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He Said, She Said: How to treat a waitress 101
Sunday, July 15, 2001 By L. Wayne Moss and Donna and Eve Shavatt
Men and women through the ages,
Have had opposing points of view.
HE said this...SHE said that,
Which one works for YOU?
He Said-She Said, a male-vs.-female point of view, appears weekly in Washington Sunday.
He said ... "Are you folks ready to order?" the waitress asked. She was young and blonde and bored with a face that hid hopeless dreams of someday gracing the cover of "Biker Beauty" magazine.
"Not yet," said the dark-haired professional woman sitting across from me. She said it without even the hint of a friendly smile. "Why don't you bring us something to drink, dearie?" she said, while flipping through the plastic menu. "I'll take water with a lemon twist, and please don't forget the lemon this time." The waitress looked at me, trying not to roll her eyes; but I could tell she thought the lady was going to be a problem.
"I'll have a large draft beer, any flavor," I offered, and she showed me her big string of glowing teeth in a knowing smile. I was not going to be a problem, she figured, but more importantly, I was going to leave a tip.
The simple business of ordering food in a restaurant reveals certain character deficiencies in some women. They treat it as some kind of symbolic power struggle, almost as if the fate of their social standing is hanging on the line. They will not be hurried or patronized, bullied or bought. It's their moment in the sun, and they play it for all it's worth. It's even worse when the occasion is special or the food is expensive. And if the waitress is unusually pretty, you can just forget having a simple meal:
"Shall I have the Caesar salad with vinaigrette dressing or the vegetable lasagna?" she asks without expecting an answer. "I don't know," I say nonchalantly. "You're not defusing a bomb here, darling, you're just selecting a meal. Pick one before I pass out from hunger or the waitress takes early retirement."
"I don't like her," she snaps back. "She's flirting with you."
"You really think so?" I ask, a little too eagerly. "Yes, but don't flatter yourself grandpa, she's just working the tip."
I think the hardest job in the world would be waiting on several women at once. I'd rather milk a rattlesnake. I've see groups of women sitting at a table like a cabal of grand inquisitors at a witch trial. This poor girl must return three or four times to get their complete order, and every item must be SPECIAL. The final ticket must read like an international treaty, full of exceptions and substitutions and outrageous unilateral demands:
"I'll have a turkey bacon salad," the lady says.
"We don't have that," the waitress says.
"Well, you have turkey clubs, don't' you?"
"Yes, you want one?"
"No. You have bacon sandwiches and chicken salads, right?"
"Yes," the waitress resigned. We all knew where this was going.
"Then bring me a turkey bacon salad," she said.
"And you?" the girl asked me.
"I'll just have another draft," I said.
It was going to be a long night.
L. Wayne Moss can be reached by e-mail at wmoss@mlynk.com.
She said ... There are precious few times in a woman's life when someone else offers to wait on her. So naturally, we're gonna savor these little moments, stretch them to the breaking point and milk them for all they are worth. Because, let's face it, this opportunity to be catered to might not be coming around our way again anytime soon. Shall we order salad or vegetable lasagna? We'll take our sweet time thinking it over.
What nerve, talking about our character deficiencies. As far as we can see, the only deficiency we've ever noticed while dining out was the typical man's inability to see above the poor waitresses neck. Consider the sight line.
You heard us, the sight line.
What does a man see when he's seated and the waitress is standing in front of him? Anything that remotely involves the opposite sex is a testosterone thing. Studies show, again and again, pretty much all men do is think about sex. It's that sight line that sets your mind in motion again.
So you don't care what you eat. You just want to order something, wolf it down and get back to your favorite subject.
It goes without saying that men aren't picky. Beef. It's what's for dinner. And even then it gets drowned in ketchup or hot sauce.
Of course your mind's not on special orders, at least not where food is concerned. Speaking of special orders, what's the big deal with them? We've been in the trenches pulling together a meal or two, and we know that just because something's not on the menu, if it's in the kitchen, it can be done.
Maybe you should ask a few waitresses whom they'd rather wait on -- men or women. Their answer might surprise you. Would they prefer to be leered at, to put up with your corny lines and stupid innuendoes, or to handle a few special requests delivered in a refined, clear-cut manner?
And how about this oldie from you guys: "Are YOU on the menu?"
Somewhere along the line, you start flirting with the waitress and the hair stands up on the backs of our necks. It annoys us, it annoys her and you look like an idiot.
Maybe we're being too sensitive here, but you appear to be implying many women feel superior to waitresses. Don't be ridiculous.
And when the waitress happens to be especially attractive, we're threatened and act haughtier still. Well, of course, there's some truth to that part, but what's your point?
You cap the evening off by leaving a tip large enough to send her to an Ivy League college for a couple of years and strut out of the restaurant as if you're Donald Trump. Then you borrow gas money from us for the drive home.
Apparently, we weren't very picky when we chose to dine with you, so give us some liberty with our meals.
Donna and Eve Shavatt can be reached by e-mail at dshavatt@aol.com.
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