Snapshot of a Restaurant – or, BE NICE

“You can learn a lot, watching things eat.” – Frank Costello, The Departed***

I’m of the opinion that everyone should spend about six months or more in the restaurant business.  Waiting tables, hosting, cooking, running food; they’re all things that teach a person patience, diplomacy, and empathy.  Really.

Today was my Mom-date.  A weekly occurrence that is sometimes augmented by the presence of my grandmother, my mother and I have lunch together, and sometimes window shop.  My mother and I are opposites and yet sometimes eerily similar, so it all works out.

Today we chose a fairly nice place for our repast – we’ll call it Res (you know, like short for ‘restaurant’).  Res is the type of place that’s nice enough to boast an executive chef, yet its not pretentious enough to scare people away with a thirty dollar salad.  Cloth napkin clad and offering an intricate cocktail menu, it’s dark recesses offered a welcome respite from the summer heat.

The dude who seated us (whom I shall from here call Mark) noted that the rush was beginning and that apparently our server was swamped.  He was nice enough to bring me my water and my mother a cup of coffee, and then took our order. He paused a moment to chat with my mother about her electronic cigarette (look it up if you have to) and then was on his way.

We tucked in to our lunch.  In the small silent moments between bites, I noticed a commotion at the table next to ours.  There seated were two women in their fifties; one wore a permanent scowl, while the other had an expression that strongly suggested that someone just farted.  Not a ‘toot-fart,’ mind you; I’m talking a full fledged, wet nasty-maker.  She was arguing with Mark about her salad (garnished with chicken).

“It’s overdone,” she insisted to Mark, gesturing to the chicken strips on her salad.  I cringed, but Mark replied calmly,

“It’s been marinated, so it looks that way.”

“No, it’s overcooked.  There’s no dressing!  Take it back.”

Mark scooped up her plate and returned to the back.  I’m sure I missed most of the exchange, but what I heard after raised my eyebrows.

Fart-Sensing Lady furrowed her brow.  “He has no respect!” she exclaimed bitterly.

“He has no idea what he is doing,” agreed her companion soothingly.

“No respect.  Unbelievable.”

Though I couldn’t hear some of the exchange between Mark and his customers, I could tell from a distance that he wasn’t exactly giving them the finger, or arguing.  In fact, the tones of his voice seemed conciliatory.  I told Mom about what I heard, chuckling a little.  Part of it was in empathy for Mark, and part was in an uncomfortable embarrassment for the two pinched-looking ladies next to us.

When Mark returned to our table, my mother murmured softly, “those ladies are ruuuuude.”

“I know,” he shrugged.  “I had to kind of walk away, so it wouldn’t get ugly.”  I guffawed.

“I started writing notes about what they said,” I offered, motioning to my small pad and pen.  “Hell, I’m gonna blog about this.”

“Oh?” he asked. “I’d love to hear what they said.”

Mark went on to explain that he had worked the early shift and had been off for hours.  He’d been doing his sidework (stuff servers (oh yeah, he wasn’t a host – he was a server) do at the end of their shifts to keep the place organized and running, like folding napkins, taking care of condiments, cleaning up, etc.) when the rush began.  As Res was already understaffed and overwhelmed, he volunteered to help, which meant taking tables like mine and the Angry Women next to us – all off the clock.

“I was supposed to leave a while ago,” he said, almost sheepishly.

Res’ manager approached the table next to us, where Fart Sensing Lady continued to lament the state of her salad.  “It’s overdone!” she nearly howled.  “NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO EAT THIS.”  The manager offered soft words meant to ameliorate (which I couldn’t hear), and disappeared, ostensibly to find some way to make these women happy.  At this point, my pen was in hand, ready to write down the laundry list of complaints that were sure to ensue.  I wasn’t disappointed.  Here’s what I wrote:

“NO RESPECT.”

“The dressing is all wrong.”

“They didn’t spear this pepper right.” (Side note: I couldn’t hear the name of the veggie, but it sure as hell looked like a green pepper.)

