Ever wonder why your server or chef gives you a dirty look? Jarad Dewing serves up a plate of explanation with a side of smirk.
Maybe you’ve seen the quintessential behind-the-scenes restaurant documentary “Waiting,” starring the greatest actor of our generation, Ryan Reynolds. Maybe you’ve watched one too many episodes of Anthony Bourdain‘s “No Reservations” and fancy yourself a global gourmand and culinary expert. Maybe you’ve paid to eat in a restaurant once or twice and caught glimpses of sallow-faced youth skulking around corners and ducking into mysterious corridors, disappearing for what seems like millennia and magically reappearing with your food.
Maybe you think you know what goes on back here because you’re a goddamn expert. Well, dear patron, hate to tell you – unless you’ve been paid three weeks late for 70 hours of work or have been tipped in religious tracts, you have no idea.
Behind that wall is an ant colony of activity, underpaid and overworked humans – actual people – scurrying about to make sure your special night out or work-break lunch is, at the very least, adequate. We aim for excellence, we really do. We hate complaints. We (generally) take inordinate amounts of pride in our work. Some of us are in it for the money, some of us are in it for the drugs, booze, and sex, but most of us are in it for the thrill. There is no trophy greater to any of us than standing tall after a murderous shift, arches of our feet throbbing, cash in our pockets and tickets on a spike. We live for this shit.
But without you, the customer, none of this would be possible. Let me take a moment to thank you for choosing to eat at our establishment. I – nay, we – want your dining experience to be as pleasant as possible. However, this is a team effort. You, the eater, you’re part of this team. If you screw things up, you affect everyone around you, and nobody has a good time. You want to have a good time, don’t you?
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Without further running amok, here are some insights into the mindset of the weary staff so dutifully attempting to meet your every need. Here’s what we really think of you…
…if you show up late for a reservation.
We hate you. The table’s been set aside, which means if anyone else shows up and politely requests a table, we’re required – for a little while – to decline them. They have to wait, ravenous and bordering on cannibalism, while you dawdle over which Abercrombie leather bracelet to wear. The cooks have been on the balls of their feet, anticipating your order and ready to rock. Their adrenaline is now curdling into lactic acid and their muscles are cramping.
Meanwhile, in the front of the house, your servers stare longingly at empty seats. “Oh, if there were only smiling faces in those chairs!” they cry. “Were that table only filled with thirsty folk and fat wallets, yearning for conversation and camaraderie! Will they ever come?” These men and women live and die by turning tables – which means when someone’s done and left, they seat someone else. A vacant table is a missed opportunity to pay rent or buy diapers.
Good work Grinch, you’ve ruined Christmas. Be on time, or – if you absolutely have to be late – call ahead.
…if you order a well-done steak.
We hate you. We will bemoan your existence for two main reasons: respect for the ingredient, and timing.
First, no chef worth their santoku would ever recommend cooking a halfway decent piece of meat to well-done. It kills the taste, it obliterates the texture, and it hurts our hearts. An innocent cow died to provide you with succulent beef, and you’ve decided that you prefer to consume its sacrificial flesh as if it were a lightly boiled 2×4.
Second, your timing is rude and selfish. The grill cook most likely has anywhere from 5 to 25 other pieces of meat on the flame at the point your blasphemous ticket comes chattering into the sanctum sanctorum. Keeping track of your order isn’t hard, but getting it you in a timely fashion is a different beast altogether. See, you’re not the only one in here. There are other tickets hanging in that cook’s rail. There are other patrons who would someday like to tell their friends that they’ve had dinner.
That dirty look you flash your server because it’s been 20 minutes since you ordered? Knock it off. You ordered a well-done steak and your neighbor ordered a turkey sandwich. You are making everyone at your table hungrier than they need to be. You are making your server nervous because they really want to feed everybody but they’re waiting on your steak to transmogrify into the grayish-brown hunk of carbon you so desperately crave at the expense of everyone’s stomach in a 30-mile radius.
Do you really, really need a well-done steak? Do it at home. Wrap that slab of perfectly good meat in some tinfoil and throw it in the oven. Read The Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan. When you’re finished with the book, your steak is done. Or you can chew on the sleeve of your pleather motorcycle jacket that looks a little like Wolverine’s.
Or you can order one of the hundred thousand other things on the fucking menu.
…if you clean up after your children.
We will hail you as a hero for years to come. We might use the Birthday Camera to take your picture and post it on the wall. Look, servers and bussers (those anonymous faces that swoop in and whisk your mess away) know it’s their job to sweep your dirtiness away in record time so another family can come sit down and spend money. But the second you ask for a high-chair, every face on our staff blanches. Kids are adorable terrors in this business. Crayons in the dipping sauce, french fries in the lap of an elderly customer two booths away, snot and tears and Ohmygod where is that shoe it was just on his foot I can’t find it!? We’ll get on our hands and knees to help you. That’s part of the job.
It’s nice to hear an apology, but we don’t need it. When you pile up all the crinkled paper placemats and wicker baskets dripping with ketchup before your server arrives, you are forever immortalized in the annals of Awesome Parent History. Thank you, from the bottom of our tired hearts. When you make sure every other customer in the place isn’t completely traumatized, and when you ignore the stank looks from the haters, all the while scooping up the flotsam and jetsam your spawn have strewn about in Mardi Gras-style nonchalance?
We love you.
…if you aren’t capable of making decisions.
You will frustrate us. There are 47 taps of draught beer and your bartender has handed you a list. The server rattles off a memorized index of specials including accommodating sides and included ingredients. A smarmy sommelier makes a recommendation.
