There are the rituals, delightful and urbane, presentations attending restaurant dining: the conjuring of a tableside Caesar salad, the ostentatious yet delightful rendering, as you watch, of prime rib carved into luscious slabs under the keen blade of a chef, the precise artistry of the sushi-making master, that add a touch of class and culture to a meal out.
For our money, though, nothing can compare to the guy manning the counter at Arthur Bryant’s who grabs a meaty fistful of smoky, glistening brisket and plops it on a white square of Wonder Bread. It’s a rite of ceremonial sharing, a communion between server and served that manages to be both primal and civilized: You’re being presented food—but there aren’t any implements, no tools more basic than human hands that intrude on that wonderfully elemental act.
It’s still enjoyable, but something, at least a little something, was lost when some years ago the servers at Bryant’s began donning plastic gloves.
Yes, we understand the concept of germs. Yes, we salute the hardworking legions of the FDA and the various health departments throughout the land who sally forth daily with their temperature probes and their inspection sheet checklists who keep us safe from all manner of food-borne pestilence. No, we do not wish to have added to the possible condiments on our next cheeseburger a dressing of listeria.
We are no longer living in the 17th century, and we should be grateful every trichinosis-free moment of our lives that we aren’t. Those open-air markets in some third-world corner that Tony Bourdain slobbers over on TV are quaint and folksy but thanks, we prefer a sneeze hood in between customers and whatever exotic animal parts are being proffered and maybe even (who knows?) a wee chilly shiver of refrigeration.
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All that said, beard nets are the dumbest addition to restaurant kitchens since the banana slicer.
Beard nets became a thing in the food service industry about an hour and a half ago, when restaurant kitchens and trendy bars apparently made it mandatory for their male workers to sport cheek foliage deeper and lusher than tall grass prairies. That might be a slight exaggeration, but the consequence is not...
Ladies and gentlemen, we present the beard snood.
Yes, this is the correct term in the sterilized world of foodservice products, a spun-bonded, polypropylene net that looks something like those spider-web awnings clinging below bridge construction sites. Only these are designed to capture whatever facial follicles might tumble from mouth brooms of kitchen workers and onto the plates of diners.
The threat? A TV station in New Mexico recently chin-stroked several beards and submitted the results for laboratory analysis. The results? Santa’s whiskers might give him an avuncular charm, but you probably would not want to let infants sleep in there. A comparison to toilet seats was made, not in the favor of the face hair.
That acknowledged, what is the real danger of contamination that necessitates fencing off beards from any possible contact with our consommé or Jack’s tacos? It’s not as if our bearded restaurant workers are shedding like a Malamute in a wind tunnel. We’re willing to chance letting those billy goat bristles flourish unrestrained, if for no other reason than the face slings drooping from the Smith Brothers who now seem to be preparing so many of our meals look so idiotic.
As the appearance of the beard snood demonstrates, however, there is considerable sentiment to the contrary.
The FDA’s 2013 Food Code requires “hats, hair coverings, or nets, beard restraints, and clothing that covers body hair” for food service workers. Strictly snoodly speaking, the Code does not specify when a five o’clock shadow lingers around long enough into the evening to turn into a legitimate muzzle hedge. When does a modest soul patch grow up and become a Van Dyke? It appears the FDA standardization of beard snoods is, much like our own facial hair, a grey area.
We sought the wisdom of the St. Louis County Health Department on the subject. What information did they provide? Well, let’s just say that if you enjoy the folksy intimacy and concise assistance that results from calling the Internal Revenue Service, you’ll adore the level of deep personal connection and service provided by the health department. We never were able to speak with a live human being. Robots appear to have taken the department hostage. We could have pressed #45 to hear their demands but we didn’t want to get involved.
We understand the predicament restaurant owners and managers find themselves. It’s fine for us to lament the good old days when Gus could hoist a bare claw full of brisket in the building of one of Arthur Bryant’s glorious combo sandwiches. When cooks and servers didn’t look like they were sporting gauzy face lingerie. We can long for those days because we aren’t going to have to withstand the furor of customers who espy an errant hair in their Bolognese sauce. We don’t have to deal with the Inquisitor Generals who inspect restaurants and have the power to put a lock on the establishment. We doubt most restaurants that have workers strapping on face fences are doing it because they want to. It’s to cover themselves, legally as well as literally.
So we may have to become accustomed to beard snoods, just as we have learned to live with chalkboard menus, buzzing pagers, and cold salads on warm plates. We might, however, want to encourage an alternative solution.
Maybe instead of trying to look like Billy Gibbons moved into the cooking business, chefs could just, you know, trim the face fleece. And for reasons completely unrelated to the putative health concerns. Think about it. You could make a pretty long list of the greatest chefs in the world without finding any facial forestation: Paul Bocuse. Alain Ducasse. Gaston Lenotre. Joel Robuchon. Jacques Pepin. Rachel Ray. All managed to turn out a decent omelet or whip up a passable Béchamel sauce and still kept a daily date with a razor.
Even Escoffier had an impressive upper lip warmer, but no beard.
Maybe instead of outfitting themselves with mandible hammocks, those in the restaurant industry could just clear cut the jaw jungles and go for the look of the big league players who have defined great cooking over the past half-century.
Fine. And then we can get on to more important stuff like addressing that whole “do you know how this restaurant works?" thing from the waiter.
