2:49 a.m. - 2003-12-05
Lifer
Doors slamming, people screaming. It�s pretty easy to tune all this shit out, actually. You just consolidate, and only directly enter the constant melee when it becomes necessary. Which it will, of course� that�s part and parcel of getting paid 2.13 an hour to do the type of work I do. Nod and smile. Nod and smile to the annoyed chefs who want their food run now, the wait-aid who�s B. O. is so strong that guests cringe when he reaches over them to clear something, the clientele themselves, who insist upon describing an item that is not to their satisfaction with the same tired blase adjectives or catch phrases (this soup is ice cold; is there any alcohol in here?), the boss who screams that your hour long set up is a pathetic waste because you committed the glaring faux pas of overlooking two dinner napkin creases that weren�t facing the front door. They�ve all got something to bitch about, and eventually it�s all going to come your way. Mostly, I spend my shift hoping that there�s still some poor soul out there stumbling upon my establishment that actually knows the word tip is an acronym. As in, �To Insure Promptness�. As in, those that shell it out get the promptness, those that don�t get the shaft, and possibly something worse embedded in their Filet with Shallot Shiraz Cream or Cinnamon Squash Bisque. After all, second to Wall Street, the hospitality industry houses many of the most stressful jobs in America.
Honestly, it is scary how much you can tell about the caliber of a person by the way they behave at a restaurant. Negative stereotypes are real. Living, breathing (and mostly whining) things, they are coined as such for two reasons: they are precise, and yet they always provide an exception to the rule. I suppose most 'civilians' never think about whether or not the people that wait on them have any respect for them, and if they did think about it, perhaps they wouldn�t care. Restaurant lifers, the ones that get addicted, that thrive in environments where one makes their living by kissing ass for a few extra bucks at the end of a meal� they are intelligent . They are observers; they can postulate facts about your private life more accurately than any other randoms you encounter on your daily jaunts to that coveted cubicle, or your golf course pissing contests, or your hair salon/ soccer-mom sewing circles.
There is a modern soliloquy moment in that movie Gosford Park where Helen Mirren describes what distinguishes a great server: anticipation. It is the natural by-product of learning from what you observe. You know what your guest wants before they do. This comes from cataloguing everything one learns from certain personality types they serve over the years, and coming up with rough composites. With enough years in service, the rough composites are honed to something smooth, a streetwise sociology. Have you ever had a server tell you how you�d like your steak or burger cooked, or what appetizer you are going to have? They�ve seen you before� not you, but your kind. We�ve got your number, babe. We know which one of you will order white zinfandel and then sit there discussing �good wine� as if you were married to the editor of Wine Spectator. A well done steak plus a glass of hot water for silverware soaking equals a ten percent tip at the end of the meal, if we are lucky. We know this. If you are fine dining and you ask if a salad comes with the meal, we know you don�t get out much� at least not anywhere that isn�t T. G. I. Friday�s or some other cloned corporate eatery. We spend the entirety of our time with a table, from the initial greeting to the final farewell, calculating and reassessing our chances of garnering that mighty mighty twenty percent or more when it comes time to dole out the cash. Sure, we care about your dining experience. But we only care about that because if you are jovial, so shall your tip be. And then it�s jovial all around, vous savez?
We know your secrets, too. We know you are bulimic except when your old college friends come to town; we see how careful you are to hold off on ordering (just a sandwich) until everyone else has. We watch you surreptitiously eyeing everyone else when dessert is offered; we know what it means as you roll your eyes heavenward in an Oscar-worthy feint and declare that you couldn�t eat another bite. We know what that means, and they don�t� because normally, you have two desserts. Together. We know you know you have a problem, and we stoically stand steadfast with you, denying. You are always unfailingly polite. You always tip well.
We know you work hard at the office, too. Every day, you order water (you hate iced tea) and a vegetarian lunch item, laptop splayed open, papers fluttering around your French fries. And then you come in with someone else and the usual camaraderie with which you stride in is muted. You follow the other suit, and smile with a Ward Cleaver aw shucks grin as you say, �Iced tea and a chicken salad sandwich? Actually, that sounds great; I think I�ll have the same. The chicken salad is great here, Bob/Rob/Faceless Boss Who Has My Possible Promotion in the Palm of his Nasty, Iced Tea Clamping Paw.� We smile, too, even though your grin, when directly facing us, looks a little strained around the edges. We smile because we know what it�s like to be you, day in and day out. We know exactly what you are willing to do for that extra little bit, we know sacrifice of dignity. Fellow brother of deceit, would you trade your laptop for an apron? After all, we both wear ties.
