Yesterday at the restaurant I was in a really good mood. Maybe it had something to do with that caprihina I had during lunch, but all seemed right with being a waiter. I was okay serving food despite the crazy ladies, the stroller moms and the women who complained that their food was taking too long even though it only took eight minutes for it to get to their table (Yeah, we have computers, so we know how long it takes. Don’t tell us it took thirty minutes, because we will look at the computer and tell you that you are wrong.) Even though the teenagers left me $1.25 on a $48.75 check, for some reason food service seemed okay. At the end of the day, my last table came in. It was a two-top. After they paid their check they called me over to the table. I figured they wanted to tell me that the nachos didn’t have enough cheese or the Coke was flat. They told me:
We moved to New York City a few years ago and we wanted to to tell you that you are the first waiter we have ever had that didn’t seem like he hated to be at his job. You are friendly, happy and we can just tell you are a nice person. We just wanted to say thank you for that and we appreciate your service.
I know. Crazy. It’s sweeter than the imitation maple syrup we serve with the pancakes. I told them that I had just had six weeks off and to come back in two weeks so they could see the real me.