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Served: Customer Servicing

Posted by Hannah Howard, March 3, 2009 at 8:30 AM

I blog by day and wait tables in a New York City restaurant by night. I'm excited to bring you Served, dispatches from the front of the house. Enjoy!

Making People Happy

Most of my restaurant’s staff, including the owner, worked for a New York restaurateur legendary for impeccable customer service. I hear a continuous stream of jokes at the expense of Mr. Restaurateur, although occasionally he is the recipient of genuine admiration.

D. was punching an order into the computer, when he burst into spontaneous impersonation. “Remember the alphabet!”

I didn’t get it. “The alphabet? I don’t get it.”

As Urban Dictionary reports: “Trace all the letters of the alphabet with your tongue when going down on a woman, the method known wide and far by many, to give her the best oral sex of her life.” D. explained this to me, only more eloquently. Oh, OK.

Did Mr. Restaurateur actually urge his waitstaff to keep “alphabet technique” in mind white doing their jobs? Yes, apparently quite frequently. The analogy fit: The restaurant’s goal is to do whatever it takes to make the customer leave feeling good.

Or Alternately, Making Them Miserable

Thirty five bucks for a round-trip bus ride to Baltimore, the city where I grew up? I wanted to see my best friend from childhood and get away from New York for a few days. I could afford 35 dollars. I was in.

The trip there was uneventful, until the end. At the last stop, only a stunning Senegalese woman with a tiny baby and I remained in the bus. “Get out, get out, get out!” the driver screamed, not nicely, at the woman and I, but mostly at her. The bus idled at the end of a shady ally. We peaked out onto the road and spotted a deserted Lane Bryant and a few boarded up row houses.

“Can you tell us where we are?” the mother asked the driver. “Are we near the Greyhound station?”

“Get out! Get out!” was all she got by way of response. The driver gestured furiously toward the door. Left without too many options, we gathered our stuff and abandoned the bus. Luckily, my friend was waiting down the block. She had both a car and an impeccable knowledge of Baltimore geography, and instructed the woman and her ride, over cell, as to where to meet up.

Coming to Baltimore was a painless journey as compared to my trip home on Sunday night. The forecast was for snow, so I called the bus company. They assured me the ride was still on. The bus was scheduled to arrive at one AM at 34th Street, by Macy’s. At one AM, we were somewhere unidentifiable in Jersey, encircled by a whirl of pillowy snow. Finally, at 4:15, the restless passengers recognized Manhattan Chinatown out of the window.

“Get out! Get out!” cried the livid driver.

“Aren’t we going to 34th Street?” I inquired, as did many others.

“No! Get out! Last stop! Get out!”

“But my ticket says 34th Street,” I protested, in vain. We were deposited with our luggage mercilessly into the freezing and sodden night. There was nary a cab or subway stop in sight.

I was relieved to get home alive. But I will never, ever ride this company’s bus again. And I will ardently spread the word of my botched voyage.

Acts of Kindness

Four years ago, at my first restaurant job, a sudden snowstorm descended upon the island of Manhattan. The place was abuzz with news that trains were not running. I checked online, and sure enough my train line was inert for the evening. For some reason, cabs were unusually scarce. Perhaps because everyone wanted one badly.

I was 17, new to New York, and stressed about getting home. The snow was supposed to get worse and worse. At midnight, my shift had ended and I stood in my coat by the door, talking with my kind and lovely boss about my expedition home.

“Goodnight,” we both said to a couple who had finished dining and lingered inside the door, weighing their own options for how to brave the weather. “Wait!” my boss cut me off, bounded out the door and into the blustery night, and waved down a cab. The couple made a break for it.

“I’m sorry,” my boss said, “This is for the lady,” and opened the door for me.

“Are you sure?” I said, surprised that he had prioritized me over the miffed customers. “Very sure,” he whispered, “Get home safe,” and handed me a twenty. I was, and still am, infinitely grateful that he abandoned alphabet theory and took such good care of me that night.

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