> Bitter Waiter

If it takes effort for you to venture to a restaurant, your only motivation being the meal ahead, then the Rule of Fatness (ROF) may apply to you.

The last thing anyone wants to see, and the last thing I want to hear, is the question, “Waiter, will you bring another chair so my right cheek can sit down, too?”

It falls in the same category as a cop and his (or her) gun, a construction worker and his hammer, a plumber and his wrench, a conservative and his ideas or a server and his tray: If it’s not your tool, do not touch it or you will get hurt.

After serving for two years, I took a job at a restaurant on Pewaukee Lake that most would consider fine dining. It was overpriced and under-frequented. My uniform alone cost more than $200.

At a Southwestern grill restaurant I used to work at, there was one day of the week that every server dreaded. When you combine the dreaded phrases “all-you-can-eat” and “kids eat free” and then advertise on large billboards just outside trailer parks, well, you get the drift.

One restaurant actually braves such advertisements and, appropriately enough, the servers refer to this very special day as “White-Trash Wednesday.”

It’s one thing to write about the nuances and idiosyncrasies of guests who have gotten old over the years; it’s another to perform your job poorly as a result of it.

While this column may be titled “Bitter Waiter,” by no means do I lack a passion for what I do. I enjoy making light of my job and some of the people I have the pleasure (or displeasure) of serving. I know I’m a good server, namely because of the amount of guest feedback, oral and written, I’ve received over the years.

If you seek to irk the hell out of your server, patron his or her restaurant in total ignorance of the proper use of the stemware (glassware) and flatware (silverware) placed on the table.

At one restaurant I worked at, the basic knowledge and etiquette behind use of stem- and flatware on the table seemed to be especially difficult for doctors and nurses. This fact doesn’t do much to restore the already lacking faith I have in much of the medical profession.

It’s the middle of a busy Saturday night. There are 150 people with reservations and an unknown number of walk-in customers to come. Ten servers are in the swing of the evening providing service and a dining experience to be remembered by.

There are more restaurants with birthday songs than the number of days birthdays fall on in a year, and all of them are obnoxious, embarrassing and sung off-key. But I love every one of them!

The singing of a restaurant birthday song is the perfect outlet for a server’s stresses of the job. Although for most it gets old quickly, I’ve always embraced the opportunity for a good birthday screaming and a chance to elicit a genuine, or mortified, smile.

It’s been a long night. Business was slow. As the time ticks on, I’m watching my tips divide into a smaller and smaller hourly wage. The last of my tables are finishing their dessert and then I’m home free. Five minutes to close.

Oh, what’s this? Two people just walked into the restaurant. The wife smiles at the hostess and reveals her name while the husband brushes his jacket off looking at the floor.

An interesting viewpoint is held at a young age: “it’s all about me.” You have this viewpoint until you realize, in fact, it’s not all about you. Other people exist in the world, too.

But digression takes place when you become old, something to look forward to, and again you hold the viewpoint that your needs are the most important.