Even those of us who have never been to the country know what a deer in headlights looks like. It looks like the befuddled customer staring blankly into space because they’ve been given options and lack the instinctual ability to pick one thing instead of another. You might be a palateless troglodyte. You might suffer anxiety attacks in Subway. We have no way of knowing unless you’re wearing a MedAlert bracelet engraved with “Freaks Out When Faced With Menus.”
If you ask for another minute – fine. If you ask for another five minutes – we’ll probably refill your water and hope another table tips better. If you stand at the bar, eyes glazing with oversaturation of information, taking up elbow space while three others with Jacksons waving are clamoring for simple drinks, we’re going to skip you.
Time is money. Our time is probably our only money, and those 30 seconds you just wasted examining the labels of bottles you don’t even want or the 30 minutes flipping a mental coin between two entrées means less money for us, the people who are trying to make you happy.
Put away the forensic microscope. Pick something and hope for the best. We’ll make you proud. Or we won’t, and you’ll never come back. Everyone wins.
…if you can communicate your expectations.
We will be grateful, because we’re not telepaths. If you’re in a hurry to catch the 7:35 showing of “The Hobbit: Desecration Of Our Childhood Dreams,” let us know. If you’ve got a diamond ring in your Prada jacket pocket and want to be left alone for awhile, let us know. We will pace your courses according to your timetable. Servers will only fill your water when there’s clearly a lull in conversation. Your order will be called aloud to the line “On the fly!” with a sense of urgency if you have somewhere more important to be than this place, our home away from home. We can all hurry or we can all smile softly and be invisible, at any time, because this is our gig. This is what we do.
But you have to let us know. Consider yourself the director, screenwriter, and star in a film you’re also paying for. We’re just the crew. If you want this thing to go smoothly, you have to communicate your vision.
If you are able to clearly tell us what you want, rest assured – we will deliver, best as we can.
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There are a hundred other items I could list, a thousand more rants I could unleash with vitriolic fervor, but the rub is that I want you to understand one thing: We don’t hate you. Not for long, anyway. Those of us behind the wall – in our bistro aprons or whites and our non-slip shoes – are people, just like you are. We have names and faces and homes. When we finally go home, we will either forget you entirely or complain about you for a minute and then slump into bed, completely spent.
We prepare for the worst and hope for the best. The worst… well, we both know what that looks like. Cursing, throwing food, splashing drinks, accusations, police. Even worse, the zero tip.
The best, on the other hand, is what everyone is aiming for. Trust me on this one. We’re trying. We want your drinks to be quick, your food to be perfectly prepared and delicious, and your time with us to be memorable.
All we ask is that you meet us halfway. So what can we get you?
Photo via emilio labrador/flickr
What kind of writer blasphemes in their article? Find better word choice. I was interested in the content but did not read a single word past that. Way to go with offending this reader.
It’s only blasphemy to you. Don’t expect others to hold your fairy tale religious beliefs. And what a hypocrite you are – you expect someone you don’t know to respect your religious beliefs but you can’t respect someones right to express themselves and their beliefs (a likely lack of religious belief is more accurate) so much so that you let one little word deter you from reading the rest of the article, sending you directly to the comments section so you can sound off about how offended you are. If goddamn is your idea of blasphemy, you need to “lighten… Read more »
My experience – YES I know you’re looking at me. I can feel your eyes on me and it makes me want to serve someone else. I am paid to be polite to you so please don’t take my polite professional nature as interest or approval. As a diner – I make sure I try to subtly let the staff know if they look run off their feet or otherwise stressed, that I am OK, and can tell. That I won’t have a go at them if my order takes a little longer, that I’ll make their job as easy… Read more »
Damn right (apart from the steak, you can have it any way you want, don’t be rude about someone else’s taste buds so easily). Having been a waitress for many years, I find it ridiculous that customers don’t know that they have to be as nice to us and we have to be to them. Many customers simply don’t treat waiters/waitresses as people and I could write a book on the brainless customers I’ve served
How about the guest who tells you (the server) that the Alfredo sauce isn’t really Alfredo sauce. That’s just an example, but yes, lady, I promise what I brought you was what we call Alfredo in our restaurant. Telling me it isn’t won’t change anything. I’m not part of the corporate bigwigs, I’m not even on the line as a cook. I’m a lowly server who has no control over how the sauce is made. And since you obviously know so much about Italian food, how come you had to have me explain tortelloni to you 5 times because you… Read more »
Well written article…I have been in the “business” for over 22 years, and have never read anything thay comes close to telling people how it is in he restaurant. I am going to share this on my facebook page.
Thank you.
As someone who was in fine dining for 25 years, order your steak however you want it done. Also, it’s not THAT hard to clean up after messy kids–even with white linen tablecloths and carpeted flooring, it was never the end of the world. There are sooooo many other reasons to be annoyed (and downright despise) patrons that these two are minor in comparison. The others are legit, however.
As the bartender at a Brazilian steakhouse in DC, I can assure you someone would some well done something and we’d vulcanize the cut for them, only to watch them take a bite or two and then order an ashen lump of something else while discarding the prior piece. Kids are more prevalent in less formal settings than you lead us to believe you worked in. They are pretty disruptive. Parents giving them cell phones and dvd players to distract them instead of including them in the experience. Cracker baskets and sugar caddies become impromptu sand boxes at the table… Read more »
I always go into a restaurant aiming to be the best customer of the night. Failing that, the handsomest.
Always found the best way to deal with Wait staff, is to acknowledge they are Human on the exact same level as myself. My kids were almost always warmly welcomed back to the various restaurants we’ve patronized…….Their best behavior was the minimum acceptable.