One of the things that working as a waitress has thought me is being able to appreciate good service. And bad service, even.
In those -rare- occasions my schedule allows me to go out for dinner, I feel like a Queen. How nice to have someone keep your glass of water full, how indulgent to have another guy offering you bread, and ...OMG... it's warm, and you don't even have to slice it because they've already done it for you! How luxurious to have a stranger bringing your favorite dish cooked exactly the way you want, and have another stranger cleaning up after you and getting your table all nice and ready for dessert.
How about when they bring you an after drink on the house? That's when I don't feel like a Queen anymore, I am God in my own Heaven.
Think about it for a moment. You, people. All of you who like to come and eat where I work. And all of you who patronize some kind of food establishment. Think about it. Make a list of ALL the reasons why you go out for dinner instead of staying home. Sure, it's because of the food, you like that particular taste you can't quite reproduce in your kitchen. Or maybe you don't even like the food that much (at least I hope, for your own sake, that you don't like the food I happen to serve you), but it's million times better than what you can prepare for yourself. Then, yes, you want a night out and a slice of city life is way better than what's on TV tonight. And maybe you want to enjoy the company of friends, or maybe you simply forgot to buy groceries, now it's too late and you are exhausted.
But listen, how about that luxurious experience of being served? You don't have to move a finger, you just need to talk clearly, express your desire for a hot plate of half cheese ravioli -and please just add 2 of the meat ones, would you?- half spaghetti, one quarter with meat sauce, one quarter with tomato sauce and a touch of cream, one quarter with pesto and grilled chicken, not too much oil because I am on a diet, and one quarter, is there a quarter left?, oh yes, ok, the last quarter with primavera sauce, but please leave out the broccoli because I can't digest them, ah and don't forget to throw in some extra garlic, and give me some anchovies on the side. And the spaghetti, I'd like them al dente, but not the ravioli, them I like mushy, I can't stand when the edges are too hard to chew.
Yes, sir? Anything else?
That's it, ah, I am in a hurry, so can you please make it superfast?
I will, but you have to admit that one of the reasons you are here is because your wife/husband/partner would rather kill you than prepare all of the above. And because you like the idea that someone can serve you the requested dish with a smile on their face. And because the only thing we ask you in exchange is to remember exactly what you ordered so that you won't complaint when the spaghetti are too hard, the ravioli are too soft, the primavera has too much garlic, the chicken is not on the side and the tomato sauce is pink.
You ask, I deliver. You make a mess, I clean up. Your kids throw half-eaten rigatoni all over the floor, I pick them up. You spill Chianti on the antipasti and on your white collar shirt, I don't scream "Dummass!!", instead I literally run at your table, apologize like it was my fault, wipe the mess, give you clean napkins, more wine and new appetizers, for free.
You are the King, I am your servant.
What's not to like about that?
The bill, maybe?
Hey, Sir!...Sorry....Sir! Where's the tip?