The Trouble with Waiters...

Americans everywhere need to adopt the pledge to patronize no more restaurants with chirpy waiters.  On my last visit to the Olive Garden, a Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy  character actually volunteered what her favorite menu items were.  I’m sure if I had lingered over dessert she would have started talking about dreams.  She volunteered her name too, but I resolutely refuse to learn any waiter’s name until the person actually becomes a friend.

Chain restaurant America appears to not understand something basic.  When Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy introduces herself, she only stresses the ephemeral nature of our relationship.  At the restaurants we like, we know the waiters’ names.  Jorge, at Abuelita’s Mexican restaurant in Shawnee, Oklahoma, doesn’t recite a tape recorded instruction from corporate headquarters on how to increase tips.  He really is glad to see me.  I’m glad to see him, too.  He has my favorite drink and salsa on my table in less time than Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy can say “Hi, my name is . . . . “

Let me say here, that I have nothing against cute names or the people who bear them.  Maybe the young, hip, overpriced restaurants have entire staffs of people named Sue and David, but that never seems to be the case, which raises the question of whether Shakespeare was right.  I’m guessing a rose by the name of Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy would be plastic. Anyway, the full routine is “Hi, my name is Britney/Devin/Jen/Buffy, and I’ll be your server.  Could I start you off with an appetizer.  Our special today is . . . . ” 

I’m not just the would-be baseball commissioner.  In the meantime, I’m also an English teacher, and I worry about these people.  They need to quit stating the obvious.  Education, however, is a difficult business, and some of the best responses are obviously ill-advised for someone preparing my food:

• “Well, that certainly explains the apron.”

• “Do you mind if I call you Beeblewix?”

• “Well, that’s nice, but I’m still going to call you Waiter.”

• “My name is Jeff, and I’m going to be your baseball commissioner.”

No, we need to educate these people, but we don’t to be mean.  In the best tradition of Skinnerian conditioning, we need to somehow convince them they will receive more response to the meaningful than to the trivial.  The best response is a blank stare followed by a question on some completely different restaurant matter.   Unfortunately, my wife is more nervous about silence than I am, and probably more polite as well.  She usually is declining the appetizer while I’m still rearranging my eyebrows.  When you join this crusade to make waiters think about what they’re saying, don’t take my wife. Baseball fans understand that results count.  If the player hits .300 for a few years, we’ll know his name.  In the meantime, the rookies defer to the people who have the money.

“I don’t care what your name is, but if the food is good, and the service is good, I’m prepared to come back often and tip well, and I might even look at the check to find your name so that I can ask for you again.”

Jeff Cox

would-be baseball commissioner

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