How to Win at a Restaurant

No matter how many times I outline the offenses committed by guests at restaurants (here, here, here, and here), I can always come up with examples of reprehensible behavior I have somehow failed to mention.  So, do you want to get in good with your server or bartender?  Want to be known as a preferred, platinum-status customer?  Just follow this simple guide, and you till get nothing but top-notch service from me.

Act like your birthday is a big deal.

Congratulations, you got yourself born.  It's really hard to do, from your perspective.  You deserve accolades, a parade of servers singing your paeans, and a meal free of charge (even I had to look up that word of the day, once upon a time).  You've earned it.

It's your party, cry if you want to - but, seriously, suck it up, bitch.

This one always draws a purposely-blank stare from me: "It's my/his/her birthday."  Guess what?  Nobody cares.  Would you genuinely give a rodent's posterior if I told you it was my birthday?  We are strangers to one another, so, despite the cheery and engaging persona I adopt at work, I'm really no different than the guy in front of you in line at the porn theater.  And, trust me, he feels no need to sing to you or offer you free food.  Neither do I.  You are not nine; it's time to get over the "my special day" bullshit.  I know the causal dining industry is at least partially responsible for perpetuating this nonsense, since they started and, to varying degrees, continue the whole dancing, singing monkey routine that gets parodied in movies like Waiting.

Ha, people I have never met before are being forced to sing "Happy Birthday" to me!  I am made of awesome!

Trust me, the employees loath and resent this shtick more than any media has portrayed.  We need to let it die.

Try to be funny.

No, really, I love a comedian.  Especially ones who make puns and references to the food on our menu or the generalities of working in restaurants.  It's so clever, insightful, and original, not at all redundant or moronic, especially when I have heard variations of the same riffs roughly, oh, 7,000 times before.  Believe me, we have all heard it all before.

As it happens, I've got a few zingers I would like to try out on you, too.

You may be tempted to think this rule does not apply to a comedic genius of your caliber.  Well, it does.  See if any of the following sounds familiar.

Sample Dialog 1

ME: Hi, my name is KP, I'll be helping you out today.
CUSTOMER: Oh, good, we need all the help we can get!  (laughs at own joke and looks to everyone else, myself included, to burst into uncontrolled fits of hysterics at their devastating wit)
ME: Ha, right.  Seriously, though, what do you want to drink?

Sample Dialog 2

ME: So, any questions I can answer for you?
CUSTOMER: Why is the sky blue? (winking at their cohorts, like they have totally stumped me)
ME: It's not.  The phenomenon is known as Rayleigh scattering, which means that, while most longer wavelengths of visible light go straight through the atmosphere, the short, blue-colored wavelengths are absorbed by gas particles and refract.  This causes the human eye to see the sky as blue.
CUSTOMER: *blank stare*
ME: Uh, I mean . . . because Jesus made it that way.

Sample Dialog 3

MY COWORKER: (at end of the meal) Any more refills?
CUSTOMER: Oh, if I have one more I'll float away!
MY COWORKER: What does that actually mean?
CUSTOMER: . . . I don't know.

Think of it this way: are you generally regarded as a truly amusing person?  Do you garner full-bellied laughs and snorty guffaws with your witty turns of phrase and keen observations on a regular basis?  Because if not, please don't try your jokes out on poor waitstaff, who are probably more jaded than the average prostitute.  It always reminds me of the unfortunate middle-aged mother from some podunk outskirt who decides to do open-mic standup comedy night in the city club because all of her friends assure her she's funny.  Except it's even more awkward for us, since we feel obligated to pander to you in exchange for money.  And if you do this explicitly because you know we feel this obligation, well, walk into oncoming traffic.

Act like I run the restaurant in any way.

There's nothing I enjoy more than being told how things should be done.  Because, honestly, not only do you probably know more about general restaurant-operation than anyone working there, but I as a server am empowered to implement changes whenever I see fit.  You think the chips should be free?  You got it, buddy!  A steak cooked until it's wood-pulp gray inside should be called "medium"?  Great idea!  When you order something you've never had before I should warn you that you might not like it?  Killer advice.  Things were cheaper in the past than they are now?  Astute observation, my friend.

What you have to understand about the vast majority of chain eateries is that each store gets approximately .00001% control at the local level.  They don't set prices, determine the menu selection, or devise promotional strategies.  All of that is dictated by higher powers that usually reside in another state entirely, and concern themselves with the individual branches of their company about as much as you worry over the individual cells in your body.

