The World of the Waiter

I’ve been writing solidly for months now.  Pushing my words on all who will indulge me, and many who won’t.  In this time I’ve made enough money to purchase myself a shiny new cheeseburger from McDonalds, which places me in the upper echelons of the Australian artist set, but doesn’t cover luxuries.  Like rent.  And soap.  My predicament led me last week down a path well trodden by struggling artists, a path to the local Restaurant, where I now hold the enviable title of Section Waiter.  

Waiters are odd sorts.  The other day, while lunching in Brunswick, my mustard-keen server inquired as to the quality of my experience a record breaking 3 times before I had even received my salad.  

‘Everything alright here?’

‘Still yes.’  

When she did put down my meal, she proceeded to peer at it in disgust before regaining composure and suggesting, ‘Would you like some minced lamb with that?’         

We’ve all had interactions like this.  Exchanges that leave you wondering if your server has just insuffilated an enormous line of ketamine.   So, now that I’ve rejoined the fold, I thought I would take the opportunity to clear a few things up for you.  Behold, the world of the waiter.      

Waiters don’t have a fucking clue what they’re talking about.

You:  ‘What’s the Waipara Hills like?’

Me:  (Not the faintest idea what the Waipara Hills is like.)  ‘It’s got lovely citrusy notes, with a nice long finish, and quite a floral bouquet.  You’ll love it.’  

Never once in my embarrassingly long hospitality career has someone called me over and complained that I’ve mislead them on the aroma of their wine.  The wordy-yet-vague explanation is a technique known to all waiters, applicable to a wide range of questions, and a great time saver when you’re trying to do the work of six people because your tight arse boss refuses to staff the restaurant properly.

It’s a tad annoying when you hail us, taxi style, while we’re carrying an Everest sized stack of plates back to the kitchen.

Offending customers hold the belief that as soon as one adorns the apron, one is no longer subject to the laws of physiques.  They can carry infinite loads for indefinite periods of time whilst simultaneously penning an urgent coffee order.  I’m not an aggressive person, but when a diner gestures for me to come over while I’m clearly straining in pain under the weight of greasy crockery, I kind of want to kick their face.  Because my hands are occupied.  

We top up your water so we can spy on you.

Ever wondered why your waiter insists on topping up your nearly full water glass while gawking awkwardly at the table, trance like stare on their face?  Water top ups are a handy excuse to survey where you’re at.  Its pretty hard to tell whether your coffee cup is empty from a meter away.

If you are a tiny girl, you probably shouldn't order a steak equal to a large portion of your body weight.

The Restaurant I currently work at serves steaks that could take a trucker out.  They are not for the faint hearted, and certainly not for you if the steak is larger than the entire width of your abdomen.  For some reason, tiny people believe that their presence in a restaurant gives them magical powers, allowing them to consume five times what they normally would.  It’s so sad having to shovel huge chunks of food into the bin.

Some waiters are just shit.   

Most waiters are employed by bitter bosses who have been sucked dry by the competition an overheads, leaving about 4 cents to pay the staff.  These meager offerings don’t exactly attract Melbourne’s finest, creating a skill vacuum at your local pizza place.  Some people try really hard but just can’t get it right, like miss spiced lamb.  Others just don’t give a rats, meaning obsessive people like me can’t help but do their work for them, all the while cursing loudly at the Gods that brought upon them this lowly existence.  So, basically, if it seems like your waiter is a bit shit, that’s because they are.