“This has no taste!”

“They didn’t string the peapods.” (Side note: what?)

“No. Taste.”

“The chicken was overdone.  I sent it back, and it’s still overdone!”

“No one should eat this.”

I giggled my way through the exchange as I jotted down their desultory philippic.  They just seemed so angry.  Over food.  One lunch in a series of thousands.  It was bizarre.

Here’s the thing, and this is where I drag out my soapbox from underneath the dusty confines of my bed.  I wish people would understand that servers are people, doing a job.  A job that pays rent and mortgage.  Try this; substitute food for any other product like say, insurance or cable, and there’s really no difference.  Yet I’ve seen folks flip out at servers over minutia that wouldn’t phase them when discussing their life policies.

Your server is your friend.  I recommend treating them as such, if for no other reason that they’re doing a job for which you are compensating them.  If you want to break it down to bare bones, they want you to enjoy your meal and their service as part of the job.  But it’s not that simple.  Many servers enjoy meeting the people that occupy their tables.  Most of them want to have a good time with customers.  It’s part of the appeal of the occupation.

And the position means taking care of customers.  No one wants an unhappy customer.  I know there are exceptions out there (hell, I’ve met some), but to a typical server, a happy customer equals a better experience on his or her part.

If there is something that is not to your liking, most servers will do what they can to correct it.  Here’s the key – like I said, treat your server with respect.  If you’re unhappy about something, BE NICE.  It’s ok.  Explain rationally what you want to see changed, and most servers will be happy to fix it.  There’s no need to yell, threaten, disparage, etc.  Chances are, your server will find a way to please you.

Recognize that servers are people, too.  Sometimes they have bad days.  Sometimes they’re swamped.  Sometimes they can’t be at your table immediately.  It’s ok.  Just breathe.

You might ask why I, an internet blogger can so confidently offer this advice.  I was a server too, for over four years.  I’ve seen shit you can’t even imagine.  I’ve had lettuce thrown at me.  I’ve heard anti-semitic slurs thrown my way over a burger.  I’ve had comments about my nether regions casually uttered over a ceasar salad.  I’ve been grabbed.  I’ve had someone comment that my nail polish was ugly (my reply? “you’re lucky I didn’t put on the glitter polish this morning – you’d really hate that“).  Point is, I’ve been there.  I know what it’s like.  And I know exactly what it feels like to hear and feel all the above, and love my customers all the same.  I learned a lot about the human condition in my time waiting tables.  It’s made me a more patient and understanding individual.  And I am more than happy to cut whoever is bringing me food a little slack.  You should too.

I ran into Mark outside of Res and asked for a few comments about the Unhappy Women.

“My mother bartended,” he said philosophically.  “My whole family worked in the industry, so I’m used to it.  It’s my job to serve them.  I really like it.  I talked to some other folks here, who explained that serving isn’t demeaning.  I like taking care of people.  When my friends come over, they don’t leave the couch.  I take care of them, too.  It’s enjoyable.”

I think if I were in his shoes, having encountered a table like the Fart Sensing Lady, I wouldn’t have been so diplomatic.  But Mark continued,

“You have to ask yourself something,” he remarked, referring to his hard-to-please customers.  “You don’t know what kind of day they had.  Maybe they’ve just come from a funeral.  You have to take that in stride when dealing with them.”

At that point, I remembered the time I went to Dungaherins (a local restaurant/bar) after hearing a doctor tell my family that my grandfather wouldn’t last the next two days.  All I really wanted to do was bury my head in the booth cushions, sob, and drink obscene amounts of vodka.  I didn’t do any of the aforementioned acts, but I’m guessing maybe I wasn’t as nice to my server as I could have been.  So I get it.

The funny thing, is that Mark, who is my age, proffered these wise thoughts, while the women at his table, who easily had twenty years on him, claimed he “had no respect.”

Indeed.

***If you haven’t watched the film referenced above, I recommend it.  Anyway.

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