calabash), or plum and shiso leaves, or natto, the slimy, wildly funky fermented soybeans often eaten over rice. 
On another insert you’ll find appetizers, many of them drawn from the izakaya (bar snack) tradition and including kamo namban soba, or soba noodles with sliced roast duck breast, ebi shinjo (fried shrimp patties) and nasu hasami age (fried eggplant stuffed here with crabmeat). 
Traditional Japanese restaurants serve tsukemono, pickled vegetables, which are nibbled throughout the meal as palate cleansers. "We call them hashi yasume — ‘rest your chopsticks,’ " Yasuko explained. Certainly, the word "pickles" hardly does justice to their jewel-toned splendor. Takuan, the color of the setting sun, are coins of sweet- tart daikon; shocking magenta shibazuke are made from Japanese eggplants; cucumbers are transformed into emerald-green kyurizuke, nondescript tan burdock root turns a vivid pumpkin in yamagobo. 
The Yamaguchis couldn’t continue to serve these specialties if they hadn’t cultivated a wide audience for them. The couple moved to Port Washington shortly after opening the restaurant, drawn not only by the short commute but by the beauty of its shoreline and the strength of its civic organizations. In this tightly knit town, Yasuko is a local hero, supporting the public library and catering its ESOL (English as a Second Language) "graduation" celebration; helping to feed families in need through the Port Washington Community Chest. She’s an avid cat rescuer and has served on the board of the North Shore Animal League since 2011. 
Jane Mason, a longtime customer who has become a close friend, has developed a passion for Japanese cuisine and culture under Yasuko’s tutelage. After more than 30 years, she rarely orders from the menu — Yasuko just brings her food — and her favorites include sunomono (brined, pressed cucumbers) with lightly vinegared sashimi and hamachi kama.
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Yasuko has plenty of customers who hold the line at California rolls and chicken teriyaki, and she is no less gracious to them than those who venture into natto territory. Japanese-owned restaurants share a devotion to the concept of omotenashi, another tough-to-translate concept that always puts the guest’s happiness first. Fumble your chopsticks, douse your sushi in soy sauce, drink your sake on the rocks — there’s nothing a diner can do to that will diminish Japanese hospitality because the guest’s comfort is paramount. 
But, before you order that umpteenth spicy tuna roll, poke around the menu a bit for something less familiar. You’ll find that the rewards for exploring traditional Japanese dishes are numerous and delicious, gratifying both diner and host. 
<h2>Restaurant information</h2> 
TAKUMI: 149 Veterans Memorial Hwy., Commack; 631-543-0101, <a href="https://www.takuminy.com/">takuminy.com </a> 
YAMAGUCHI: 49 Main St., Port Washington; 516-883-3500, <a href="https://www.restaurantyamaguchi.com/">restaurantyamaguchi.com</a>

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Long Island restaurants offering a true taste of Japan

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The NHL released alternate jerseys for all 32 teams on Monday.

The Isles' Fisherman jersey is back!

It's the streaming service to watch live games from MSG and YES Network

How do you pronounce DAZN, and why do New York sports fans want it?

The Jets were the No. 1-ranked defense after two games and No. 2 after three games, but the last few losses have been a major step backward.

The Jets' defense has fallen off after a hot start — and it could get worse the next few weeks

It's a tough go with Dylan Garand and James Reimer while they wait for Joonas Korpisalo to return from injury after losing Igor Shesterkin for the season.

Stephenson: Korpisalo will be back soon, but can Rangers survive their new goaltending normal?

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Nassau and Suffolk counties have implemented a combined $57 million in technology upgrades to streamline the voting process.

'It has really great features'

A college's sticker price doesn't tell the full story of what the average student pays after financial aid and scholarships. See how more than 150 NY colleges compare. NewsdayTV's Shari Einhorn reports.

'Tuition is a lot'

The Town of Oyster Bay and Northrop Grumman are locked in a dispute over the extent of the plan to clean up Bethpage Community Park. NewsdayTV's Virginia Huie reports.

'No reason for us to believe any area is safe unless tested'

A tipster says he told the state about buried drums at Bethpage Community Park nearly a decade ago. Newsday's Ken Buffa reports.

Uncovering the truth about the chemical drums

The attorney general's investigation affirms the stories told by multiple women during an emotional, hourslong school board meeting in November 2021 — a turning point that sparked a public reckoning and spawned the state probe. NewsdayTV's Andrew Ehinger reports.

'At times I felt like I had my hopes up and nothing would come of it'

<a href="https://www.newsday.com/video/newsdaytv-top-stories">Get more on these and other NewsdayTV stories</a>

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