I have a name. I may not give it to you every time you sit in my section and I may not wear a name tag that tells you what it is, but I can assure you that my name is not “Diet Coke.” It is not “More Coffee” and it is not “Come Here.” When I walk past you and you are need of something, a simple tilt of your head and making eye contact with me should be enough to alert me. If you know my name, feel free to use it. If you don’t know it, and I don’t necessarily expect that you would, you can say, “excuse me” or perhaps you can say, “pardon me, waiter.” What you should not say is, “water.” That’s not my name. I don’t call you “Hurry Up” or “Tip Me” or “Goddammit, You’re Fucking Annoying The Hell Out of Me,” do I? No, I don’t. I call you “sir” or “ma’am” or “miss” because it’s polite.
Also, when I first go up to your table and say hello and ask you how you’re doing, you are not doing “bread.” You may be doing fine, okay, great, alright, good, so-so or terrific, but you’re not doing “bread.” You’re not doing “I need more time” either. Those are not states of being. Those are needs and they should be used with other words like “please” and “thank you.” It’s called having manners.
Yes, I am your waiter and I am here to serve you. It is, by nature, a job of subservience, but it does not give you the right to treat me as if I am your own personal robot servant who has no feelings, no respect and no fucking name. We don’t have to introduce ourselves to each other in order to have a healthy 45 minute relationship as you cram food into your mouth and I bring you ketchup, mayonnaise, napkins, more napkins and a refill of Diet Coke on five separate trips. Names aren’t essential for this transaction. All I ask is that you don’t call me “Hey” or “You” or “I Need…” We’re not best friends and I don’t need to see you on Facebook or know the last four digits of your social security number. I just want us to be friendly to each other. If we use names, that’s great. If not, that’s fine too.
But if you call me “Diet Coke” one more time, I will call you “Fucking Asshole.”
Mustard and mayo,
The Bitchy Waiter