My husband and our friends always used to make fun of me when we went out to eat. It wasn’t just because I order specifically what I want (who wants Tuscan Potatoes with Chicken Marsala, anyway?), or because I would clean up and arrange the table neatly before we left, or even that I tended to tip well regardless of the quality of the service. They would laugh at me because I would talk to the server like I worked there, too, and mention that I used to be a server, so “I know how it is.”
They made fun of me, but they were just jealous because they couldn’t speak the same language as the server and I were. We had shared experiences. We both knew what it was like to have a whole table full of ten year old kids after a soccer game, who run around from chair to chair, all wanting something but never staying in the same spot long enough to take what they had ordered. We both knew what it was like to have a very particular customer who wanted something just so, and after relaying these directions carefully to the kitchen staff, to have the end result be completely incorrect, and having to go and face that persnickety person to try to explain what had happened. We both knew what it was like to have awesome customers who hardly needed anything, were jovial and kind, and left a big tip. Fellow servers always get along. Even if we haven’t worked at the same kind of restaurant, we can all sit around and tell the same stories over and over.
There are two kinds of people in this world: servers and customers. I would always explain to my non-former server friends that they could make fun of me all they wanted, because even though I’m no longer a server, I’m going to be the kind of customer that a server likes to wait on. I’m going to make their clean up job as easy as possible, leave them a big tip, and make sure to tell their manager if they did an amazing job.
I’ll be here all week, folks. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.
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