Interacting with many restaurant servers has been ‘my pleasure’
When our son Bill was 3, he loved going to a nearby Chinese restaurant. However, one night, he surprised us by flagging down the server on his own and requesting some more rice.
She thought it was cute, and with a laugh she brought him his own little bowl of steamed rice.
That young woman was one of the many restaurant servers I’ve encountered through the years who made an impression. Most of those memories are favorable.
What could have been a less than positive interaction came a couple of months ago at Classic City Eats in Watkinsville, near Athens, when my brothers and I had a server just beginning her first day on the job.
Although she hadn’t yet learned the restaurant’s beer list, she got all the right dishes served in a timely manner and afterward agreed to take a picture of us. That ended up being the last picture taken of the three King brothers together, as my brother Jon died unexpectedly a few weeks later. So, I’ll never forget her.
Really, I’ve found most servers willing to take photos of their customers, but the staff at the Majestic Diner on Ponce de Leon Avenue stands out in my memory from back when I was covering radio for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution in the early 1980s. They patiently helped me and a photographer stage a shot featuring Atlanta’s leading morning-drive DJs all gathered around a booth stabbing one of the diner’s waffles.
Speaking of waffles, my family generally has had good luck with Waffle House servers. When my father was at an assisted-living place in the Barrow County town of Statham, the staff at the Waffle House came to recognize my brothers and me and greeted us like old friends.
Another place with great servers is Murphy’s in Atlanta’s Virginia-Highland area.
After one meal, we thanked the young woman who’d brought us our meal and she replied, “My pleasure.” Our daughter, Olivia, picked up on that and said, “She probably used to work at Chick-fil-A,” also known for friendly service and for training its staff to say “My pleasure” instead of “You’re welcome.”
It’s not just a Southern thing, though.
I’ve run into helpful servers all over, including one in an Indian restaurant in New York City many years ago who picked up quickly on my lack of familiarity with that cuisine. He guided me, nudging me toward dishes he thought I’d like, including tandoori chicken. I remembered his kindness and revisited that restaurant on a later trip to the Big Apple.
We always appreciate servers who help us avoid dishes or drinks we probably wouldn’t like. My wife, Leslie, remembers being cautioned once when she was thinking of trying an orange wine. The server allowed her to taste it and, Leslie said, “She was right; it wasn’t for me.”
Other memorable servers through the years include the bartender with a Kathleen Turner-esque whiskey voice who kept me company in a lonely neighborhood tavern when I was the only diner on a Thanksgiving Day (the rest of my family was sick).
Then there was the server at one of our favorite restaurants in London — Olio — whose menu had changed from Italian to European-Malaysian since our previous visit. She convinced the management to serve us from the Frank Sinatra Night menu of Italian dishes that one of their other restaurants offered just one night a week.
And, on a trip to Liverpool, my son and I dined at Casa Italia one night and decided to return the next day for lunch. When we walked in, we got a taste of the famous Liverpudlian wit when the server we’d had the night before recognized us and, with a grin, asked if we’d like our “usual table.”
Some of the best service ever was during a vacation stay at a hotel on Italy’s Lake Maggiore, where all our meals were overseen by the wonderful Roberto, who would address Leslie as “Signora,” Olivia as “Signorina” and me as “Datore,” an Italian term of respect that roughly translates as “Boss.” My son, as the younger male, didn’t get any special honorific, but on his birthday they did roll out a strawberry and vanilla cake topped with a sparkler.
I appreciate servers, because I know how hard they work, often subsisting on tips. So, I am a generous tipper.
However, not all servers make a good impression. That includes one at The Abbey, a now-closed Atlanta restaurant in a former church that had its servers wear monk’s robes. Apparently, my wife and I, who were in our early 20s, weren’t the usual type of customers there and our snooty “monk” made his disdain rather obvious.
I also can’t forget a visit to Parker’s on Ponce in Decatur, where a server wouldn’t allow me to substitute one vegetable for another that came with a dish because “the chef says it would violate the integrity of the menu.”
Some dining memories are amusing, including when a server at Stone Mountain Inn asked Tim, “Are we through with our fork?” to which my brother replied: “I don’t know, are we?”
Another instance may have been a case of us being given bad advice when we visited Charleston, South Carolina, and a native of the city had told us to be sure to drop by the Mills House just for dessert, adding: “Everyone does it.”
When we got there, the staff seemed not to understand that we didn’t want a full meal. They stuck us at a solo table partitioned off from the main part of a room where some Miss USA pageant dinner was going on. When the server arrived, he greeted us with: “Are you the ones that wanted just dessert?”
Still, most server memories I have are positive, with the absolute tops being from when Leslie and I were on our honeymoon, and we got all dressed up one night to dine at the Colonial Williamsburg Inn’s Rockefellers.
We ordered prime rib, but after just a few bites, Leslie excused herself to go to the restroom.
The server came over and said, “Will the young lady be returning?” I said she would, and he said he’d take her plate to the kitchen “to keep it warm.”
When my bride returned, he brought out her plate, and in place of the partially eaten prime rib was a brand-new whole serving.
Now, that’s service worth remembering.
For many more server memories, go to billkingquickcuts.wordpress.com. Bill King can be reached at junkyardblawg@gmail.com.
