like you . Think about it. Review your history as a customer. Do you leave good tips? Are you a polite person? Are you an obnoxious drunk? Believe it or not, people often refuse to do business with people they don’t like. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you get to ride the ride. I know that’s irrational and no way to run a business, but economics tells us that business isn’t always about numbers. Businesses are run by people, and sometimes people are just plain crazy. Think about your workplace and the unprofessional shenanigans that occur there. Not everything that happens at work is dictated by the bottom line. So don’t be surprised that chronically bad customers end up getting bad service. It may not happen right away, but it will happen eventually.
Two hours after Mr. Green’s call The Bistro starts filling up with customers. I look at my watch and groan. It’s only five o’clock. The realization that I’m going to spend eight busy hours on my feet hits me full force, and suddenly I’m glad I bought thatnew pair of shoes. I go to the kitchen and pour myself another espresso. I’m drinking way too much coffee. As I sip my demitasse I remember the time I started having heart palpitations and ended up in the ER. The doc told me I was fine—just lay off the caffeine. That doctor probably never waited tables.
Celine, the blond hostess who always reminds me of a 1940s movie starlet, pokes her head into the kitchen. “Table twenty-six just got seated,” she says. “Can you get them out in an hour fifteen?”
“My dear,” I reply, “I’m the king of turning and burning.”
“I hope so,” Celine says, walking away. “We’re overbooked.”
“Hey,” Armando, the chef, calls out. “Don’t forget to push the dessert special tonight.”
Armando whipped up a special dessert for V-Day—a heart-shaped raspberry-filled chocolate ganache cake for two. It’s covered in tacky red icing.
“Hey, Armando,” I shoot back. “Why didn’t you make an anatomically correct cake this year?”
“Huh.”
“You know, Armando,” I said, pointing at the cake. “Make it look like the Sacred Heart.”
“You’re sick,” Armando replies.
“Blood dripping from it. The works.”
“You’re gonna burn in hell.”
“You know,” I continue, “the official symbol of Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be a heart.”
“What should it be?”
“How about a pair of testicles in a jar?”
“I don’t think I can make a dessert that looks like that,” Armando says.
“Aw, c’mon,” I reply. “You’re a talented guy.”
“Maybe something with chocolate-covered cherries…” Armando muses aloud.
As I head over to my new table I run through the day’s specials in my head. Fluvio, to his credit, doesn’t replace The Bistro’s regular menu with some kind of Valentine’s Day scam. Sure, wehave some nice specials—lamb shank osso buco, wild boar in a mushroom sauce, and potato-encrusted halibut, but, unlike New Year’s, customers can get away with ordering a cheap bowl of spaghetti Pomodoro if they want to.
My new arrivals at table 26 are intently studying their menus. As I draw closer I notice they don’t look like The Bistro’s usual clientele. The man’s wearing a baseball cap and what looks like his best denim work shirt. His eyes threaten to pop out of his head as he looks at the prices. His companion’s a very pretty lady, but she looks like she’s wearing a reincarnated bridesmaid’s gown. Her overdone makeup gives her face a startled expression. As the couple whisper back and forth about how expensive everything is, I groan again. It’s not an uncommon occurrence for people to get up and leave at this point. I remember my parents yanking my brother and me out of a restaurant because it was too expensive. It was years ago; my parents were young and struggling, and money was tight. I remember feeling embarrassed. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t grow up destitute, but I was at the
Two hours after Mr. Green’s call The Bistro starts filling up with customers. I look at my watch and groan. It’s only five o’clock. The realization that I’m going to spend eight busy hours on my feet hits me full force, and suddenly I’m glad I bought thatnew pair of shoes. I go to the kitchen and pour myself another espresso. I’m drinking way too much coffee. As I sip my demitasse I remember the time I started having heart palpitations and ended up in the ER. The doc told me I was fine—just lay off the caffeine. That doctor probably never waited tables.
Celine, the blond hostess who always reminds me of a 1940s movie starlet, pokes her head into the kitchen. “Table twenty-six just got seated,” she says. “Can you get them out in an hour fifteen?”
“My dear,” I reply, “I’m the king of turning and burning.”
“I hope so,” Celine says, walking away. “We’re overbooked.”
“Hey,” Armando, the chef, calls out. “Don’t forget to push the dessert special tonight.”
Armando whipped up a special dessert for V-Day—a heart-shaped raspberry-filled chocolate ganache cake for two. It’s covered in tacky red icing.
“Hey, Armando,” I shoot back. “Why didn’t you make an anatomically correct cake this year?”
“Huh.”
“You know, Armando,” I said, pointing at the cake. “Make it look like the Sacred Heart.”
“You’re sick,” Armando replies.
“Blood dripping from it. The works.”
“You’re gonna burn in hell.”
“You know,” I continue, “the official symbol of Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be a heart.”
“What should it be?”
“How about a pair of testicles in a jar?”
“I don’t think I can make a dessert that looks like that,” Armando says.
“Aw, c’mon,” I reply. “You’re a talented guy.”
“Maybe something with chocolate-covered cherries…” Armando muses aloud.
As I head over to my new table I run through the day’s specials in my head. Fluvio, to his credit, doesn’t replace The Bistro’s regular menu with some kind of Valentine’s Day scam. Sure, wehave some nice specials—lamb shank osso buco, wild boar in a mushroom sauce, and potato-encrusted halibut, but, unlike New Year’s, customers can get away with ordering a cheap bowl of spaghetti Pomodoro if they want to.
My new arrivals at table 26 are intently studying their menus. As I draw closer I notice they don’t look like The Bistro’s usual clientele. The man’s wearing a baseball cap and what looks like his best denim work shirt. His eyes threaten to pop out of his head as he looks at the prices. His companion’s a very pretty lady, but she looks like she’s wearing a reincarnated bridesmaid’s gown. Her overdone makeup gives her face a startled expression. As the couple whisper back and forth about how expensive everything is, I groan again. It’s not an uncommon occurrence for people to get up and leave at this point. I remember my parents yanking my brother and me out of a restaurant because it was too expensive. It was years ago; my parents were young and struggling, and money was tight. I remember feeling embarrassed. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t grow up destitute, but I was at the
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