The Waiter Rule

In the last twenty years much has been written about the Waiter Rule.  I have mentioned it in at least one previous post.

Let's state it here:

If someone is nice to you but rude to the waiter, they are not a nice person.

Or more formally:  One's true character can be gleaned from how one treats staff or service workers, such as a waiter.  This is so obvious that I simply don't have anything further to say about it.  But if you are interested, have a look at the above Google search.  Or read this management article from USA Today in 2006.

My father is horrible with wait staff.  Always has been.  For many years my mother indulged him, tolerating his completely unnecessary rudeness.  But even she got to the point where she could not take it.  These days, she will not allow him to even deal with wait staff or pay the bill.  But it took decades.

If you put the question to him, and I have, he would say that in a restaurant, the only way the customer has to deal with bad service is through his interaction with the waiter.  Whether it is within the waiter's control or not, this is the customer's only recourse.

If you choose to skip dealing with the manager, I guess this seems logical.  But it is a lie.  My father never chose to deal with the manager.  No, the reason my father treats wait staff so shabbily is that he is simply not a nice person.  He's mean and miserly.  If left to him, he will gladly leave a zero tip on each and every occasion.  This business of bad service is merely an excuse.  Believe you me, he'll find some bad service.

This became clear to me in my twenties.  I was having dinner with a middle aged couple.  The man's silverware, on the table when we arrived, had not been properly washed.  However this might have happened, once he noticed this, he simply and gently asked the waiter for a new set.  This seems totally innocuous and of course it was.  But it made a huge impression on me.  Further, he went on to treat the wait staff with tremendous respect and left a generous tip.

I knew immediately and devastatingly that I had been raised improperly.

Imagine that feeling.

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A Father's Pride

A know a gal.  She's a little younger than me, and she is very nice.  She is a good person.

She is not dumb, but she is not terribly clever either.  She is not very ambitious.  She has a Class B undergraduate degree from a Class C university.  She is college-educated, but she is not a reader and a thinker.

She has always been a bit of a job hopper, never staying at one place too long.  She has a tendency to blame her sexist bosses.  She never started her own business, even though I think it would have made her happier.

She is no longer the beauty that she once was.  But she is not unattractive.  She could stand to lose a bit of weight.

She is divorced with no children.  She drinks too much, but I would not call her an alcoholic.

And guess what?

Her father thinks she walks on water.  He is so very proud of her.  How could he be anything else?  After all, he is her father.  That is his job.

And you know what else?  She's a wonderful person.  He should be proud of her.

Is this really so complicated?

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Better Offer

I grew up in a small town in rural North Carolina.  These were pre-internet days, and small-town life was not very exciting.  But my grandparents lived just south of Chicago.  And every so often when they would come see us, or even on the phone, my grandfather would say, next time you come up to see us, we'll go see the White Sox play.  Well we could hardly be described as a sports-oriented family, but hey, a Major League Baseball game was high excitement for my brother and me.  We must have been six and seven at the time.  Something like that anyway.

Soon enough we did visit them.  And so it came to pass that my grandfather secured four tickets to see a White Sox game.  Nose-bleed tickets, but who cared?  It was my grandfather, my father, his son-in-law, and my brother and myself.  Now my father would rather have had a colonoscopy than sit through a baseball game.  But much to his chagrin, when we got to Chicago, he learned that my grandfather had purchased four tickets rather than three.  So politeness demanded that he had to go too.

We drove into the city from their little town, found parking, and headed towards the stadium.  And almost at the gates, some fellow, a complete stranger, comes up to us and says, "Hey, I have an extra box seat ticket that I cannot use.  Do you want it?"  Very kind of course.  But he had one box seat ticket.  And again, there were four of us.

Now let's stop right here and ask:  What would be the response of any normal person?

But if my family was normal, we would not be here, reader or writer.  So my grandfather, without so much as a look in our direction, says, "Man-oh-man, that's great, thanks so much!"  Then after the fellow trotted off, he turns to my father to rather disingenuously discuss how they would use this unexpected windfall.

So, my father and brother and I went off to watch the ball game, together, in the cheap seats.  And my grandfather went off in another direction, to watch the game from the best seats in the house, with strangers.

To this day, it is the only MLB game that I have ever attended.
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