Letters to my 'guests'

To the divorced dad who brought his children in for dinner:

I was standing at another table when the hostess sat you, and as soon as I finished taking their order, I greeted you. I could tell you did not think this was fast enough. I could tell by the way you tapped your polished leather shoes impatiently until I turned around. I also greeted your children who couldn’t be bothered to look up from their notebook drawings – your daughter’s of a home with two children and a mother in front of it, your son’s of a similar house on fire – long enough to acknowledge my presence or that they had been spoken to. I came right back with the tea you ordered for yourself, and nothing for your children because you bought them sodas which they brought into the restaurant. I smiled while I waited for you to decide what to eat, even though I had other tables to greet, even though you told me you were ready and seemed annoyed when I politely suggested I come back in a few moments. I only tell you this because you weren’t looking at me while you barked your order at me. And I wanted you to know. And when you told me to bring you a plate of biscuits, then as an afterthought said, “That comes with it” almost as a question, but not quite, I told you it didn’t, but I would hook you up. I did not do this because you are entitled to bread. I did it to be nice. And when I brought you the bread, and you said “the kids need some waters” – still not looking me in the eye – and put your arms behind your head, making sure to shake your shiny gold watch behind your head as you stretched and your son picked up the orange crayon to add accent to his flames, I did not “accidentally” drop the plate of bread in your lap. This too I did to be nice. And when I brought the children their water, and offered to top off your glass of tea, I understood that you were too busy staring off into nothingness to acknowledge that you had been asked a question, so I refilled it anyway. And when I brought your food out, including an extra plate so your children could split a meal, and they couldn’t be bothered to move their crayons and notebooks to make room for the plates of food and you said nothing, I only laughed and commented on how we needed to make bigger tables. And when you growled at me to “put that down over there!” even though I could not reach “over there” because your son had chosen that moment to lean across the table and throw the orange slice garnish on the ground at my feet, I did not knock him in the head with the plate, and teach him about being aware of his surroundings as I reached over him. Because I’m nice like that. And later, as I rushed down the aisle with another table’s tray of food and you stretched your foot into the aisle, almost tripping me, I did not scuff your expensive shoes. Even though I wanted to. And after you left, and I came back to bus your table, and I saw the untouched water glasses, the outside soda bottles, the pieces of wet pancake on the table and the floor, and the dollar fifty tip you left me on a twenty dollar tab, I wondered why it took your wife so long to leave your sorry ass.


To the older woman who needed to complain about something, to somebody:

You ordered roast beef with no gravy. Even though it is cooked in gravy. So I stood behind the cook while he put your portion of roast onto the grill and cooked the gravy away. I watched while he added the sides to your plate, and the moment he was finished, I brought it to your table. You might imagine my surprise when I stopped back to ask how your meal was, and you complained that it wasn’t very warm. I was almost as shocked as you were when my manager refused to comp your meal and most definitely more shocked than when you and your husband left without tipping me at all.


To the guests who come in with thirteen of your closest friends and complain to management about my service when your food does not arrive within fifteen minutes during a dinner rush on Friday night:

Go to McDonald's. Or a buffet. Or the real world. Your choice.


To the couple with the adorable little girl and the teenage son, both of whom said “please” and “thank you” and wished me a good evening as you left:

I think I love you. Please dine with us every night. Please.