A recent study has shown that demanding jobs offering employees little control, such as serving weekend brunch at restaurants, are the most detrimental to mental and physical health. In fact, one study showed it’s more stressful to be a server than a neurosurgeon.
It’s easy to forget that even though we are paying customers, the human beings serving us work unsociable hours with almost no actual pay, not to mention exhausted feet and, in many cases, unwanted advances from drunk patrons.
I was a server for many years. I kid you not, the most dreaded shift to work was Sunday brunch. I don’t know what happened between the altar call and the seating hostess, but it was as if the incoming patrons forgot that once you’ve swept your house clean, you have to put it in order, or seven other wicked spirits move in—to any given booth at any given restaurant.
There were some weeks when I deliberately took a Sunday brunch shift just so my nonchurchgoing friends didn’t have to endure the onslaught of “goodwill” from obstinately tenacious laypeople.
However, I was occasionally able to come up with a subtle remark or two that went virtually unnoticed by the guests but made me feel snarky.
One Sunday, eight ladies came straight from a Sunday school class to have brunch together at our popular restaurant in Nashville. I was to be their ever-joyful, long-suffering, imperturbable server. They all but told me I was personally responsible for not carrying Earl Grey tea. I received a couple of raised eyebrows for not having crackers as a substitute for rolls in the breadbasket. I dealt with the lemon-or-no-lemon-in-the-glass-of-ice-water debacle. Then, in vain, I attempted to explain why a Caesar salad with Thousand Island dressing was no longer a Caesar salad. One lady placed her order for a Cobb salad. The lady who had previously ordered a club salad liked what the Cobb lady was getting better and changed her order to a Cobb salad, except with no bacon and adding extra broccoli. The second lady thought that variation sounded better, changed her order to match the first lady’s, and had a myriad of other problems inherent with the menu.
I finally got all the orders, all with special instructions taken, and turned them in. The cooks glared at me through the kitchen window for the next fifteen minutes while I bit my nails to the quick, horrified that something would come out wrong. When everything got to the expediter station, I personally went and oversaw each dish to make sure every plate went to the table exactly as it had been ordered, down to the placement of every sprig of parsley. I dragged a couple of other servers over against their will and better judgment to help deliver the food to the table.
Once everything was set down, they all viciously examined the plates for any sign of missing or misplaced items. After approximately nine and a half seconds of total silence, I said, “Well, there ya go, ladies. Is anything okay?”
Another time, I could not get a single thing correct for a guy—even though I got him exactly what he asked for. His steak medallions were overcooked every time, even though I kept telling him they were thinly sliced cuts of beef and could not be cooked so they were pink in the middle, unless I served them raw. His beer wasn’t cold enough, and there was, ironically, too much ice in his water glass. Finally, when I brought back his credit card and slip, I made the obligatory cordial statement that I was glad they had come in, hoped they had a great night, and hoped they would come back soon. He didn’t even look up as he signed the receipt and said, “Well, I will have a good night. But I won’t be coming back here. I’m tired of not getting what I ask for.”
I responded in the most ingratiatingly pleasant tone possible, “Well, we here at Dalt’s like to keep our customers happy and satisfied. So if it would make you happy to never come back here again, it would certainly make us happy.”
His wife, who had been ominously quiet throughout the entire meal, laughed so hard she almost choked on her final sip of water.
The first thought that went through my head was I’m about to get fired.
But the lady just looked at him and said, “You totally asked for that.”
I felt just a bit vindicated.
A couple of friends from my church in Nashville, Mike Nolan and Eve Sarrett, wrote a crazy book called You Can’t Curl Your Hair with Holy Rollers: An Insider’s Guide to Church Life. They sat down with me and asked what things drove me crazy about waiting tables on Sundays. They named that section in the book “How to Witness While Dining Out.”
