I like everything about the Texas Roadhouse chain that’s edible. The wooden seats may be a bit hard and the acoustics may suck, but the steaks and the the baked beans and the rolls are great. Sweet tea, too.
The cheeky service is a different matter.
How surprised would she be, I wonder, to find out that her tip evaporated the moment my Roadhouse waitress, who looked all of 16 years old, sat down across from me at my table to take my order a few days ago in Taylors?
As if she were my guest or my buddy or the manager. Barriers be damned.
I didn’t say anything, which may have been irresponsible of me, now that I think about it. Maybe too much has gone without saying already.
Here, then… to the servers of the world …
- Don’t tell me your name, okay? I don’t care what your name is and I won’t remember it, anyway.
- Don’t imply that you and I are together. “We” aren’t feeling any particular way and “we” aren’t having an appetizer. I am. If you want an appetizer, buy one.
- Don’t tell me that you’ll “be taking care of me tonight.” That phrase puts images in my head that I’d rather not be there, especially if you’re a guy.
- I don’t want cracked pepper on my salad. I didn’t want it in 1972 and I don’t want it now.
- When I thank you for bringing me my meal, please don’t say, “No problem.” How easy or difficult it is for you to do your job is of no interest to me.
- Don’t ask me what I’m reading.
- Unless I invite you to sit at my table, you may not do so.
- Please don’t try to up-sell me on the water. That’s just weird.
All I want – all I want – is for you to bring me my order as quickly as possible. Do that without embellishment and I’ll tip you 20%. Easy peasy. Deal?