Last night I went to a quaint Italian restaurant with my daughter and mother. Being a Sunday night, it was fairly empty and we were seated right away. I took a moment to pay attention to my growling stomach and glance at the menu – prices being a bit pricier than I was expecting, judging by the red-white checked tablecloths and worn, hardwood floors.
I view going out to eat as a social event. I choose to have an enjoyable time every time and like to involve the server in the process of celebrating the food. I thrill to the prospect of having the server be part of the party, able to laugh with us and to see the fun in the experience, as well. Through much experience, I have discovered that I can tell how my service is going to be for the entire meal in the first thirty seconds after the initial appearance of my server.
Without fail, if the server is bright-eyed and willing to smile and chat, the service is going to be top notch and attentive. Almost without fail, a glum server who is unwilling to make eye contact signifies crappy service. (However, there was that one time that the waiter did, indeed, surprise me and snapped out of it by the second time at my table and proved to be one of the most efficient and witty servers I have ever had the delight of dining with.) And always – and I do mean, always – when a server answers my, “And how are you doing?” with a sigh and a morose, “It’s been a long day,” then I know the service will suck beyond belief. Obviously.
Last night, we were greeted – using the term very loosely – with sighs so loud and deep I was tempted to pat my hair back down from the windstorm. There was no hope of getting our waitress to crack even a hint of a smile, let alone give us a chuckle.
She did the bare minimum possible, allowing our emptied glasses, salad plates, soup bowls and bread baskets to stack up to improbable heights and fill absolutely every inch of the table top. No matter how many refills she brought us, there was no removal of any of the emptied wares. Requesting that my mother’s fettucine alfredo be reheated almost taxed her to her breaking point. Both my daughter and I specifically and clearly ordered limes in our Shirley Temples. They never arrived on the first round, or the second.
All together, our server’s approach was lousy and while the food was quite tasty, the entire experience was diminished by the lackluster attitude with which she presented the courses. It was as if every trip to our table – which I wanted to point out was her job – was beyond her ability. It was as if she could not muster more than what was absolutely necessary to get the job done, slipshod nonetheless.
When she asked if any of us wanted dessert, it was laced with such disdain that there was no possible way to answer yes, even if I hadn’t already felt as stuffed as the stuffed lasagna I had barely made a dent in. The three of us declared “no” in unison, and somewhat in fear. She slid the cushy black bill holder onto our table with a visible sigh of relief and slithered away without looking back, seemingly grateful to be rid of her burden.
As is tradition with me, I had to go to the bathroom. Small bladder… lots of liquid. It happens all the time. So I slid out of the booth and wandered aimlessly around the little restaurant until I spied a sign that would guide me to the appropriate bagno. And there, as I rounded the corner, was a cluster of servants surrounding my pessimistic waitress who was sobbing uncontrollably.
Sheesh! Was it that awful to wait on us?
My heart immediately went out to her. I sensed it had nothing to do with serving us and everything to do with her initial sighing answer of, “it’s been a long day.” I wanted to reach out and touch her, offer comfort of some sort, but sensed it was an intensely private matter that only the few around her were privy to. At any rate, her heart was breaking.
When I returned to the table, another server was chatting quietly with my mother and daughter. This waitress had an open, helpful bearing but wore a look of such sadness that I was certain she was delivering bad news. I approached tentatively and she turned to include me in the conversation.
“Our waitress is crying hard, Momma,” my little one piped up.
“Yes, I know…” I left the sentence hanging and turned to the new waitress, hoping she would be able to give us at least skeletal details to relieve my worries.
“We have been here since 7:00 am for a meeting,” the informer began. “And then she pulled a double.”
Everyone nodded empathetically. Okay, now I could understand the “long day” comment. But the sobbing?
The informer went on, “Her fiancé and his best friend were riding their bullet bikes last night. A truck driver ran a red light, barely missed her fiancé but got their friend. Her fiancé had to remove his best friend’s helmet to discover he was possibly already dead. He never started breathing again. They life-flighted him to the hospital but he has been on life support ever since. They are taking him off tonight.”
Sigh…
Once again, I am reminded that I can never know what is truly going on for the person in front of me. And that, perhaps, one who is struggling to do even the most minimal aspect of what I expect them to be doing is truly deserving of my compassion, rather than my contempt.
You never know…
©Angie K. Millgate 4/2/07
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