Come directly to the restaurant from a church gathering with a large number of people—preferably too many to sit at one table. Bring as many children with you as possible, especially whiny babies and strong-willed toddlers who have been forced to be quiet for the past two hours and will need to be loudly corrected. Ask to be seated together, saying, “We don’t mind scrunching a little.” Remember to complain later about how crowded you were at the table they gave you. When you arrive at your table, someone should inadvertently bring a Bible with him, which will take up much-needed table space. When the hostess asks if you are okay with sitting close to the bar, look appalled, and cite how drinking defiles the temple of God. Act as confused as possible about who sits where. Several people should swap seats a few times, especially after orders have been placed. When the server arrives, request as many separate checks as possible, or use zigzag patterns to indicate who should be included on a single check. At least one person should request only water and say to the server, “I’m just here for the fellowship.” This person must consume as much water as possible, requiring multiple refills, and should scarf food from the plates of those who order the all-you-can-eat salad bar. When the food comes, reel off a long, confusing list of orders that are wrong and items that have been forgotten. The meals in place, join others in nervously looking around the table until someone asks what everyone is thinking, “Are we going to pray?” Wait the long, tenuous moment until someone surrenders and responds, “I’ll do it.” Fumble with the hold-hands/don’t-hold-hands decision and bow your heads just as the server arrives with a heavy tray of additional stuff. Have a long prayer, including in it a brief summation of the sermon and a spirited call to action. Keep praying until the server’s arms start to spasm. Young children should crush as many crackers as possible. When a toddler stands in his chair and refuses to sit down, the parent should say, “Santa Claus won’t come to see you if you keep this up” or, “When you act this way, you make God cry.” Eventually, the parent should drag the kicking and screaming child to the bathroom while reciting to the young reprobate Ephesians 6:1. “Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.” When the checks are distributed, several people should find errors and complain loudly. Those who have not been charged for items they received should offer a silent prayer to God for His abundant provision. Each person should tip 5 percent or however many coins they have in their pockets—whichever is less. Someone should remember that change is needed to buy a newspaper and take the appropriate amount. Place coins under plates, believing that all giving—not just tithing—should be done in secret. Finally, someone should leave a card with the tip quoting Luke 9:25, “What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world yet lose his own soul?” Or Joshua 24:15, “Choose ye this day whom you will serve.”
I remember a few moments when respect and thankfulness were shown in ways I’ll never forget. An older gentleman and his wife came in almost every Sunday and sat in the same place, booth number sixty-three, just next to a window overlooking White Bridge Road. The dear couple were obviously sweethearts. It was a pleasure to have that section of tables and an honor to wait on them.
They didn’t come in for a few weeks, and we worried about them. Then, one Sunday, she came in alone and told us her sweet husband had passed away a few weeks earlier, and she was finding it difficult to visit places they’d loved going together.
She became our grandmother. Every Sunday, she came back, knowing we saved booth number sixty-three for her, even when we were on a waitlist. She sat alone, and she ate alone, most Sundays fighting back tears. We fiercely protected her time with us and were devoted to looking after her.
Because she was so kind and gentle and made us feel our service was important and needed, we worked to make her feel like family. One of the other servers, Amy Strobel, and I found out where she lived and snuck over to her house and left gifts at her front door one Christmas morning. The next Sunday, she came in smiling, proudly sporting the antique brooch we had given her for Christmas. It was an honor to be her friend. I never felt like her server.
Those moments forged a system of checks and balances that has stayed with me my whole life.
When I go to supper with friends, I make it a specific priority that no matter where we go, our servers will be part of the group. If they’re hungry, we offer some of our appetizer for them to sneak back to the kitchen and eat. We ask about their family. We get to know them. We don’t think of them as servers; we treat them as valued friends.
There is no question as to whether or not we will pray for our meal. We pray and thank the Lord for our food.
One Friday night, our server was Marta. Before we got our food, we found out she was a single mom. Her kids were seven and four years old. She had just returned from helping train servers at a new restaurant in Kansas. She had to work doubles to pay rent. She hadn’t seen much of her kids in more than three weeks. Her brother had been her babysitter, but he’d gotten a new job, so she had to find someone new to take care of her kids.
I told Marta we believed in the power of prayer and asked her what we could specifically pray for her. She looked at me as if I were surely kidding. She said, “No one has ever asked me that before.” She asked that we pray for her to have peace and that her schedule would lighten up. I told her we would pray for those things. I told her we would also pray for her kids and that her job schedule would be easier for her so she could spend time with her babies.
Often, if our servers are there when we get ready to eat, we ask what we can specifically pray for them. They are always shocked and surprised. But many times, they give us real problems and real needs that our Father will surely hear.
What if that’s the only time that day someone makes them feel important? What if I’m the only chance they have? For many, it probably will be the only time. What if it’s the only time that day they will see Jesus?
Marta was, for an hour or so, part of our family. Before we left, we made sure she knew that we were there for her and that she mattered. As we left, I told her, “You can know for sure you will be prayed for this week. And thanks for working so hard to make our meal so great. You deserve every bit of that eight percent tip we left.”
The expression on her face was priceless, a cross between “I’m sure he was kidding” and “Or was he?” I can assure you she was pleasantly surprised when she realized I was only kidding.
First John 3:18 (ESV) says, “Little children, let us not love in word or talk, but in deed and in truth.”
Philippians 2:4 (ESV) says, “Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.”
Everyone has a story. We don’t meet others by accident.
