Merrill Shindler

Nation's Restaurant News, Oct 14, 1996 by Richard Martin

"Too often there's a level of service where they might as well be selling shoes or widgets," he says. A good restaurateur who hopes to feed his guests again and again learns to empathize with them and earn their trust as a lover would his or her mate, Shindler adds.

"The big mistake that restaurants make is not recognizing the intimacy of what they're doing," he says. "A restaurateur must constantly remind his people about the importance of personal service."

It's nearly 3 p.m. before Shindler arrives back home and returns to his office. He again checks his e-mail, then returns some phone calls and gets back to his writing. But before long his wife calls to remind him about various errands he must run and to say she has to work late, so he's on his own for dinner.

At a quarter to four he leaves on his errands, returning home by 5:30 after again battling traffic. Vowing to get up extra early the next morning to meet his deadlines, he takes the dog for an hour-long walk in the park. Then, at 7 o'clock, he departs for dinner.

Tonight's restaurant is branch No. 4 of the Versailles chain, this one in Manhattan Beach and just opened that same day. Arriving at 7:30, he is told there is an hour's wait for a table. Forty-five minutes later the restaurant's five counter seats begin to turn over, and Shindler at last is seated.

His order is taken immediately, and one minute later his Mexican beer arrives, followed in another minute by his avocado-and-onion salad. A minute later comes hot bread, followed in only two more minutes by half a garlic chicken with fried plantains.

Noted for review: Meal sends Shindler to "culinary heaven." Chicken, he says, is as good as at any other Versailles branch. Despite long wait and fret-day conditions, service is snappy; folks are friendly. Will return for lunch with group of companions to try lots of dishes and more garlic chicken.

Batting .500 for the day on restaurant picks and with a takeout order of chicken in hand for his wife, Shindler heads home, stopping at a gourmet shop to restock his ever-shrinking Chardonnay collection. He vows facetiously to drink more red wine to achieve parity in his stocks.

Having arrived home about 9 p.m., he feeds his wife, who is busy paying bills, and then walks the dog around the neighborhood, returning in time to watch the 10 o'clock news. He simultaneously sifts through a growing pile of food magazines and makes notes about his most pressing deadlines before retiring for the evening.

So little time, so much to eat. And, always, even more to write.