In America, being a restaurant server is usually seen as either a second job that one does for extra income or as a preliminary job that someone has while they work towards their “real” job. For example, there are very high-end restaurants in America where a career as a server is viewed with pride. These servers see themselves as the caretaker of a customer’s happiness for a few hours. I have certainly had great servers in America. I have also had servers who couldn’t wait to “turn the table” and get the next tipper seated.
A friend told me a story once about her trip to Paris. She and her husband were trying to squeeze in a lunch before an appointment. They had somewhere else to be, so they agreed to a quick lunch at a café. The concept of a “quick lunch” on the way to somewhere else does not really exist in France. Lunches are commonly two hours long. All food (at any meal) is meant to be savored and digested slowly. After an acceptable amount of time, (for Americans) my friend requested her check. The waiter was aghast. He wanted to know if he had done something to offend them. Was his service unacceptable? Is there something he could do to rectify the situation? He was so sorry. And on and on it went. They gently explained to him that they were simply in a hurry. They had somewhere to be and he had not, in fact, done anything wrong at all. It was a fascinating moment of cultural exchange for sure. He learned that sometimes Americans need a quick lunch (probably thinking that we overschedule ourselves). They learned about what true pride in a job well done looks like in the service industry.
This is Frank (and a younger me).
Frank not only made our dinner fantastic, but he impacted the quality of our entire vacation. Frank was our waiter one night in Paris in 2006. It was a tiny place. Even with the tables packed so closely together that only a French woman’s narrow hips could glide through, there were only about ten of them. Frank seated us. Someone lit a cigarette. Then someone else lit up. I don’t know what it is like these days, but fifteen years ago, everyone in Paris smoked. When Frank visited our table a moment later, we prefaced our concern with, “We are Americans and we are not used to it.” We admitted that we considered not saying anything because we knew the restaurant was so small, there wasn’t really anywhere for us to move where the smoke would not waft over to us. Immediately, he said it was not a problem. He had a solution. He led us up a steep circular staircase that was not meant for these American hips. There was a second dining room upstairs with another six or eight tables that had not yet been opened for the evening. We had a private dining room for our dinner!
Frank gave me suggestions on wine and provided us with honest recommendations for entrees. When we asked his opinion, he gave it. He didn’t parrot what the kitchen told him to say. Like many servers, he made small talk by asking us about our plans. We told him we would be spending several days in Barcelona, Spain. He suggested that we take a day trip to Sitges. He said it was a Mediterranean-style paradise that was worth the trip.
We researched trains and discovered that Sitges is only a 45-minute train ride from Barcelona. We did spend a day in Sitges. We have never regretted it. We owe our fond memories of strolling along boardwalks, passing our first topless beach, and winding our way through tiny ceramics shops to Frank. Thank you, wherever you are.
On our very first international trip, we made a few rookie mistakes. One of these was to schedule our transfer from one town to another in Tuscany for a Sunday at mid-day. This is a two-fold problem. First, all Italians shut down their businesses for several hours from lunch time to mid-afternoon for a long lunch break. Second, Italy is a Catholic country, and everything shuts down on Sundays.
Our bus from Florence dropped us off in the village of Poggibonsi (population 28,000) around noon. It was a ghost town. The bus station was closed. There were no pedestrians or vehicles. Every shop in the city centre was closed, except for one. This woman (thankfully) called us a cab. I had directions to the farm (agriturismo) where we would be staying. I spent the next hour trying to loosely translate them into Italian with my dictionary so I could direct the cab driver. One hour later, when the cab driver (finally) arrived, I made the mistake of asking, “Do you speak English?” I already knew that Italians will never say, “Yes” to this. But it slipped out. His negative answer made me glad for my weakly translated directions. I sat in the front seat and tried to direct him. He could not understand. My translated directions and my interpretation attempts were pathetic at best. I was sooooo pitiful that he, apparently, felt badly for me.
He asked me to read the directions in English. I was baffled but I did. He began to speak heavily accented English to me. What?! Et tu, Marco?! This reminded me to stick to the cardinal rule of travel. You will receive better customer service if you make an effort to speak the native language first. It is the polite thing to do. Locals appreciate the effort and will switch to English (if they are capable) if they see you struggling. Following the Golden Rule goes a long way here.
Marco gave us his business card and, days later, when it was time to leave the farm, he was our first call. He talked non-stop on the drive back to town. He turned out to be funny, informative and fun. We miss you, Marco!
For the most part, I have erased most of the negative customer service experiences from my memory bank. I prefer to focus on the stars of the hospitality industry. Do you have a great customer service story that illustrates someone going “above and beyond?”
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