Dearest Diners,
After many years of waiting tables and putting up with all your charming neuroses, I decided I would begin to pen a series of heartfelt letters to clear the air between “well meaning” patrons and disillusioned servers the world over.
To begin this series of well intentioned and decidedly formal letters, I have decided to tackle the long standing tradition of the server’s greeting “Hello, welcome to The Chop House, my name is _____ and I will be serving you today.” Contrary to popular belief, you do not need to know my name. Unless you are eating at a TGI Fridays or say your neighborhood Olive Garden, which frankly says something about your tastes dear diner, in which name tags may be present, I see no reason why you should be privileged to know something so personal about me such as my name and I not be given the courtesy in return. Why should you, with your demands of more ranch dressing be allowed to beckon me from across the restaurant with “Sean! Sean! My wife needs more wet naps!” and I not be given the privilege, after returning with said naps, of saying to you “here are the fucking wet naps you requested from me, Carole”? Despite my best intentions, I am good at my job and therefore the situation should never arise in which screaming my name to request something so essential to dinning out such as the wet nap be deemed appropriate. I assure you, I can read your thoughts and needs darling patron, and when I see that Carole’s face is covered with Texas style BBQ Sauce, she will be needing wet naps.
Secondly, in case you hadn’t noticed, we servers are deft at carrying various items that other’s not in the industry may deem precarious in terms of their chances of being spilled. At this point in my starry career I am able to balance a very large tray stacked with many bowls of steaming hot and incredibly bland macaroni and cheese with my left hand and a tray jack and condiments on my right, traverse a restaurant full of adorably obnoxious OPC’s (other peoples children), set them down, and deliver them in the table space before you, all while maintaining my perfectly coifed hair and incredibly malicious “eat shit” grin. And while I admit, spills do occur on occasion, I assure you that I have the ability, balance, and presence of mind to set down your fifth glass of Coca-Cola without you reaching up and grabbing it from me. Why so anxious dearest diner? Is it because you fear, after our confrontation regarding the cooking temperature of chicken in which I argue that there is no reason for me to specify to the kitchen that your wings be cooked “well done”, that I may purposely dump your starter salad on your lap rather than set it gently before you? Thus, facilitating the need to violently grab it from my deft professional server hands moments before it touches the table? Or is it that you are still so ravenously hungry even after consuming beer battered onion rings that you cannot wait for me to set your salad down? Either way, charming patron, relax, take a breath, I am here to attend to your every need and that includes setting the items down in their appropriate place on your table without incident, though I appreciate the sentiment of the helping hand.
I will conclude this letter, the first in a series, with a note regarding the black check books I drop off at your table in conclusion of your meal. While I realize that the payment step of the dinning out experience is the least enjoyable for you, we all must come to terms with the fact that cheap hamburger meat does not grow on trees and therefore, you are required to pay the fifteen dollars for the burger you consumed. Why then, friends, do you insist on not using the credit card slot available to you within the black check book that enables your server to see that you are ready to pony up and pay for the deliciously over-priced food in which you recently consumed? Is it because you are so stuffed after your meal that you cannot be required to make such strenuous movements that may require the use of both arms and hands? Or is because you enjoy the look on my face when you shout “Scott we’re ready to pay!” and I am forced to concede that my mind reading abilities do not afford me the luxury of seeing through the black plastic book to your Amex card tucked within. Many servers would argue that you choose to end your experience on this unfortunate note, in which we look as though we are not holding up our end of the bargain, to justify the twelve percent tip you have already resigned to pay us. Not I though, friends and diners, for I have faith in you as fellow human beings and I see that you are so engrossed in your discussion that you cannot be bothered even for a moment to place your card in the slot that reads “place card here” for fear of missing even a moment of the conversation in which you and your fellow diners are keeping up with the Kardashians. So I will continue to cautiously inquire regarding the secret contents of your black check book and endure the looks of scorn when you slam your unmanicured hand over the top while proclaiming “we’re not ready yet, Steve!”
Thank you darling diners for allowing me to begin to clear the musty, fatty, overindulgent, rude verging on the point of malicious air between servers and patrons. There will be many more letters to come, but for now happy eating and remember, as much as you hate your server, I assure you, they hate you even more.
Sincerely,
Your Waitstaff
