Mixx and Match

Maybe because I was a waiter myself for so many years, I don't want to work while out to eat. That means I don't like ordering at a counter and I really hate to carry my own plate, silverware and napkins across a dining room in search of a table. For doing that much work, the restaurant owner should be tipping me.

But I do make exceptions to my own rule, if the payoff — the food, the atmosphere, the price — is worth the irritation of schlepping my own meal. That's definitely the case at the two-month-old casual-dining concept called The Mixx. Created by caterer Jo Marie Scaglia and her brother, Phil (her financial partner and occasional busboy when the place is swamped), it's a salad and sandwich joint that's truly upscale.

A friend of mine calls The Mixx "a sandwich shop for customers who wouldn't be caught dead at Subway." But that's not a fair comparison, because the operation offers a far more sophisticated menu — with real chefs behind the counter — and sells more salads than sandwiches. And it sells a hell of a lot of sandwiches.

Actually, since she first threw open her glass-and-steel door last December, Jo Marie has been selling quite a bit of everything, except the Tuscan tuna sandwich (which is now off the menu but occasionally offered as a special) and the Grilled Steak Philly sandwich. The Philly got a glamour makeover last month and was reborn as the Classic Blue; the slices of beefsteak stayed the same, but the topping of grilled onions and provolone was changed to grilled, balsamic-splashed onions and mushrooms and a punchy blue-cheese aioli. It's all tucked into a crusty French baguette and is extraordinarily rich but delicious.

Because The Mixx is in my neighborhood, I've dined there at least a dozen times and ordered a couple of carryout meals so I could lazily eat in front of the TV. But the tube is rarely as interesting as people-watching in The Mixx's 75-seat dining room. It attracts a really eclectic clientele: white-collar workers from the offices above and surrounding the restaurant (including a lot of lawyers), Plaza condo dwellers, construction workers building new midtown lofts, and mothers and kids who stepped over for a snack after visiting the branch library right across the parking lot.

"It's sort of a see-and-be-seen place," said my friend Sophia, who joined me, Annabelle, Justin and Jane for lunch one afternoon. But Sophia didn't see anyone she knew, except her boss, who was having some intense business meeting, so we pretended we didn't see her. "But there are people here who look like they're somebody," Sophia said. "Do you think they are?"

I couldn't think, period. I was still reeling from just ordering my lunch. And that brings me to my only real gripe with The Mixx: It is utter chaos at the front door. Customers stand in line to get to an ordering station where several young men in white jackets are whirling around, taking orders, throwing salmon on a grill, slicing sandwiches and mixing salads. There's a specific routine for ordering in this claustrophobic corner, but it's not clearly defined, even when the adorably shaggy "greeter" hands you a laminated menu and attempts to explain it.

"Right there," he said, pointing to the left-hand corner of the open wrap-around kitchen, "is where you order salads." Pointing a couple of feet away from the salad station, he announced, "And you order sandwiches over there."

"And where does one order pasta?" I asked. Shaggy scratched his head and grinned. "I'm not totally sure, let me go and ask." He did, although I didn't remember where to go, because he launched into an interesting monologue about his former job at a midtown Japanese steakhouse, where the money had been really lousy. I got caught up in that story and lost my sense of direction. It didn't matter, because I hadn't planned on ordering pasta. But Justin was going to order another of the daily specials, the beef stew, so he needed to be pointed in the direction of the pasta line.

I ordered from the sandwich chef, who checked off my request — a Moody Rudy sandwich — then shoved a copy of the order slip at me and pointed me in the direction of the cashier. There was so much pointing going on, I briefly felt like Dorothy navigating the Yellow Brick Road in the middle of Munchkinland.

As I stepped forward, Annabelle caught my arm. "Look at the chef making salads. He looks like somebody famous."

I squinted in the direction of the bald, attractive, whirling dervish on the other side of the glass divider and had an epiphany. "Billy Zane!" I said.

Annabelle agreed, although she felt that the real Billy Zane could never be as spectacularly coordinated as chef Jim Gasser — formerly of the Dragonfly Grill — who juggles metal bowls and fresh vegetables with nearly breakneck speed. A friend of mine says that asking for an unexpected request, like a chopped salad, can briefly throw him off his beat, but only momentarily.

Annabelle watched in fascination as Gasser tossed together the ingredients in Sophia's made-to-order Mixx salad. She was the only really creative member of our group —she took the restaurant's concept at face value and chose all the ingredients she wanted in her salad: wild field greens, artichoke hearts, edamame, couscous, tomato and avocado.