Everyone has their opinions on what qualifies as a "real" job. Benefits, a 401k, paid sick days, enough money to pay your bills, whatever. Real or not, qualified or not, I'm a server. It is my job. It pays my bills. It does not mean you are superior to me. It does not mean you have any sort of right to trample me while you're enjoying your spinach dip. It does not mean you can choose to tip or not tip me based on how much money you feel like spending that day. It does not mean I am there to kiss your feet for the duration of your stay at my restaurant.
It means you chose to go out to eat as an alternative to cooking and feeding yourself, and you chose to pay me to relieve you of that burden.
While you relax in an air conditioned restaurant, tapping your toe, checking your watch, and harassing anyone with an employee shirt on about how much longer your food is going to take, there are 10-20 people in the kitchen (which is about 10 degrees hotter than the rest of the building) working vigorously to cook your steak well done with sauce on the side, double veggies, no onions. They are also cooking 53 other people's meals, virtually at the same time.
While you roll your eyes because you had to ask me for a third time for a lemon for your water, I was sweeping up a broken glass, punching in six new orders, garnishing your lava flow with extra pineapples, checking on five burgers that have been punched in seven minutes ago but are 'taking too long', answering the phone to tell someone for the 108th time that day what time we close, switching the menus over from lunch to dinner, and grabbing a side of ranch for another table, virtually at the same time.
I am required to smile and be friendly anywhere from 5-12 hours a day while working. I am required to be nice and accommodating, even when someone is calling me a "f***ing bitch" for accidentally throwing away their beer bottle that wasn't quite empty yet. (This actually happened to me last night). I am required to fulfill your wants and needs to the best of my ability, all with a smile on my face and a kind and helpful tone in my voice, no matter how you are speaking to me or treating me, all with the hope that you might leave me a tip.
I can assure you that you are rarely the only person or table in my section at any given time. I promise you that I am serving at least 1-20 other people at the exact same time, all with only my two arms and two legs. I guarantee there are a handful of people who want lemons for their water that I just keep forgetting to bring back because you all also asked me to get you some ketchup, take the order of the person who just joined your table, split your checks six ways, and get you a dessert menu.
Every eye roll, heavy sigh, and raised voice is like a dagger in my gut. As if I am trying to keep you in this restaurant for one moment longer. As if I am forgetting the sliver of citrus you asked for on purpose to make sure your dining experience is below average. As if there is nothing on the planet I would rather be doing with my $50,000 college degree than getting you a slice of lemon for your water that you are only asking for because someone at this restaurant took the time to cut up 900 lemons just in case you might want one to spice up your sink water. Do you cut up lemons for your water at home? I would be willing to bet a year's worth of tips that you have never done that in your entire life. So I can't see how it can be too much to ask to just chalk it up as a loss when I forget to bring you a lemon.
It would be glorious if you could instead, focus on the fact that I made sure your four-year-olds mac n' cheese came out in five minutes so she would stop ingesting crayons. Or the fact that you never once saw the bottom of your glass because I refilled it each time it was half empty. Or the fact that I let you squeeze in one more happy hour drink even though you sat down after happy hour ended. Or the fact that I let you move tables twice in the middle of a dinner rush because you didn't like the first two you were given. Or the fact that there are three layers of skin seared off of my forearm because I was holding your hot plate of food the whole time you were staring at each other trying to remember what you ordered.
It would also be lovely if you could recognize the physical and emotional exhaustion that comes with being a server. If you could know that I go in the freezer to cry sometimes after a customer screams at me and calls me names for accidentally forgetting something or accidentally spilling something. If you could realize how disappointing it is to see a zero written on the tip line after all the work I put in to making sure your experience at my restaurant was mildly enjoyable. If you could remember that I only make about $3 per hour after taxes and that I rely on tips to pay my bills based off of a system put into place in the United States by someone other than me. If you could understand that I have to give my bartenders, food runners, bussers, and hosts a percentage of your bill, regardless if you tip me or not. (Yes, that means if you leave me nothing, I literally pay money out of my pocket to serve you). If you could feel the pain of having to pay for someone's tab with my own money because they walked out on their bill or refused to pay for something. If you could just see that although I am a server, I am not your servant.
Eating out is a luxury. Whether someone is handing you french fries or setting a filet mignon on your table, that someone is being paid less than the minimum wage to smile at your family, even on their absolute worst days and make sure you all have everything you need to satisfy your hungry bellies so you don't have to do it yourself. I'm not saving you from a burning building, but you did decide all on your own that you wanted to spend money at an establishment to be fed. That does not come with some divine right to treat me like a servant. You are not giving me a $7 tip in exchange for one whole hour to verbally abuse me. You are giving me a $7 tip in exchange for a meal that costs less than it should that gets cooked to perfection and brought right to your table so you can spend that extra few dollars on a tip for me to put in my pocket and split with my coworkers later.
I'm an adult, same as you, working to make money to pay my bills, same as you. You and I are not that different.
So please, tip your servers. Try your best not to call them names. And forget about the lemon just this once.
Sincerely,
One of many frustrated servers
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