phone.
I look at the computer, where we track our reservations. “I have an opening at five-thirty, sir,” I say. “And another at ten.”
“That’s it?” the man answers incredulously. “I want something around seven.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I reply. “That’s all I have open. If you’d give me your phone—”
“Listen,” the man says, “you need to squeeze me in at seven.”
“I’m sorry—”
“This is Mr. Green,” the man barks. “You remember me? I’m a friend of Fluvio’s.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Green,” I lie. “I remember you. Please hang on one moment.”
I put Mr. Green on hold and call up his name on the Open Table reservation terminal. The computer’s database enables us to keep track of patrons’ birthdays, anniversaries, favorite waiters, and a never-ending list of special requests and behavioraloddities. There’s even a section euphemistically titled “customer notes.” This is where the waitstaff get a chance to leave feedback/ warnings about the customers. Sometimes the notes describe patrons as great tippers or contain useful information about food allergies or table preferences. Occasionally the notes read “cheap tipper,” “takes forever to eat,” or, less professionally, “customer’s an asshole.”
Despite the juvenile pranks, the reservation terminal’s a serious piece of equipment. There’s enough sensitive information locked inside its digital memory to give an identity thief a raging hard-on. Because The Bistro maintains mailing lists and reward programs, our computer system is a treasure trove of personal data—right down to the customers’ home addresses and credit card numbers. It isn’t just my restaurant doing this. Reservation and computer systems are prevalent throughout the industry. Can you imagine your Amex number being guarded by a nineteen-year-old hostess? If I ever have to flee to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States, I’ll have no problem creating a new identity.
Now the computer’s telling me Mr. Green’s record is pretty shabby. The notes describe him as a “difficult customer” who’s sent his food back several times and refused to pay for it. Even more damning, he hasn’t shown up for half the reservations he’s made. Now he wants a table at the last minute on Valentine’s Day? No way, pal. For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Green,” I say. “I have nothing available.”
“What?” Mr. Green sputters. “But I need reservation!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let me speak to Fluvio!”
“It’s Valentine’s Day, sir,” I reply calmly. “As you can imagine, Fluvio’s very busy.”
“So you’re not gonna give me a reservation?”
“I’m afraid I cannot.”
“My wife’s gonna kill me.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I repeat for the umpteenth time.
Mr. Green unceremoniously hangs up. I smile to myself. Restaurant karma strikes again.
Mr. Green’s your typical yuppie food Nazi living inside a cocoon of self-entitlement. He probably thinks that shortchanging waiters and insulting chefs is a divine right. I was never a big fan of divine right philosophy. Today Mr. Green is shit out of luck. I actually have a table free at seven, but I’m saving that for a good customer. Unfortunately, Mr. Green’s never going to learn how his past behaviors cost him the table. It’s not a good idea to let patrons know they’re on the receiving end of vindictive waiter thunderbolts; they tend to get all indignant. I prefer to think about a blue-balling Mr. Green sleeping on his couch and wondering why he couldn’t get a reservation. Customers seldom make the connection between bad behaviors and not getting the service to which they think they’re entitled. Here’s a dining out tip: if you never get the table you want at your favorite restaurant, or if reservations on a special day are always hard to come by, someone at that restaurant doesn’t
I look at the computer, where we track our reservations. “I have an opening at five-thirty, sir,” I say. “And another at ten.”
“That’s it?” the man answers incredulously. “I want something around seven.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I reply. “That’s all I have open. If you’d give me your phone—”
“Listen,” the man says, “you need to squeeze me in at seven.”
“I’m sorry—”
“This is Mr. Green,” the man barks. “You remember me? I’m a friend of Fluvio’s.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Green,” I lie. “I remember you. Please hang on one moment.”
I put Mr. Green on hold and call up his name on the Open Table reservation terminal. The computer’s database enables us to keep track of patrons’ birthdays, anniversaries, favorite waiters, and a never-ending list of special requests and behavioraloddities. There’s even a section euphemistically titled “customer notes.” This is where the waitstaff get a chance to leave feedback/ warnings about the customers. Sometimes the notes describe patrons as great tippers or contain useful information about food allergies or table preferences. Occasionally the notes read “cheap tipper,” “takes forever to eat,” or, less professionally, “customer’s an asshole.”
Despite the juvenile pranks, the reservation terminal’s a serious piece of equipment. There’s enough sensitive information locked inside its digital memory to give an identity thief a raging hard-on. Because The Bistro maintains mailing lists and reward programs, our computer system is a treasure trove of personal data—right down to the customers’ home addresses and credit card numbers. It isn’t just my restaurant doing this. Reservation and computer systems are prevalent throughout the industry. Can you imagine your Amex number being guarded by a nineteen-year-old hostess? If I ever have to flee to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States, I’ll have no problem creating a new identity.
Now the computer’s telling me Mr. Green’s record is pretty shabby. The notes describe him as a “difficult customer” who’s sent his food back several times and refused to pay for it. Even more damning, he hasn’t shown up for half the reservations he’s made. Now he wants a table at the last minute on Valentine’s Day? No way, pal. For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Green,” I say. “I have nothing available.”
“What?” Mr. Green sputters. “But I need reservation!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let me speak to Fluvio!”
“It’s Valentine’s Day, sir,” I reply calmly. “As you can imagine, Fluvio’s very busy.”
“So you’re not gonna give me a reservation?”
“I’m afraid I cannot.”
“My wife’s gonna kill me.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I repeat for the umpteenth time.
Mr. Green unceremoniously hangs up. I smile to myself. Restaurant karma strikes again.
Mr. Green’s your typical yuppie food Nazi living inside a cocoon of self-entitlement. He probably thinks that shortchanging waiters and insulting chefs is a divine right. I was never a big fan of divine right philosophy. Today Mr. Green is shit out of luck. I actually have a table free at seven, but I’m saving that for a good customer. Unfortunately, Mr. Green’s never going to learn how his past behaviors cost him the table. It’s not a good idea to let patrons know they’re on the receiving end of vindictive waiter thunderbolts; they tend to get all indignant. I prefer to think about a blue-balling Mr. Green sleeping on his couch and wondering why he couldn’t get a reservation. Customers seldom make the connection between bad behaviors and not getting the service to which they think they’re entitled. Here’s a dining out tip: if you never get the table you want at your favorite restaurant, or if reservations on a special day are always hard to come by, someone at that restaurant doesn’t
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