Except Corporate America isn't even kind enough to drown us in alcohol.

That being the case, imagine how much say servers are given.  So, no, I can't just "make it happen for you," and if by some miracle I can, you had better reward appropriately.

Pretend I'm not there, especially right after asking for special treatment.

Do you remember the Morlocks from H.G. Wells' sci-fi classic, The Time Machine?  They were the grotesque, expendable mutant mole-men bred for manual labor and serving the elite.  Well, that is more or less what we are.  We enjoy being treated as such, and it's not like we demand acknowledgement or appreciation.  We barely exist, after all.  So, as I tell your spouse the seven side dishes we have, despite them being listed in the menu, please ask me the exact same question when I come to you without batting an eye.  It lets me know just how little you are paying attention.

I cannot count how many times I have just finished passing out food and say something along the lines of, "I'll be right back with some refills on drinks, and do you need anything else?" only to have someone rattle their 1/3 full cup at me and say, "More Diet Coke."  Oh, really?  Good luck with that, because I'm obviously too much of a cretinous imbecile to handle such complex tasks as the one I literally just told you I was going to do.

Just like yours is going to be for a while now, ass-hat.

Even better are the times when I walk up to a table, address them, and receive absolutely no response whatsoever.  These people get a courtesy five-second window before I walk away without another word, and you can bet I'm going to see to a few other duties before I think of returning.

Treat all establishments as essentially the same.

If all these other points didn't make it obvious, you are a pretty goddamned important person.  Maybe not Trump-level, but at least on par with several lesser reality TV stars, so it's only natural things should conform to your expectations.  Why should you have to modify your behavior?  How could a family-friendly, international franchise not stock cans of Natural Light like your good ol' boy NASCAR bar in buttfuck Egypt?  Or offer the food you simply assumed they make without giving the menu a cursory glance?

These servers will pretend to find you charming and attractive.  I will not.

In short, know your surroundings.  Not all restaurants are created equal, and you need to recognize the level of the place you are.  Recently, I got to experience a guest-interaction that illustrated this perfectly, yet another Fucktarded Moment in Restauranting.  If you didn't know, I work at a middling casual dining chain where the servers wear jeans and uniform t-shirts, and the costliest item on the menu is around $18.00.  My customer, however, was apparently under the impression we were 4-star dining in disguise.

To kick off the night, she became incensed that her beer, a Blue Moon, and her husband's martini did not automatically come with any garnishes.  And when I say "incensed," I mean "disproportionately, self-righteously pissed off."  About fucking fruit.  (A) If you think you are so cultured and epicurean, you ought to know beer is not something you garnish - ask any brewer or true connoisseur.  (B) Your husband didn't even specify if he wanted a gin or vodka martini and seemed slightly put off that I asked; in a restaurant where people will unwittingly order a virgin margarita (making it straight sweet-sour mix on ice), I consider this a warning sign and try to avoid doing anything that might surprise them and thus "ruin" their dinner.

"Excuse me, is there a lemon peel in my drink?"

Instead of saying these less-than-politic things, I calmly and nonchalantly explained that we don't bother with garnishes unless the guest requests it, assuring her I could produce said garnishes for them in a matter of seconds.  No dice.

Then, one of my coworkers failed to bring out appetizer plates with the basket of mozzarella sticks.  Anathema.  What were we, savages who ate deep-fried processed cheese product straight out of the serving dish?  My failure to instantly supply a second cup of marinara sauce from my magic hoard of limitless condiments was almost the final straw.

What caused her to snap - aside from, presumably, being a perpetual, vindictive, vehemently-miserable cuntrag - was that the meals didn't look at all like what she expected.  At this point, I refused even to say more than three consecutive words to the wicked bitch, allowing management to deal with the problem.  Needless to say, the entire meal was paid for by our company, despite there not being anything actually wrong, and the near-mute husband of this shrew still left me $5.00, because he obviously knows he married a vile demoness, but has been cowed into total acquiescence over time.

This incident exemplifies a guest who does not have a clue what their own status is, let alone that of the place they are visiting.  Clearly, she was under the impression she was rich and entitled, even though the restaurant I serve at is patently not for the well-to-do, and was rudely surprised to discover she got the same treatment as everyone else.  The difference was that most of them came in expecting that treatment, so they were not let down, or at least realized they were getting what they paid for.  If for whatever reason you want to spend only $30 on drinks, an appetizer, and two entrees when you dine out, understand that you are necessarily making some compromises, even sacrifices.  Deal with it.

KP, out.