A thread on Reddit about a restaurant customer leaving two pennies and a nasty note for bad service got me thinking I needed to blog about my time working for Applebee’s. Working as a server was the hardest job I’ve ever had and likely will have.
As I traveled the world in my previous jobs I was fascinated by the different ways different cultures pay their restaurant staff. In Australia there is no tipping as restaurant workers there get paid a full salary. Do you know what restaurant workers here in America get paid? Try $2.13 an hour. Yes, you can’t even buy a gallon of gas for that, but that’s a server’s base pay. The really sad thing is that that rate hasn’t changed since I waited tables at Applebee’s twenty years ago.
Never do this. Ever.
It was the summer of 1992. I had just gotten out of the Navy and was in Columbia, South Carolina, taking some community college courses before I started at N.C. State. On one of my first nights as a civilian again, my parents and I went out to a new restaurant in town: an Applebee’s close to home. A lively crowd and no shortage of attractive college-age waitresses made the place seem like a fun place to work. I filled out an application and was told to come back on a Sunday afternoon for an interview.
I showed up on Sunday as requested but was disappointed to learn that that particular restaurant had no openings. The company had openings at another of their restaurants at 2344 Broad River Road, way on the other side of the city. I wasn’t thrilled to have to drive that far, but hey: good-looking women and lively workplace, right? I signed up and looked forward to working my first shift.
If you’ve never worked as a server before you really can’t appreciate what it’s all about. It is hard work. You are constantly running from one thing to another, with people interrupting you along the way, depending on coworkers who are often near-strangers to get you what you need. If you don’t have a good memory and a good attitude you won’t last long. The hours are long, you come home each night smelling like food (or cigarettes), total strangers who have bad days take it out on you, you sometimes get stiffed on your tips, any food order screwups come out of your tips, and you’re not guaranteed anything but $2.13 for each hour of this thankless work. Some people thrive in the restaurant business and wait tables for many years. I did the work for just 9 months but it earned me undying respect for those who do it.
As for me, I wasn’t particularly good at waiting tables, mainly because of my difficulty remembering orders. My class schedule limited the shifts I could work, too, and the manager scheduled me for many of the shifts no one else wanted or could take. As a result I often got stuck with a shitty shift or a shitty set of tables. It was often working the patio, which was the closest thing to being in Siberia. I tried to make the best of it, though.
After a few weeks working there, I could get a sense of what kind of customer I’d be dealing with. I don’t suppose it’s changed much since then, but it was common to stereotype the hell out of customers. Part of your job as a server is to anticipate your customer’s needs, so the instant a customer walks in you’re already sizing them up. Is this person going to be reasonable or an asshole? Are they in a good mood or bad? Are they going to tip well or shaft me?
Some servers warned me that African Americans didn’t tip well. They told me that black people didn’t tip well. I found that black people tipped about the same as white people. I’d say the count between blacks and whites who didn’t leave a tip is about even (remember, I said I wasn’t the best at serving!).
I remember this one particular table of African Americans I served. It was a Saturday night and one of those rare nights when I had many tables to tend. They seemed to be well-dressed college students. As I took their drink orders, I noticed that they were sizing me up. No big deal, I would do what I always do: give them the best service I could (which, as I stated before, could’ve always been better!).
It wasn’t a moment after I had delivered their drinks when I was summoned back. One woman had just changed her mind about the Coke she had asked for. Could I bring a Sprite, please? No problem, I said, and fetched the drink.
I visited another table when I see them motioning again. The woman had changed her mind about the Sprite and now wanted water. Sure thing, I said, and returned with a water.
Visiting another table a moment later and it’s the woman again. Could she get a lemon in her water, she asks? I see that all eyes are on me, the table is about to fall out laughing, and instantly I get wise. They had been fucking with me.
“I’ll be happy to get you your lemon,” I say politely but with undisguised exasperation. Looking around the table, I asked “now, is there anything else anyone needs before I step away?!”
That could’ve gotten me in a lot of trouble, but instead the table fell out laughing! I laughed, too! I had instantly earned their respect, they were cool to me for the rest of the night, and they left a really fat tip! I never forgot that.
As for romance, the restaurant was full of it! We all knew which server was sleeping with the manager, back rubs were given freely whether one wanted them or not, and indecent proposals flew daily. Before long, I discovered that I was the object of one waitress’s desire, though I wasn’t really into her. She was borderline stalking me, actually, pretty much throwing herself at me. As we would pass in the kitchen, she would often say something sexual to me under her breath. I wasn’t used to that kind of attention (look at me now – good thing I never did get used to it!) and didn’t pay it any mind, though there were some waitresses that definitely got my attention. Though I asked a few of those sweet ladies out, I struck out every time. It must have been my honey mustard cologne.
I soon found out that it’s only after last call that the real party begins. Restaurant people work hard and they play hard, too. There’s always one bar that’s open at 5 AM and that’s where all the other restaurant people go after work.
Restaurant people treat other restaurant people well, because only restaurant people know what it’s like. I recall one night I had a large party seated in my section close to closing. Normally that would piss me off but then I rounded the corner to find about a dozen scantily-clad girls from the Hooters down the road smiling at me. Boy did my attitude change! Because they were restaurant people like me they were some of the nicest, most-understanding customers to serve. Also, because they were Hooters girls and had just gotten off work, they were loaded with cash and tipped me generously! I never forgot that, too.
I could tell right away that that jerk customer who left the nasty note and 2 cents has never worked on the other side of the table. If you have, you know what a tough job it is. To this day, I tip no less than 15%, even if the service is shitty. If the service is great, it’s 20% or more.
A few years ago I was ready to demand that restaurant workers be given a living wage instead of earning the absurdly low $2.13 + tips. Then I thought how wonderful it would be if every American had the chance to work for nothing but gratuities. If they did they wouldn’t look down at service workers ever again. If some asshole thinks it’s easy to depend on others’ generosity for his paycheck, let him try it for a while. Maybe it should be mandatory to work for tips at some point, the way some countries require military service. The smug feeling of entitlement some have would vanish overnight when they realize that it takes all kinds of people to make our society work.
So the next time you head out for dinner, remember to tip your waiters and waitresses and tell them thanks. It will mean more to them than you know.