COLUMN: It May Not Be the Tip You're Looking For

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By Tobin Barnes
“Never touch a customer. No excuses. Do not do it. Do not brush them, move them, wipe them or dust them.”

That’s advice from “100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do (Part 1)” by Bruce Buschel that recently appeared in The New York Times.

I started talking about it last time but didn’t get very far because I was so busy with the disclaimers. I didn’t want anyone to think I was being snooty just because I found these suggestions interesting. After all, we’ve all become service consumers nowadays.

Besides, what profession, occupation, or job couldn’t use a list of “100 Things You Should Never Do”? Man, I could think of quite a few, starting at the highest paid. How about you?

As far as wait staff are concerned, the writer, Buschell, says, “Veteran waiters, moonlighting actresses, libertarians and baristas will no doubt protest some or most of what follows. They will claim it homogenizes them or stifles their true nature. And yet, if 100 different actors play Hamlet, hitting all the same marks, reciting all the same lines, cannot each one bring something unique to that role?”

Well, that’s pretty good, so let’s go:

“Do not make a singleton feel bad. Do not say, ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ Ask for a reservation. Ask if he or she would like to sit at the bar.”

It’s a lonely world out there. Don’t make it worse. I always hated to eat alone in the dorm dining room. But it was better than being hungry.

“Tables should be level without anyone asking. Fix it before guests are seated.”

Or maybe fix it once and for all.

“Do not lead the witness with, “Bottled water or just tap?” Both are fine. Remain neutral.”

Tap only kind of means I’m cheap.

“Do not announce your name. No jokes, no flirting, no cuteness.”

Please! Even when I’m a “singleton,” that doesn’t mean I’m looking for a friend.

“Do not recite the specials too fast or robotically or dramatically. It is not a soliloquy.
This is not an audition.”

And don’t make the list too long. I probably stopped listening a while ago.

“Do not touch the rim of a water glass. Or any other glass.”

Not when flu is the talk of the town.

“When you ask, ‘How’s everything?’ or ‘How was the meal?’ listen to the answer and fix whatever is not right.”

As for me, I’ve got to learn not to say “Fine” when it isn’t.

“Know before approaching a table who has ordered what. Do not ask, ‘Who’s having the shrimp?’”

It’s really bad when the customer has to say, “Maybe he is. Over at that table.”

“If someone likes a wine, steam the label off the bottle and give it to the guest with the bill. It has the year, the vintner, the importer, etc.”

Don’t worry. You can forget that one here in South Dakota.

“Do not put your hands all over the spout of a wine bottle while removing the cork.”

But I guess I’m going to have to put up with it when you’re twisting the cap off my beer.

“Never let the wine bottle touch the glass into which you are pouring. No one wants to drink the dust or dirt from the bottle.”

Boy, I’d never thought of that one. This might be getting a little over the top.

“Do not drink alcohol on the job, even if invited by the guests. “Not when I’m on duty” will suffice.”

I guess that means you can’t sit next to me either.

“Never say, “Good choice,” implying that other choices are bad.”

Especially after I ordered before the other person and you didn’t say anything to me.

“Do not take an empty plate from one guest while others are still eating the same course. Wait, wait, wait.”

I’ve been hustled out of better places than this.

“Do not bang into chairs or tables when passing by.”

Ya think?

Finally, “Do not call a guy a ‘dude.’ Do not call a woman ‘lady.’”

And please…let “Yo” die out from common use.

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• Restaurant Common Sense from the NYT (anotherwineblog.com)

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Monologue | Aired Monday night on NBC: The ratings just came in for Sarah Palin’s appearance on “The Oprah Winfrey Show.” It earned Oprah her highest ratings since the episode where she reunited the Osmond family. Yeah, viewers who saw both episodes say Palin’s more likable but that Donny and Marie are more qualified to be president.

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Monologue | Aired Monday night on CBS: That evil guy, the evil masterminding terrorist Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, he is going on trial here in New York City. I will tell you something, this guy is nothing but evil. One time he called CNN and told him that his son was floating away in a balloon. Read more…

COLUMN: If I May Suggest

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By Tobin Barnes
This is a touchy subject.

It’s about advice for waiters and waitresses. Yeah, advice like, “Do not interrupt a conversation for any reason, especially not to recite specials. Wait for the right moment.”

As much as I’d have to agree with this tidbit, I didn’t come up with it, and I admit feeling a little sheepish spouting it.

See, The New York Times ran this article recently: “100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do (Part 1),” which, as indicated, contained just the first 50. The second 50 came in a later article. Evidently, no one has the patience for 100 of anything in one sitting. Actually, though interested, I found even 50 a little daunting.

I say it’s a touchy subject because service people already have their hands full dealing with the public every day without me getting on some bandwagon with The New York Times. Even the suggestion makes me sound kind of elitist and hoity-toity. After all, I’m just some hick who is proud but realistic about living in South Dakota his whole life—not exactly sterling credentials for discussing high class manners and etiquette.

When I was a kid, the only “restaurants” we ever went to were the Zesto or the A&W for maybe an ice cream cone, a nickel root beer, or a foot-long hotdog, but only if the old man was feeling flush. Our dining was almost exclusively done at home or at the relatives, and, yes, our elbows were usually on the table.

Sometimes if we were on a road trip, we’d stop at a more traditional restaurant, but it was always some low-rent greasy spoon. The only tablecloths I ever saw as a kid were on the Cleaver’s dinner table on TV.

