An expert waiter is both gymnast and poet. One’s a fast talker with fancy footwork and a steel-trap memory. Another can dodge a pushed-back chair, martini high overhead, without spilling a drop.
On Sunday, about 50 professional servers came from around London to compete in an annual waiters’ race through the heart of Soho.
This was no ordinary footrace. Speed mattered. But panache, pizazz and an essential and ineffable waiterliness mattered much more.
“This is about style as much as it is about going fast,” said the organizer, Takashi O’Rourke.
The waiters had to get around a course lined with drunk and (for the most part) orderly crowds as quickly as they could. But they also had to look the part, which meant wearing waiterly — or at least waiterly adjacent — outfits, carrying a tray laden with an ashtray, a napkin, a wine glass and a bottle of fizz.
And, oh, did we mention the one-handed thing?
“This is a special race to test your skill as a waiter,” the rules decree, “not just your skill as a runner.”
There are, of course, many paths to greatness.
Minutes before the start, some contestants were stretching and squat-jumping, while others were finishing their final pre-race cigarettes.
“I’m making sure I’m loose and ready to go,” said Marco Selver, 40, pumping his thighs. “It’s the Olympics for us waiters.”
Some who work in pubs lamented their disadvantage: They do not carry trays at work. “The more you look at the tray, the more it wobbles,” said Alex Ilies, 34, who works at the Glassblower, a London pub, and said he came in second last year.
The race was hosted by the Soho Society, a charity, and there was cash at stake: The first-place prize was 100 pounds (about $130). Cheating — two-handing the tray, say, or using adhesive — was grounds for disqualification. So was breaking anything on a tray during the race.
The contestants — who compete as individuals but also represent their restaurants — were looking to dethrone Ronnie Scott’s, a jazz club. But the real competition was Dean Street Townhouse, a hotel-restaurant in the Soho House extended multiverse. The restaurant at Soho House had a not-so-secret weapon: Endri Bombai, 32.
Mr. Bombaiwon in both 2021 and 2022. (He missed last year, when he was on vacation.)
His strategy is not really much of a strategy at all: Start fast and stay fast. “It gives me confidence,” he explained.
The race — a version of which has been run most years since at least the mid-1950s — is not just for Soho glory.The contestants’ eyes are on an old London rival, Paris, which resuscitated its own waiters’ race earlier this year for the first time in over a decade.
“This is where the real waiters’ race is,” Mr. O’Rourke said to the assembled foot soldiers in a pre-race briefing. “Not Paris.”
That footrace, he insists, is far too long: 1.2 miles compared with their smaller loop. (“Ridiculous.”) Their trays, he says, are child’s play. (“They had just a glass of water and a croissant. What is that?”)
And Mr. O’Rourke sees France’s formal dress code as appalling. (“It’s a joke. Pathetic.”)
Soho is known for its originality. Once a center of the sex industry and gay bars, it is still a gastronomic and nightlife hub. So, naturally, there’s always a “Best Dressed” award, too.
Traditional waiters’ outfits are welcome, Mr. O’Rourke said, but anything “Soho traditional” will also do just fine.
Black tie?
Of course, he said.
Black bikini and a bow tie?
“Perfect. That is what people think of a Soho waiter.”
A T-shirt and an apron?
“That’s cool.”
It’s not just about the aesthetics: The race is meant to celebrate an often low-paying and overlooked profession that has struggled even more since Britain withdrew from the European Union. The organizers also want to celebrate Soho, where rising rents and short-term tourist rentals are crowding out some residents.
The race itself is the capstone of a fete, a summer festival that is a staple for many British villages — and in Soho, which feels to residents like a village, too.
“We’re trying to assert character and individuality in an increasingly bland and generic world of city centers,” said Tim Lord, the chair of the Soho Society.
On Sunday, as the waiters jog-sprinted, their bottles wobbling and their forearms burning from the strain, the crowd whooped and filmed. The servers careened around the final corner, some shattering glasses. Then, they popped their corks, Daytona-style.
Waiters, gasping for breath, chugged hard-won Prosecco. Then, the prizes came down.
Best Dressed went to a neon-outfitted group described by one member as “80s and one rat” from a restaurant named Doppo.
In the women’s category, the winner was Natalia Diniz, 17, who works part time, front-of-house, as she finishes high school. “I practiced in my living room,” she said.
And Mr. Bombai, to no one’s surprise, finished way ahead. His simple strategy worked yet again: “I started fast, and I kept through to the end,” he said, gasping for air but victorious.
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