Experiences + Rhetoric

Like many college students, I waited tables part time. In my restaurant stint, I saw good and bad. The good stuff: pay is decent, the work is potentially easy and time is flexible. The bad stuff: 90% of customers are completely retarded. I became an expert witness to a strange, societal watering hole where people forget all decency. It’s surprisingly easy to behave in a way that completely disrespects restaurant employees. Don’t be “that guy”.

I’ve concluded that you can be a perfectly decent person in other aspects of your life, but still completely lack restaurant etiquette. Ghandi probably tipped like shit.

From personal experience, I feel I’ve gathered enough stories to compile a bible of don’ts when going out to eat. Here are just a few you might not think about:

Listen to the spiel. Think of your waiter as a party host. They’re there to greet and a establish a relationship with you for the evening. It’s often expected from management for the server to suggest menu and beverage items on the initial greet in order to increase sales (which you’re not obligated to accept). The waiter isn’t offering you appetizers and cocktails for their health. They’re usually required to by their job description. Management implements secret shoppers, who are undercover customers hired to rate quality of experience as well as steps of service. Bad shops to management mean bad service which means possible termination of the employee.  Don’t immediately order your iced tea before the waiter has a chance to say hello. It is rude, disrespectful and inhibiting to their job. Wait until your server finishes introducing themselves before ordering.

*Finger Wave* “Waters all around.” Nothing is more frustrating than this guy. A table of six will order their individual cokes and beers, the waiter will write it all down, begin to walk away, and the big douche will speak out,”Yep, and hey bud- waters all around too.”  Don’t predict that everyone else at your table wants untouched waters to sit on your table for the rest of the evening. Not only did you just blow the momentum of an already busy server by speaking up mid-stride, but you just doubled their to-do list. Don’t underestimate how busy your waiter is. Not only are they getting your twelve glasses of drinks, but they could be getting a million things for the table right next to you. Be considerate of their workload. Don’t assume that you’re the only person they’re helping. 

Ask for necessities, not wasteful extras.

Can’t believe I have to even address this to adults. Don’t forget your please and thank you’s. And yes, snapping your fingers or calling “HEY!” is completely disrespectful.

Also, my name isn’t boss, buddy, chief or hombre. For women, don’t address them as sweetie. A good server tells you their name in the beginning. If you can’t recall names, but still need attention, an “excuse me” will do.

The tip. Little do people know, waiters are required to claim their tips at the end of the night. This means whatever they declare is deducted from their pay. Paychecks come out to be less than $200 dollars a month.  I worked in California, where minimum wage was $9 dollars an hour. In the Midwest, servers make less than $3. Required by law, no matter how much earned, servers are required to declare at least 12% of total sales. Tipping under 12% of your bill is literally robbing your waiter of their living.

Tip at least 15%. This ensures the server has enough to cover their declaration requirement, and enough to tip out the busboys, bartenders and food runners. For great service, tip 20%. No one will give you crap for that. If you feel that your experience was absolutely excellent and exceeded all expectations, tip more. This will work in favor of the frequent patron who’ll be hooked up next time.

…

These are just a few small reminders for going out to eat. I could write a ton about restaurant etiquette, but I’ll save it for later. For now, the smallest amount of education never hurt.

The guy refilling your drinks may be a server, but he is not your servant. Treat them like people, and don’t leave your manners at the door.

I took a study break on Wednesday. The bar down the street was low key enough for a quick beer, so I drove down. The old Irish pub smells dingy and stiff. I can only guess it stays in business from local regulars. There’s about four or five old washups playing darts in the corner. I feel so superior with my youth and better agenda. Everyone goes home to separate houses. They stop by to get a little loaded when they become bored or hate their homes for the moment.

But I’m just as lame as everyone here right now.

On a leisurely and ponderous walk, my eye catches a random streetside window. A young kid runs around his house wielding a pair of plastic toy pistols. His face is brightly masked with fingerpaint war markings as he dives under a cardboard box fortress. The little boy inside that house reminds me so much of myself. Not the man I am today, but the kid inside before he died at age 11; forced under a grey hooded sweatshirt cocoon, into acne years with angst driven animosity. We killed that kid to make room for sex-craved fantasies, drugs, broken friendships and lament awakenings. The body was stuffed in a five-foot long white coffin piled with Nintendo games, teddy bears, comfort blankets and crayon-colored comic books depicting the superhero version of himself. We dowsed it with gasoline and set it on fire. His precious possessions burned away with his innocence.

I walk away and let that window kid play the boyhood imagination games that I left behind years and years ago.

Artwork by Aron Wiesenfeld

One of the dishwashers at the restaurant was jumped the other day. Every night at 1am, after running every last grimy plate and utensil through the steam cleaner, he finishes his side work and has just one cigarette in the back alley. He throws on an old tattered hoodie to shield the light drizzling rain from his face as he unlocks his bike chain and ponders his 3 mile ride to the other side of the train tracks; to the poor neighborhood where ethnicity is uniform and white faces are not welcome. But it wasn’t near his home where he was attacked. A mere 300 yards away from the mall, center of the blue blood valley, he was cold clocked and side socked by three boys brandishing brass knuckles and blunt fists. The three assailants jacked his wallet and chain, and left him bleeding on the street where a late night bus driver discovered him unconscious. In a world where minimum wage restaurant employees get beat up for minor possessions, I worry about those close to me. Often, I see no god in the sky and only hope the universe answers a balance of good vibes to the evil it throws at us daily.

Artwork by Juan Carlos Barquet