Read Online Waiting; The True Confessions of a Waitress by Debra Ginsberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Debra Ginsberg
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service. Who but a fellow waiter can understand better that the kitchen is slow and that the specials have run out at 7:30 P . M .? Who else can relate to the fact that you’ve got an obnoxious party of six bent on making you work like a slave for every penny of the tip they might not leave? In our restaurant, coworkers receive better service than celebrities. In addition, they can count on getting the straight dope on what dishes are of debatable quality that evening and what looks good. Often, the server will convince the manager to buy dessert or the chef to make up a plate of appetizers. Waiters from other restau rants also get plenty of attention and often commiserate on the state of the business. An extremely generous tip at the end of such a meal goes beyond professional courtesy, it reflects a deep emotional bond. This expectation does generate a certain amount of pressure, for as any server will attest, waiters who stiff other waiters have a special spot in hell marked just for them.
I have been on the receiving end of waiter prejudice several times and I don’t enjoy the feeling. I have a friend I visit several times a year and we always pick a new restaurant in which to eat. Both of us look younger than we are and both of us tend to dress casually. My friend is an eccentric genius type who is very successful in his field. Having been forced to wear vests and wingtips in the early part of his career, he now actively dresses down. I never identify myself as a waitress when we go out and I’ve been amazed at how many times our server checks us out and frowns disapprovingly. Sometimes we get service that can only be described as spotty, and I know it’s based on this initial impression. My favorite part of this game is when the check comes and my friend pulls out his Platinum American Express card and lays it on the table. There is invariably a look of shock and dismay on the server’s face when he realizes his misjudg ment. If we’ve been treated really badly, my friend will hand me the check and say, “You decide what to tip.” Then he’ll turn to the server, gesture to me, and say, “She’s a waitress.” Naturally, neither my friend nor I ever leave less than a 20 percent tip. That would be to needlessly tempt fate.
These experiences have taught me that pigeonholing any customer before the end of the meal is a dangerous game. Even if the past dictates that a party of Australian surfers will proba bly leave a handful of change on the table, you just never know. There is a lottery aspect to the whole thing. Again, this is part of the job’s challenge and one of its joys as well as one of its pit falls. This is also why so many waiters and waitresses dislike preset tips, despite the fact that such tips remove a certain anxi ety from the process. Not only is there no incentive to excel when the tip has already been determined but there is no possi bility of receiving a bonanza at the end. In short, the thrill is gone.
When my boss at Petit Morsel instructed me to surrender my tips to the common pool, I knew nothing of percentages, Tippers International, or the history of the gratuity. I knew only that those I waited on were thanking me, specifically, for taking care of them, and by doing so, they were acting in accordance with natural laws that had been in place long before my teenage exis tence. Really, after so long, not much has changed in my under standing of this very basic philosophy.
I continued working at Petit Morsel for a couple of weeks after my boss’s ultimatum. During those shifts, I kept almost all of my tips, saving only a couple of dollars for the jar. I resented having to duck and hide my tips, especially when I felt it was so unjustified, and left the restaurant angry every night. Finally I quit in disgust. My family was extremely relieved. The whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth, which persisted until I left for college several months later.
A recent check confirmed that
I have been on the receiving end of waiter prejudice several times and I don’t enjoy the feeling. I have a friend I visit several times a year and we always pick a new restaurant in which to eat. Both of us look younger than we are and both of us tend to dress casually. My friend is an eccentric genius type who is very successful in his field. Having been forced to wear vests and wingtips in the early part of his career, he now actively dresses down. I never identify myself as a waitress when we go out and I’ve been amazed at how many times our server checks us out and frowns disapprovingly. Sometimes we get service that can only be described as spotty, and I know it’s based on this initial impression. My favorite part of this game is when the check comes and my friend pulls out his Platinum American Express card and lays it on the table. There is invariably a look of shock and dismay on the server’s face when he realizes his misjudg ment. If we’ve been treated really badly, my friend will hand me the check and say, “You decide what to tip.” Then he’ll turn to the server, gesture to me, and say, “She’s a waitress.” Naturally, neither my friend nor I ever leave less than a 20 percent tip. That would be to needlessly tempt fate.
These experiences have taught me that pigeonholing any customer before the end of the meal is a dangerous game. Even if the past dictates that a party of Australian surfers will proba bly leave a handful of change on the table, you just never know. There is a lottery aspect to the whole thing. Again, this is part of the job’s challenge and one of its joys as well as one of its pit falls. This is also why so many waiters and waitresses dislike preset tips, despite the fact that such tips remove a certain anxi ety from the process. Not only is there no incentive to excel when the tip has already been determined but there is no possi bility of receiving a bonanza at the end. In short, the thrill is gone.
When my boss at Petit Morsel instructed me to surrender my tips to the common pool, I knew nothing of percentages, Tippers International, or the history of the gratuity. I knew only that those I waited on were thanking me, specifically, for taking care of them, and by doing so, they were acting in accordance with natural laws that had been in place long before my teenage exis tence. Really, after so long, not much has changed in my under standing of this very basic philosophy.
I continued working at Petit Morsel for a couple of weeks after my boss’s ultimatum. During those shifts, I kept almost all of my tips, saving only a couple of dollars for the jar. I resented having to duck and hide my tips, especially when I felt it was so unjustified, and left the restaurant angry every night. Finally I quit in disgust. My family was extremely relieved. The whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth, which persisted until I left for college several months later.
A recent check confirmed that
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