A server's manifesto

It happened that I worked a catering event for my former professors and classmates.
"Oh, hi! I din't know you were still in town! What have you been up to?"
My reply is some variation of, "working here, the Chinese place, some at the bookstore. Looking for a fulltime job." (To me, this means an established four-star in an affluent area--Aspen, Tahoe, &c.)
"Oh, well, yeah, it's a tough market. Not many schools are hiring." (Naturally, to my former colleagues, this means tenure-track college composition.)

Here's the thing: I've been in the composition arena. I've been in college for just shy of a decade. I've watched tenure packets assemble and fail, watched temporary positions leave families stranded, I've taught introductory courses and met with sobbing students and glowering deans. Teaching invades my sleep with nightmares of what I should've done, rules my weekends with research and planning for the upcoming lessons, erodes my stomach lining with cup after cup of coffee pounded in hopes of finishing just one of the stacks of papers. And still, when faced with 30 students, I'm damn lucky if I can reach one. No matter what, no matter how I couch my lesson, it will fail to engross at least half of them. A great teacher will reach one or two students every few years, and the rest slough away into dusty memory cabinets.

Consider the flip side: as a waiter, I evaluate what preliminary tone a table expects based on their posture--am I the happy and silly one who puts them at ease, the formal one who validates their expense, the nonexistent one who accommodates their desires unnoticed? Any given night brings all of the above; as a server, I can address any need individually, including disparate components of a couple (she wants a fun time, he wants pomp and ceremony, and my body language acts appropriate to the expectations of whomever I'm facing). And if I miscalculate and change tactics, I don't lose anyone who might have been climbing on board.
When confronted with a wine list, I shuffle through 200+ bottles based on, "hmm, well, I like sweet and kinda juicy wines, but they can't be, like, the sweet wines because he doesn't like people who drink those."
"Ah," I say, "you'd love the ______."
I negotiate through "I'm strict vegetarian so no butter, but I'm allergic to wheat and soy. So could I have [a list of items not available on any restaurant menu outside of a vegan mecca in a hip metropolis]?"
"Let me see what I can do." And I have to accommodate that person as completely as the farm boy who wants a tenderloin cooked to charcoal and served with Heinz Ketchup.
As a server, every table offers an individual interaction and expectations, and I can negotiate through my performance deck to accommodate just about anything (no matter what, despite the ponytail, my tip percentage will never be as high as the curvaceous bubbly one who snuggles into farm boys and bats contact-altered baby blues).

It is the difference between teaching a classroom and private tutoring: everyone loves the lightbulbs that come on after a student hears an idea catered to an individual learning style. A classroom, especially in an introductory class, is a cluster of disparate needs, abilities, and expectations. Teaching is a matter of appealing to the unremarkable mass in the middle while alienating the fore and aft of the curve. In a restaurant, not only do my tables want to be there, I can cater to the each unique set of assumptions and expectations.

And here's the rub: as a teacher, I make a flat salary. It might not be large, but unless I do something egregiously stupid, it's there. I may be eating ramen, but at least it's cooked.
As a server, I rake in $3.50 an hour. If I don't get tips, I'm crunching through dry ramen (better dry than soaked in cold water--trust me) or pillaging bread baskets and bus tubs for chow. Generally, as long as I am able to figure out what a table, or the person buying dinner for the table, expects, I'm golden. But if the person didn't get the right parking spot, didn't get a warm enough greeting, didn't get prompt coat hanging, didn't see the right wine or menu item, ordered something we were out of, didn't like the conversation in the next booth, didn't get the right booth, wasn't comfortable at a table, was too fat to fit in a chair, too fat to fit in a booth, couldn't get something we've never offered (Salisbury steak with Dutch apple pie? Seriously?), got what they wanted but at too great a price, got what they wanted but couldn't hack the tip, could hack the price but was born before 1949 or has lived in rural areas, if the person brushed askance of ANY of those confounding factors, my tip tanks.
Funny thing: If a person's every expectation is met to the fullest possible extent, he or she might mention having a nice time. If one thing is slightly amiss, every single casual acquaintance or passing encounter knows about it.

My job is to navigate every customer through the myriad offerings as smoothly as possible; of course nothing is perfect, but as long as I make gestures to indicate that it is so, everyone leaves happy.
Had to wait too long on the drinks? Apps on me. Entree didn't meet expectations? Dessert's on me.
Of course, there are exceptional cases: I forgot the table I took on outside of my already full section was going from app to salad, not salad to entree, and I didn't check in for too long. They were angry. Justifiably. I groveled and comped dessert: strawberry ice cream. He was allergic to strawberry. I offered to comp apps next time they came in. They were from out of state and in town for one night only.
And there's the rub: every year, there's one table you just can't reach. Or one student you can.

Not to lessen the import of teaching or the rewards therein. One day, I hope to return to the classroom. But after I'm mature enough or callous enough or oblivious enough to accept that no matter what I do or how I couch my lessons, I will never be able to reach everyone in a given class, and there may be nothing in the world I can possibly do to reach some students. But for now, at least when I know I can't reach a table, I only have to deal with them for an hour or two, not a semester or four.

At this point, I know enough to understand what happened if my service didn't meet standards (not to be confused with expectations), and even if I can't fix it, I can identify and anticipate the problem. I can keep hold of drinks, apps, entrees, and desserts for tables up to six without writing anything down. Don't ask me how it happens, but when I have two fours, a six, and a deuce, my brain usually files each table's orders in an immediately-available location; I can remember who ordered first--the grande dame--and the order each entree appears on the ticket--clockwise from near left corner. And when I have return customers I don't immediately recognize, once they point out where they sat and what they drank, I can reconstruct their entire meal, plus those that happened before and/or after them on that particular night.
This is my job. This is what I do. Don't ask how or why.
What counts is that I not only make a good server, I love doing it.

As a server, I experience success by meeting all of my prep goals--setting up bread, salad, dessert, napkin, and silverware service--by meeting all of my tables' needs, by meeting unspoken hopes or expectations (her mouth is saying, "uhhhmmmm" negatively, but her posture and face is saying "GIMME THE FUCKING CHEESECAKE!" so I push her into having a bite and sharing the rest with the table). For most every table, I accommodate the expected experience and nudge it just one step up whenever possible. Aside from failed dates and business meetings, people leave the restaurant sated with an outlook filtered through the satisfaction of the dinner I helped actualize.

As a server, I actively make people's lives more enjoyable, table after table, night after night. And I love it.