I have nothing but speculation and conjecture to back me up, but I suspect the heyday of the uniform is over. Because really, when's the last time you saw a cleaning woman in a too-short black dress and frilly white pinafore? It's nearly impossible to find a trash collector in a bow tie or a nurse with a starched cap these days.
But while official dress codes may have relaxed nearly everywhere, most restaurant servers are still expected to wear a uniform. Even workers allowed some sartorial leeway -- many employee manuals call for any jeans, any black pants or any red bandanna – are typically issued a standard apron. Uniforms connote professionalism, cleanliness and discipline; all fine server attributes, and all apparently forgotten come holiday time.
Whether it's a show of spirit or a cynical ploy to remind customers there's somewhere else they'd rather be, servers can be counted upon to modify their uniforms in keeping with the season. I'm guilty of wearing knee socks with jingling bells in December and heart-shaped jewelry on Valentine's Day. Still, I'm stunned by what some of my colleagues wear on Halloween night. Are customers really pleased when their servers have fake blood dripping down their faces or elk-sized antlers on their heads?
Serious diners may revile the open restaurant kitchen as noisy and passé, but the worst behaved among them should thank their lucky stars for the unfortified layout. After all, it's much harder for a server to spit in their food with everyone in the room watching.
But no amount of interior decorating can stop servers from taking revenge on their most miserable customers. Cads who pat their servers' behinds and cheapskates who order water, sugar and lemon instead of paying for lemonade should know their hijinks don't go unnoticed: Even the sweetest-seeming server will punish offenses at the table -- usually smiling all the while.
Spitting gets all the press, but few servers at sit-down restaurants like to mess with bodily fluids: Spitting's considered a rather déclassé and uninspired way of getting back at customers. Savvy restaurant workers aim for pocketbooks, not their guests' immune systems.
For workers who are paid to interact with customers, servers spend an inordinate amount of time on the floor. It's nearly impossible to get through a shift without having to stoop to sweep up cupfuls of Cheerios up-ended by a fidgety toddler, table scraps discarded by loutish diners who apparently take their etiquette cues from William Hogarth paintings or -- most frequently -- puddles of pennies.
I've worked in greasy spoons where hot dogs sold for 85 cents and coin transactions were the norm; I hardly expect a customer to charge a quarter cup of coffee. But in nicer restaurants, where servers don't bark orders across the room and salads don't arrive to the table encased in plastic wrap, coins are nothing but trouble -- any server who's picked up a check presenter and immediately showered their feet with the coins tucked inside it knows exactly what I mean.
Some of the blame clearly lies with the coin-fearing credit-card companies that issue said presenters, designed to accommodate only plastic. But there's really no reason for most restaurant customers to use change in the first place. What's the harm in leaving $72 when the bill's $71.88? Can a server not be trusted for a moment with an extra 12 cents?
I find coins so messy that I typically ignore them, even if it means I end up shouldering a portion of a table's bill. If a guest gives me three twenties to cover a $58.43 bill, I'll return $2 – knowing most guests will leave me both singles. While some of my fellow servers are far more punctilious, I still haven't figured out a good way to sort coins in my apron or rationalize the dead weight of a few rolls of dimes.
Just like heroic epics and Hollywood romances, server horror stories tend to unfold according to a very specific formula: Server meets guests. Guests like server. Server takes order. Server disappears.
While servers who spill coffee on their guests or forget to bring an extra fork are generally forgiven, there's no redemption for servers who vanish. Without their server in sight, guests feel neglected, trapped and exasperated by the entire eating-out experience. It's a rotten situation, which is why most diners who've posted here about terrible service have admitted to at some point wondering where their server went.
Assuming that question is sometimes posed sincerely, I offer here a few solutions to the Case of the Missing Server. Note that these explanations aren't excuses: Great servers don't go AWOL, ever. But there are many rational reasons, unapparent to guests, why servers can't be found. He or she just might be ...
1. Splitting checks. Here's one task that's become more laborious with the advent of computers. To prevent employee theft, most electronic point-of-sale systems are designed to make shifting guest tabs a tricky, multi-step process. Woe to the server who accidentally sticks Seat 3's fried wonton app on Seat 4's bill: On some popular systems, such an error can only be corrected by recombining the entire check and starting over. Creating six separate checks -- and gathering up six pens for signing them -- can take a server off the floor for up to five minutes (which, to a guest waiting for an iced tea refill, feels like an hour).
Many of you honestly believe restaurant servers have a cushy job that requires them to do little more than deliver food to a table and collect $180 an hour for their trouble. Fine. I'd like to call a temporary truce in the great "Are waitresses worth their keep?" debate and focus on another front-of-the-house staffer this week: The hostess.
Like most servers, I've been pressed into host duty when an employee hasn't shown up (or showed up too hungover to accurately monitor the seating chart -- hostesses are almost always the youngest, most inexperienced and least committed members of a restaurant's crew.) Hostesses have it hard.
Hostesses have to deal with customers at their hungriest, thirstiest, worst. It's not uncommon for customers who feel they haven't been seated quickly enough to hurl insults at the hostess or subject her to stem-winding rants about the crooked nature of the restaurant industry.
But here's what patrons never, ever do: In my experience manning the host stands at restaurants so ritzy that my job description included turning away male guests without jackets and in eateries so casual that "please wait to be seated" signs were dismissed as snobbish affectations, nobody once offered me a bribe.
So much for putting a wiener on a stick and calling it dinner.
Campground cooking, once the province of anyone who could wrap a potato in tin foil, is becoming increasingly sophisticated. Vicki Loughner, who's coordinating the 2009 South Carolina Campground Cookoff, reports it's not uncommon for campers today to get cracking on a recipe for spinach sausage quiche.
"They are very serious about the cooking they do," Loughner, project manager for the Old 96 District Tourism Commission, says of the teams registered for this weekend's competition. "When you look at their food, you'd never know it was cooked over a campfire."
In pursuit of the $500 prize, some entrants this year have purchased their own Big Green Egg, the fetishized grill with the startling price tag. But Loughner says it's not just the promise of riches that's inspiring outdoorsy gourmands to up their dinner game. According to Loughner, more and more South Carolina campers are applying their "Top Chef" sensibilities to campground menu planning.
Most diners have mastered the art of eating with a fork, but a surprising number of them still use their fingers to signal when they want something from their server.
Granted, restaurants aren't always designed to make it easy for guests to grab their servers' attention: Eateries tend to be noisy, dark places in which it's sometimes impossible to communicate with the person seated directly across from you, let alone the staffer who's scurrying forward and back with tall stacks of plates.
Customers often resort to the most primitive methods of expression: They snap their fingers. They wave their arms like football referees. They pantomime signing a check, often adding such enthusiastic flourishes to their imagined John Hancocks that they nearly strike someone at a neighboring table.
Want to really confuse your server? Leave a 15-percent tip.
There's nothing more ambiguous than the 15-percent tip, which could just as well be a "thanks for nothing" grat from a miffed diner who always leaves 20 percent or a sincere show of gratitude from an infrequent restaurantgoer who thinks 15 percent is still the going rate for good service. Only the tipper knows for sure.
Fortunately for servers, fewer customers today seem to fall into the latter category, which is now mostly populated by the very old and very stubborn. Surveys show the vast majority of Americans have transitioned away from the 15-percent standard which ruled the food and beverage industry for decades, with the national average tip rising to 19 percent in 2008.
Hanna Raskin's first waitressing job was at a small Greek diner in Michigan. In the 15 years since, she's worked at a chop suey joint in Mississippi, an exclusive Arizonan country club, a vegetarian eatery and an Irish pub. She currently picks up odd shifts at a seafood eatery in the North Carolina mountains, where she cracks crab legs for helpless tourists. This is the tenth in a series of posts.
As a server, I should have boundless patience with my fellow overworked, undertipped brethren. But as anyone who's dined out with servers knows, food industry pros are often the harshest critics of front-of-the-house shenanigans.
Since servers know how restaurants work, they know exactly who to blame for the mishaps that spoil their eating-out experience. The French onion soup's taking too long? That's so not the fault of the server (many of whom would probably be thrilled to pack all three courses in to-go containers and send their table on its way). The halibut doesn't taste good? That's likely the reason the server skips the employee meal.
Diners should never discount their tips for things beyond the server's control: A corked bottle of wine, too long of a wait at the host stand and dirty bathrooms are comment card fodder, not tip-lowering offenses. But there are certain server behaviors for which I'll almost always knock down a gratuity a few percentage points.
Hanna Raskin's first waitressing job was at a small Greek diner in Michigan. In the 15 years since, she's worked at a chop suey joint in Mississippi, an exclusive Arizonan country club, a vegetarian eatery and an Irish pub. She currently picks up odd shifts at a seafood eatery in the North Carolina mountains, where she cracks crab legs for helpless tourists. This is the ninth in a series of posts.
Backed by laws that decree certain ruin for restaurants that serve drinks to overly intoxicated patrons, most servers don't hesitate to cut off customers who've had enough. But they're understandably reluctant to police other equally dangerous behaviors observed at the table, raising the question of whether servers ever have an ethical obligation to intercede.
Restaurants are in the business of providing their guests with food and drink, which makes the prospect of withholding either seem counterintuitive at best. But when the requested item would harm the diner, does the "just doing my job" argument falter?
Hanna Raskin's first waitressing job was at a small Greek diner in Michigan. In the 15 years since, she's worked at a chop suey joint in Mississippi, an exclusive Arizonan country club, a vegetarian eatery and an Irish pub. She currently picks up odd shifts at a seafood eatery in the North Carolina mountains, where she cracks crab legs for helpless tourists. This is the eighth in a series of posts.
Say you're in a restaurant in which you've never, ever dined. You haven't read a review of the place, pulled up its menu on the Internet, or even asked a friend what's worth eating. How do you know what to order?
If you're wise, you'll ask your server. It's not just mobbed, white-tablecloth joints in which customers can confidently throw their menus aside and place themselves at the mercy of the food-and-beverage professional at their table. Servers are expected to ferry plates from the kitchen and back to the dish room, yes, but -- even at the grubbiest eateries -- their primary responsibility is to serve as a sort of kitchen escort, steering you toward the best dishes and away from the suspect ones.
My 'Bete Rouge': Red Wine. Photo by bhollar/Flickr
This last weekend, much to our dismay, my wife and I drank our first $300 bottle of wine.
Our neighborhood in the Bronx is not blessed with an overabundance of great restaurants, so we have learned to turn a blind eye to the shortcomings of our local dives. For example, one of our favorite places has outstanding food and is beautifully decorated, but also has incredibly aggressive waiters who endlessly try to upsell us. Still, in the grand scheme of things, we've decided that pushy waiters are the kind of thing that we can overlook, particularly when the restaurant makes the kind of adoration-worthy pizzas that are its stock-in-trade.
Last weekend, a few old college friends were in town for a visit, so we took them there. After we ordered a couple of appetizers and three of the restaurant's distinctive gourmet pizzas, my wife picked a reasonably priced Italian red that seemed like a good bet to accompany our meal. A few minutes later, the waiter returned to double check on our order. My wife, who was dealing with our daughter at the time, glanced at the wine he pointed to, noted the name, and replied that, yes, it was the one we wanted.
Hanna Raskin's first waitressing job was at a small Greek diner in Michigan. In the 15 years since, she's worked at a chop suey joint in Mississippi, an exclusive Arizonan country club, a vegetarian eatery and an Irish pub. She currently picks up odd shifts at a seafood eatery in the North Carolina mountains, where she cracks crab legs for helpless tourists. This is the seventh in a series of posts.
At my restaurant, each server is issued a service-station style workshirt with his or her name neatly scripted above the left breast pocket. It's a homey touch (albeit one that's largely subverted by my colleagues' propensity to wear someone else's shirt.)
Most servers aren't all that eager to reveal their names to their customers, since there's nothing more irritating than hearing someone repeatedly shriek your name when you're standing 20 yards away. The most undignified aspects of serving seem somehow even more demeaning when paired with one's own name (as in: "Hanna, will you clean up this mess my son made?" or "Hanna, I want you to cut the crusts off my sandwich.")
Worse still, a name is just a gateway drug for prying patrons, who figure that once they're on a first-name basis with you, they're welcome to inquire after your education, age and marital status.
Hanna Raskin's first waitressing job was at a small Greek diner in Michigan. In the 15 years since, she's worked at a chop suey joint in Mississippi, an exclusive Arizonan country club, a vegetarian eatery and an Irish pub. She currently picks up odd shifts at a seafood eatery in the North Carolina mountains, where she cracks crab legs for helpless tourists. This is the sixth in a series of posts.
One of the coolest things about the now-defunct Bill Knapp's restaurant chain was the children's menu, on which every dish bore the name of an animal. Grilled cheese wasn't just a sandwich at Bill Knapp's: It was a giraffe.
But what counted as cute then is apparently considered out-of-touch today, as an increasing number of tykes shun menus designed just for them. To the delight of their beaming foodie parents, restaurants' youngest diners are now eschewing coloring pages and chicken nuggets for crab claws and caviar.
For servers accustomed to sweeping up puddles of Cheerios and apologizing to other customers for the screaming baby seated at one of their tables, the prospect of a junior epicure sounds promising.
Hanna Raskin's first waitressing job was at a small Greek diner in Michigan. In the 15 years since, she's worked at a chop suey joint in Mississippi, an exclusive Arizonan country club, a vegetarian eatery and an Irish pub. She currently picks up odd shifts at a seafood eatery in the North Carolina mountains, where she cracks crab legs for helpless tourists. This is the fifth in a series of posts.
When a hostess beckons diners into a restaurant, her standard greeting is "Let me show you to your table." But to the chagrin of staffers and customers alike, a seemingly increasing number of eaters are taking the "your table" idiom quite literally. They exercise what some might call a sense of entitlement, threatening to disrupt service and the reservations system.
Traditional restaurant etiquette holds that diners behave as though they were seated at someone else's house: That's why we in the industry call them "guests." But as the cost of eating out has gone up and its novelty has faded, formality has given way to a different model. Diners now comfortably rearrange restaurant furniture, rarely asking permission to push tables together, park chairs in aisles or stick unwanted planters, vases and votives where they don't belong.
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