A Day In The Life Of Restaurant Staff!!!

Waiting tables is a “go-to” profession done by millions of Americans every year. Some do it for the fast cash, graduate college then go onto their intended career. Others, to help ends meet because the selected career doesn’t provide the lifestyle they would care for; however, there are a select few that choose it as their lifelong profession. Those of us “lifers” thrive on the constant interpersonal communication, the electricity that race through the late night air and the unpredictableness that an evening’s shift can bring.

Many of us are over-educated with one or more degrees looking for something outside the 5-9 rigmarole. We abhor suits, would like as little responsibility as possible and enjoy having a social life of quality. You may classify us as Generation X, Y or Z, who knows, but we are what we are and the restaurant industry is programmed into our DNA.

We have remained quiet, courteous and accommodating long enough. Today is your lucky day to hear what we think on the other side of the table. We have observed your traits and characteristics and labeled them accordingly. Restaurant staffs, through trial and error, have learned the art of profiling for their own survival. Behind our crisply ironed uniforms and plastered on smiles, we stand at the edge of your table attempting to read you like a poker professional! We evaluate your attire, observe your demeanor, listen to you talk, wait for an acknowledgement of our presence. Within two minutes, we have a good understanding how this show will play out. Sometimes we are surprised, but for the most part…not usually.

Companies provide questionnaires, website comment pages and manager table visits to solicit guest opinions and information. Yet, restaurant staffs are invisible, rarely questioned by management and never thought about by corporations. We are the soldiers on the front lines directed by out-of-touch CEOs and company policies.

Therefore, I have created a guide on what we have learned one table at a time including a standard profiling system known throughout the industry. Buckle up your seat belts people I’m going to take you for a bumpy ride. Perhaps I’m calling a spade a spade here, but no more pussyfooting around. We are tired of being ignored and, if we’re lucky, devalued.

We have all been on your side of the table. We understand the intricate parts of the dining room, practically live, eat and sleep at the restaurant and most of us can tell you verbatim what is on that menu. So will someone… anyone… please explain to us why ya’ll continuously try to surprise us with unbelievable things from questions, to behaviors, to bringing your own stuff to the restaurant, children, special requests, sense of entitlement and most of all just enough money for the bill that you want to split 20 ways?

As the great late George Carlin used to say about his comedy, “figure out where the line of obscurity is, cross it and bring the people with you.” So join me on an adventure of storytelling and profiling that will leave you speechless, literally. It is time for ya’ll to experience a day in the life of a server!

I'll go first:


I was managing at a fine dining concept on a Thursday night. We were especially busy due to various pharamaceutical groups having meetings. A gentleman was walking out through our front doors and stopped. He turned to us at the host stand with complete and utter anger on his face. He asked if I was a manager. I pondered on whether to respond "speak no english," but smiled and said "yes, how may I help you sir?" The man, holding a to-go container, cocked back his arm as if he was getting ready to make a life or death throw. Angry that his event took too long, he had difficulty finding parking and now had to leave with his FREE meal because of a scheduling conflict decided it was time to take it out on someone. That someone.... was me.

As the plastic box spun through the air, the perfectly cooked Medium Rare Filet separated from the container like the space shuttle entering into the Earth's atmosphere. The doctor obviously played baseball in college because he hit his intended target, my white blouse, dead on. The smack of filet to my chest was piercing like a fog horn at a football game. The blood dripped from my face and chest as he stormed out. Little did I know when I woke up that morning, my night would end like a scene out of the movie "Carrie."