My buzzer goes off on the dimly lit floor, but the apron knotted at the small of my back absorbs the vibrations. I weave my way out of the dining area, past the host stand, through the bar space and into the kitchen to fetch the entrees, making sure to move with simultaneous briskness and poise. I steel myself as I brace for the three-plate carry: seat one — handkerchiefpasta, sideofbrussels; seat two — halibut, nocouscoussubancientgrains; seat four — NewYorkstrip, medium. How did I end up here? Me: a young, black vegetarian, setting a slab of dead animal in front of this upper-crust white gentleman in the hopes he’ll tip well and not call me “hon”?