It’s August, 2007, the final week of our restaurant’s high season. My three-year-old daughter, Agnes, pulls me out of bed at seven o’clock. I follow her down the steps that lead from our living space to the restaurant space, on the ground floor of our house. The pine tables and floors gleam in the morning sun. As she eats her oatmeal and I drink my coffee, I study the reservation book. I know it will be the busiest night of the summer. I contemplate the floor chart as I would a puzzle—could we somehow squeeze in one more party? Our business flows from the Glimmerglass Opera, in nearby Cooperstown, so I make calculations about when people will arrive after the matinée and when others will leave for the evening curtain. I have the run times; I can be precise.

After breakfast, Agnes plays pick-up sticks with red cocktail straws while I polish a mountain of flatware. We have owned the place for four years, and I have learned that the food my husband, Clem, makes from the robust local ingredients of upstate New York—the roasted summer beets, the pork side ribs he prepares with skin on so the fat crackles when you bite into it, the buttercup-squash bread pudding with espresso ice cream—doesn’t matter if the front of the house isn’t right. Although a great restaurant experience must include great food, a bad restaurant experience can be achieved through bad service alone. Ideally, service is invisible. You notice it only when something goes wrong.

And things have gone wrong: a waiter lost his balance and smashed a full tray of glasses into the bar ice bin just as a huge round of drink orders came in; a woman got locked in the bathroom and had to be rescued by a waiter unscrewing the doorknob mid-rush; a choking man needed the Heimlich maneuver to dislodge a piece of food (which looked, as it flew out of his mouth, just like the safety posters); a bread basket placed too close to a votive ignited a small bonfire. My role is to remain calm, to throw the basket to the floor, stamp the flames out with my clog, and then whisk it away as if nothing had happened. Restaurants require concentration and timing. A badly handled problem during a rush can cascade and send the whole dining room careering toward disaster.

At noon, Agnes loves to watch as Clem portions the meat and fish, slicing through the smooth slabs of flesh. Later, the babysitter takes her to the playground. I restock the bar cooler and use a hand-lever press to squeeze lemon and lime juice. I sit by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the dining room and fold napkins. It is a simple, flat fold that hides the edges. Clem roasts garlic cloves, boils cardamom pods, and simmers the green-peppercorn-bourbon sauce for his steak dish. A sweet caramel tang waves through the dining room. I set the tables, placing each napkin an inch from the edge. Because there is so much I can’t control, I am a maniac about the details I can control.

At three, my waiters finish the setup. Just before five, I carry a tray upstairs with dinner for Agnes and the babysitter: goat-cheese-and-caramelized-onion tarts, creamed spinach, Pellegrino, and apple slices. I kiss Agnes good night and go downstairs.

We open the doors and in they come. After the pre-opera crush, the calmer second seating arrives. The light fades and people linger. The babysitter leaves at ten. Agnes’s bedroom is above the dining room. A low rumble of voices reaches her room, but she always sleeps through it. In the lull before the after-opera bar rush, the staff eats pasta concocted out of whatever didn’t sell at dinner. At eleven-thirty, our late crowd arrives—mostly the opera talent coming in to unwind after the performance. The line cook prepares the simple late-night menu and Clem helps me with the bar. Whenever I look up, six new faces are eager to order. Clem lines up glasses and mixes drinks. Under the noise, I hear Agnes crying on the baby monitor that sits on a shelf behind us. I make my way though the thick crowd. There is no time to comfort her, so I scoop her up and carry her downstairs. She stops crying, and I take orders with her on my hip. Clem makes the drinks and shakes his head, laughing. She is warm against me and falls asleep.

Later, I put Agnes back to bed, close the door, and pause at the top of the stairs. The candlelight flickers across the wood, and I hear the murmur of voices. At two-thirty, the last people leave. I finger the big stack of receipts. We are hoping the busy summer will pay for the slow winter of writing, of free time, of playing with Agnes.

Years later, after we have given up the restaurant, whenever I ask Agnes what she remembers about it, she always mentions that one night. I cringe, but she recalls it like this: you carried me through the dining room, and the crowd of people parted to let us through. The people smiled at me; they were all happy. ♦