On a cold night in October more than 50 years ago, the staff at Ciro & Sal’s restaurant was getting ready to close. It was after nine o’clock, there had not been much business, and we all just wanted to go home. I could hear the kitchen begin to make shutting-down noises.
Then the phone rang. A party of 10? You bet. Somebody recognized the name. He was an out-of-town high-roller — either a business tycoon or a drug dealer — and with the same group of 10 had spent lavishly at the Colonial Inn the previous night. The word was that he had left a $100 tip. (Word got around rapidly even in those pre-internet days, and that was a lot of money.)
We stoked up the fire in the outer dining room fireplace and had just finished setting the table when they arrived. I remember fashionably dressed people, seemingly used to the good life. Their leader, the high-roller, had an aura of authority. He did all the ordering.
I was the waiter, and I was up to the task, deftly explaining the menu and charming them with my wit and wisdom. (I had already had my after-shift drink and maybe another after that.) I was on. He asked me if the oysters were fresh, and I shrugged dramatically and admitted that no, they were powdered, and we just added water. The party howled at that, everyone laughing (although not the man at the head of the table). He asked about the California rosé, and I explained that it was derived from hosing out the truck after all the grapes had been offloaded. Another round of laughter (but not the high-roller’s). Oh, yes, I was on.
The meal was a great success. Dinner and wine were served, espresso and desserts and after-dinner drinks followed, and finally the hefty bill was paid, and they were jollily out the door. I counted up the money — cash, in those days. He had left me a $10 tip.
The joke was on me, and I learned a very important lesson that night. I had forgotten my role.
Being a server is fairly simple: the food is in the kitchen and the people are waiting for it in the dining room. All a waitperson has to do is connect the two in an expeditious manner. And never humiliate a customer.
But nothing in life involving people is simple. There is always a role to play, and the art of serving is to know which one it is. It is a real-life drama. Perhaps that’s why so many actors make good waiters.
It is a delicate balance. A waitperson must “know his place,” as distasteful as that might sound. Some diners want to be your friend, want to know you and your life. “What’s it like to live here?” They ask. “Are you an artist?” Others just want to be served and left alone. There are regulars who expect to be recognized and appreciated. A server may play one role at one table and a different role at the next, just a few feet away. And then there is the kitchen to deal with, involving an entirely different set of skills.
On one level the job might be servile, but there is also a sense of sharing, of hospitality. Servers represent the establishment they work in and ideally establish a genuine connection to the place, as if in some ways they are hosting in their own home. The server is not just a functionary but a guide, someone who has a sense of the restaurant, a pride in it, and a familiarity with its culture and cuisine — and its history. The restaurant becomes part of his identity, at least for the time he is working.
This “simple” task is embedded in a dynamic that takes place hundreds — actually, thousands — of times a day, in restaurants and cafés all over the Cape. Each of us is on one side or the other of this relationship, often on a daily basis. As central as food is to our lives, so is the act of sharing it, and when we are “out to eat” it is the server who makes it happen.
