Imagine the scene. You’ve taken your other half out for a slap-up meal to celebrate, I don’t know, your six-week anniversary. The candles are lit, your partner is looking great and the menu reads like a Masterchef’s wet dream.
Cue me, the waitress, who is obviously there to make your night as hellish as possible. I’m basically like the Boss on a computer game, standing in between you and your three courses and a bottle of house red. Right?
No. I’m being paid to make your night as wonderful, relaxing and all sorts of other pleasant adjectives as possible. In fact, I’m secretly hoping you go home and write a nice TripAdvisor review about the service. So stop bloody battling with me, and stop doing the following things:
Making ridiculous requests
Nut allergy; fine. Vegan; fine. Doesn’t eat rice, won’t have brown food, hates the smell of pepper, can you please bring another candle to the table, can you only play Michael Buble songs tonight, I’d like my starter with my dessert and I’ll order my main once you’ve brought me two bottles of wine to choose from; less fine.
Treating me as if I’m stupid
I’m a waitress, not an idiot. Asking me if I really need a calculator to tot up your bill, or if I know the difference between rare and well done beef? Well. If what you’re really asking for here is a fly in your soup, sunshine, then you’re heading the right way for it.
Taking my time
Tip for the top. When a waitress asks you if you need more time to decide, it’s not a trick. Telling her no, you’re ready, and proceeding to umm- and ahh- over the menu before looking up and asking your companions ‘have you decided yet?’ does not constitute as being ready. The next booking has just walked in and I need to take mains to table one. Tell me you need a minute to decide- I promise I won’t forget about you.
Okay, this is an exaggeration. Pay how you like. Just don’t wait until the end of the meal, having had a culmination of six different types of drinks, a sharing platter, three bottles of wine and two caffetierres and expect your waitress to know how you want to split the bill between the seven of you. How on earth am I supposed to remember who had red and who had white wine? By all means, organise the sharing of the bill out yourself and we’re happy to take your payment however suits you best. But trying my patience as well as my arithmetic and memory? Nope.
It’s quarter to one and I’ve got to polish every single glass on your table before I can clock off. You finished eating two hours ago and you’re the last table in. Go home.
And remember, a happy waitress makes for better meals. I won’t be bending over backwards for you if you’re 100% obnoxious, but I might just make sure you get a nicer table if you crack a smile.