The first restaurant I spent much time in was the place I worked the summer after my senior year in high school. I was a bus boy. Uh huh, a great way to quash a cocky teenager’s dreamy delusions of grandeur.

Yeah, I can’t say I really enjoyed the job. For one thing, I worked for a skinflint manager who would have me come in early for the breakfast service, send me home when things slowed down, and had me come back for the busy lunch service. Can you believe it? Unfortunately, I did the whole summer.

Anyway by the end, I knew food service wasn’t for me, although the manager wanted me back the next summer. (And sure, who doesn’t want to hire a fairly hard-working, naive chump? Heck, that’s Business Management 101.)

But one thing I did get out of the experience was an appreciation for the hard work put in by the waitresses. As we all know, some of the hardest physical labor in this country is done by the lowest paid.

Ever since, I’ve tried to be a responsible tipper. I highly respect conscientious service, having seen where it comes from.

And nowadays, in our ever-growing “service” economy, most of us, high or low, are regular consumers of other people’s attention to our needs. Thus, we’ve developed opinions as to how that attention should be served. We’ve all become snooty dukes and duchesses in a way, wondering why there isn’t any good help anymore, as though we were to the manor deservedly born.

Therefore, I richly see the irony of having people serve me as part of their jobs. That being said, I’m sure we’ve all seen service done poorly and have presumed to know how it could have been done better. That’s why I was attracted to this New York Times “100 Things…” article by Bruce Buschel, a guy who writes about running small businesses. Buschel is currently building and starting a seafood restaurant and claims that his staff will be well aware of those 100 things.

I decided to humbly mine some of those “things” from his seemingly exhaustive list, such as, “Never serve anything that looks creepy or runny or wrong.”

Yeah, as David Letterman says, “I’ll take a slice of that.”

But, alas, I’ve already run out of space for more do’s and don’t’s, so I’ll continue this discussion next time (Part 2, in other words).

In the meantime, you can always google that Times title and check some of the tips for your own local waiters or waitresses. But better leave one other good tip, too.

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

Make Your Own Academic Sentence

Parody | Random samples from a “make your own academic sentence” generator on a University of Chicago Web page:

The linguistic construction of post-capitalist hegemony may be parsed as the invention of print culture.

The eroticization of normative value(s) functions as the conceptual frame for the historicization of the gendered body.

The epistemology of praxis recapitulates the fantasy of linguistic transparency.

Try the generator yourself here.

COLUMN: My Dog Is Like Forrest Gump

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By Tobin Barnes
Some of you may remember that last time I talked about our new puppy.

Our good old dog Matty died last April, so we had been gradually ramping up to the idea of getting another dog. We had thought the ramping had a way to go yet, but there was this advertisement, plain as day, for a puppy just like Matty. And there quickly followed the cute-puppy impulse and commitment.

Maybe you’ve been there. You know what I’m talking about.

I say the advertisement was “plain as day” as though it were lettered in intermittent on-off glaring neon lights on our living room wall.

Obviously, that was not the case. The notice was in small print, hiding amidst maybe fifty other pet ads in the local paper.

That’s right. It didn’t hit us over the head. This wasn’t a hostage situation.

It might better be described as an example of foolish free will, freely and cavalierly exercised.

And for better or worse, it’s been all puppy all the time ever since. A puppy does have an inescapable knack for soaking up your attention.

Since Matty, it’s been a while since we’ve been around a puppy. We had forgotten—maybe a form of psychic protection, like after blunt-force trauma—what it was like.

Perhaps the most startling thing about a puppy, other than the enormous amounts of waste it can download in any given day, is the pure energy that can burst forth in nuclear explosions of action.

When our puppy does anything, it’s dead-bolt, head-on.

She’s kind of like Forrest Gump in that way: “When I went anywhere, I was running.”

Yeah, it’s hell-bent-for-leather time with total expenditure of all resources. Every calorie available is devoted to galloping across the garage or tearing hell out of a cardboard box.

There’s no prudent conservation of energy for later possible escapades.

She suffers the tyranny of “Now!”

For a guy deeply ensconced in middle-age, the spectacle of her kineticism is remarkable. Here I am, hoping I can muster the energy to get up, climb the stairs, and go to bed most nights, and there she is, blazing away until she sometimes falls asleep on her feet.

Anyway, we decided to name her Scout, a noble name of long cultural heritage. Maybe the name emerged in our minds from the mists of our youth, having grown up with the daunting exploits of the Lone Ranger, whom Tonto called Kemo Sabe (Trusty Scout). And Tonto was quite a scout, too.

Or maybe it just materialized on a whim.

Whatever.

Little did we know how appropriate this name would be.

When in rare moments of composure, Scout studies us like a technical manual of operating instructions. We can’t make a move without her watching us.

I turn around and there she is, staring at me.

It’s eerie to be watched all the time. It’s like, “Give me a break! I’m not a movie.”

And, of course, there are times when we don’t want her to be aware of anything going on, like when we’re experiencing the divine peace of her being asleep—and we want to keep it that way.

We try to make imperceptible movements so as not to disturb her. We creep around like cat burglars—maybe that’s part of the problem. We sneak around our own house.

It never works.

Every time, she’s immediately aware that someone’s doing something.

“What’s that? Who’s There? Oh, you! Hey, come here. I gotta take a leak.”

It’s uncanny. She’s like a canine motion detector.

Roman slaves were never this much at the beck and call.

DARWIN AWARDS: Look Before You Leak

Confirmed True

April 2008, Florida | