"WaitressStories" news and stories

Eating isn't the only thing people do in restaurants.

While seated at table, customers fight. They have sex. They sign contracts. And, sometimes, customers die.

At the busy restaurant where I work, we've had at least three customers suffer fatal heart attacks after their meals. That's not the restaurant's fault, of course, but it's always a strange situation for the server, who's stuck with a section full of traumatized diners and the knowledge that she served the victim his last-ever plate of lobster risotto.

More than two decades ago, the nation's collective moral conscience was momentarily seized by minister Robert Fulghum's credo All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, a warm and fuzzy list of rules for living that led off with the presumably uncontroversial dictum "share everything."

I didn't need to read Fulghum's official biography to know he'd never worked as a restaurant server (although it was interesting to discover he'd been a ditch digger and a singing cowboy.)

Servers generally hate sharing. Not with each other, of course – it's common to find a restaurant's last slice of pie in the server station with seven forks surrounding it. The trouble comes when customers exhibit the same behavior, insisting on splitting entrees instead of ordering their own.

The problem's largely a financial one: The decision to order one plate instead of two costs me about $5, a pretty significant sum that could have been used to buy my lunch the next day. Many restaurant owners, who are equally interested in getting guests to eat full portions, have instituted plate sharing fees to discourage such menu mischief.

There's something oddly endearing about Samurai steakhouses in the Benihana mold. I'd always assumed it was the chefs' talent for flipping itty-bitty shrimp into their toques, or their ability to simultaneously pun and chop onions. But it turns out there's an even better reason to love Japanese steakhouses – their owners stand up for their servers.

While I can't vouch for official policy at all of the many Japanese steakhouses across the country, Kanpai Japanese Steak and Seafood House in Winston-Salem made headlines last week when it banned a bad tipper from ever eating there again.

"We can't keep continuing to serve her anymore because the servers and chefs are not willing to serve her," manager Michael Lam told a local television station.

Monica Covington clearly wasn't leaving bad tips because she was so dissatisfied with her experience at Kanpai. According to reports, she's dined there multiple times, and seems to be intent on remaining a customer. After she was refused service, she collected hundreds of signatures on a petition accusing the restaurant of unfairly standing between her and her teppanyaki.

What's a diner's greatest fear? A fly in their soup? A $14 grilled-cheese sandwich? Background music blared at a decibel level that would make a rock driller wince?

No, no and no. According to a recent story in the Chicago Tribune, what really gives frequent restaurant guests the willies is the thought that their servers might recognize them and treat them accordingly.

As the aggrieved writer puts it, "Commitment to a restaurant... now means restaurants keeping detailed records of your visits (and whether you got dessert). It means feeling pressured to order the usual."

The story quotes a Boston restaurant owner who cops to having Googled her customers -- which is a downright creepy thing to do. I certainly don't have time during my shifts to duck off the floor for a quick Internet research session, nor would I care to spend my free time prying into my guests' lives. Plus, I can't imagine anyone would be too pleased if I greeted a table with a nonchalant "hey, too bad you finished 28th in that charity 5K last week."

When restaurant-goers talk about the scary things they've encountered while eating out, their conversation usually edges toward hygiene infractions and undercooked food. But what really frightens diners is the sight of a server without a notepad.

Like most servers who daylight as journalists (there are more of us than you might imagine), I'm perfectly comfortable taking notes while talking. Still, I won't break out pen and paper for parties smaller than five. That's because I believe writing down orders disrupts my eye contact with my customers and detracts from my ability to build relationships with them. Good service calls for more than mere transcription.

But I suspect my high-minded reasons for not taking notes wouldn't fly with the most skeptical guests, who like to insist I won't be able to recall their request for grilled salmon. "Are you sure you're going to remember this?," they'll ask repeatedly.

If a guest seems especially anxious, I'll make a point of writing his or her order down. But here's what I'd like to tell those nervous Nellies: Yes, I am going to remember your order. Because while the menu may bewilder you, I've been serving from it for years. It takes more than a house salad with ranch on the side and a medium-well steak to confuse me.