The standard I expect at the table

A table is a piece of theatre that must never look like theatre. Glasses in a line you could draw with a ruler. Cutlery quiet. Napkins that match the house, not the last boat you were on. Flowers low enough that guests can see each other.

I walk the table at minus ten minutes. I look for water spots, lipstick on a rim, a fork that drifted, a candle that will smoke. The stew who already caught those things is the stew I promote.

Service: from the right or as the house prefers, but consistent. Never reach across a conversation. Never announce a dish like a restaurant if the table is private and quiet. Watch the host. The host runs the pace, not the clock in the galley — though you still protect the chef.

Wine: know what is open, what is waiting, and who is not drinking. Fill to the house level, not to the brim. If you do not know the bottle, ask the chief before the guest asks you.

The last ten percent is the walk-away. Crumbs, a dropped napkin, a glass that is empty while the story is still going. Stay in the room without living in the room.