There’s something about Sundays. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it has something to do with the crowds of overly self-absorbed rich-folk who flock to our discount meals as if their parents’ trust funds are running out. Maybe it has something to do with the assembly of seniors gathering for lunch after a quick game of shuffleboard, or that week’s congregation preying over our Bourbon Street Chicken and Shrimps and Quesadilla Burgers. Or perhaps there is just something in the air. I don’t know. But whatever it is, I don’t like it, I didn’t like it, and I feel an intense sympathy for all of America’s servers plagued to endure the wrath of the Lord’s day’s lunch rush.
Whether you’re at a rundown, old wannabe-IHOP in the slums of Detroit or a high-class, hoity-toity, 5-star restaurant in the heart of Manhattan, don’t forget who the messenger of your Sunday lunch is. We’re not so advanced in science and technology that we have constructed humanlike cyborgs to bring you your food on a golden platter, and when you tell them that they’re incompetent for messing up your excessively modified order, they won’t feel the least bit insulted. Instead, we have very “humanlike” humans with lifelike emotions taking your order to the best of their abilities, trying to juggle needy table after needy table, and―spoiler alert―sometimes humans make mistakes.
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When the chicken on your Grilled Oriental Chicken Salad comes out with stir fry on it instead of classic wing sauce, how is that mistake any different from when you are at your pencil-pushing job and someone reads your sloppy number “7” as a “1,” or when you forget to contact an important client because you are too busy dealing with multiple other issues? And don’t forget, when your server brings you a glass of waterwithout a lemon, it is not the end of the world―it is an easy fix.
Sundays tend to bring in countless guests who think they have attained so much success while their servers are the lowly peasants who couldn’t advance in life. That assessment, which I’ve heard time and time again, is wildly erroneous. Some of the most intelligent, driven individuals I have ever met just so happen to be servers at restaurants―some are studying to become doctors, lawyers, scientists, teachers, and the list goes on. To some, waiting tables is just a job in which they are passing through while they’re at school or looking for a more permanent “residence.” So when your server brings you a Lemon Parmesan Shrimp when you most certainly said you wanted the Lemon Shrimp Fettuccine, try not to have a meltdown in front of everyone and call your server an uneducated imbecile.
And it might come as a surprise to some readers, but servers are working for tips. The lousy $5 they make an hour is hardly enough to pay for a month’s rent or a semester of college courses. Instead, servers are inclined to work 9, 10, 11+ hour shifts (without breaks, most of the time) in order to make the tips necessary to pay for these things. Needless to say, servers have to provide good service in order to receivegood tips. (But even providing good service sometimes results in servers receiving less than an 18% tip, of which anywhere from 3-10% is normally tipped-out to hosts, bartenders, etc. But that’s a whole other story.) So the next time you think your server is sabotaging you when your Bacon Cheddar Cheese Burger comes out overcooked, think again, because―other than the fact that servers do not in fact cook―I highly doubt many servers are willing to risk a good tip just to get a rise out of you.
I am not discouraging anyone from going out to eat―in fact, I encourage it―just, when you go out to eat, especially on Sundays, don’t forget that the person bringing you your food is indeed a person; the more respectful you are, the more pleasant your experience will be. Oh, and also, when you go out on Sundays, don’t breathe in the air.
