The Potato Problem

I have the utmost respect for people in the service industries – specifically restaurant servers and wait staff. In many instances, these folks have a tendency to see people at their worst. Whether it’s those who are angry because the food took four extra minutes to come out of the kitchen or folks who found a spot on their fork, they have chosen to come to your establishment, were seated in your area and you are reliant on them for your very livelihood.

 

I’m not rich by any means, but I do like to be as generous as my budget will allow for good service. Even if the service is substandard or poor, I refuse to give a truly horrible tip. Being a waiter or waitress is not an easy job. So I try to be kind.

 

And then there are those who refuse to be kind. Those customers who, regardless of how much you smile and treat them right, always seem to find something wrong with what you are doing or how you are doing it.

 

During my time at studying journalism at Temple University, I became friends with a girl named Audrey. She too was studying journalism and hoped to land a job as a print journalist after graduation. In order to put herself through school she had worked a long series of waitressing jobs. 

 

A then annual tradition for Audrey and her father was to take a weekend trip and drive from the Philadelphia suburbs where they lived to New York City to have dinner at very nice restaurant followed by a Mets game at Shea Stadium.

 

Audrey’s father, a lawyer, was a meticulous man. And, even Audrey admitted, he could be kind of a bastard when things were not up to his standards. He would complain about dirty silverware and generally embarrass Audrey whenever he felt the situation warranted a change in forks, tables or the ever-frightening “talk with the manager.”

 

On this particular trip to NYC, the restaurant they had chosen to visit was extremely busy. Even beyond what was normal traffic for a late Saturday afternoon/early evening. Thankfully, they had reservations and were guided to a table and greeted moments later by their server, Angela. 

 

Angela politely took their drink order and rushed off to aid other customers as Audrey and her father perused their menus in search of the evening’s meal.

 

Upon her return, Audrey ordered first and then her father. Being as specific as he could in placing his order, Audrey’s father ordered crinkle cut fries with his entree. Angela gathered their menus and ran off once again to get their order in.

 

In the time it took for the kitchen to prepare food for the table, even more customers streamed through the door and were seated, thus extending the time the servers had between tables to serve their customers. 

 

Soon a runner came by and dropped off plates which were completely covered in food. Audrey’s father took one look at his plate and furrowed his brow. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Audrey asked.

 

“I need to talk to our server and get this corrected,” he said, still refusing to tell Audrey what the issue was.

 

Their server Angela was now running from table to table in an attempt to keep up with the rush of customers. In fact when she came to the table to check-in and ask the standard, “Is everything okay here?” she was carrying a full tray of cold drinks intended for a table elsewhere. 

 

“Is everything okay here?” Angela asked of Audrey and Audrey’s father. 

 

“I specifically asked for crinkle cut fries with my order,” Audrey’s father said. On his plate were waffle cut fries, little grids which he, for some odd reason, simply detested.

 

Just then, a fellow server slowed as she passed Angela and whispered something to her about another table in her area which was in need of something.

 

Angela straightened herself up and spoke in a clear, yet precise New York accent, “Look. I don’t have time to deal with your fucking potato problem.”

 

Audrey’s father looked from Angela to his plate and simply said, “Well, then you’re not going to get a tip.” 

 

At this Angela sighed heavily, threw out her hip and glared at him.

 

“Don’t worry about your tip and please don’t worry about my Dad’s fries. I’m a server too and I will tip you myself if necessary,” Audrey said, breaking up the confrontation. “Just go,” she said, shooing Angela away from the table.

 

Audrey looked at her father. “Eat your fries, Dad. We don’t want to be late for the game."

 

A few minutes later they settled the bill (Audrey’s father did indeed tip Angela) and they hurried off to see their beloved Mets play under the lights at Shea. And Angela presumably kept hustling through the end of her shift with nary crinkle cut fry in sight. 

 

- Scott Kaminski

 

* - All names have been changed.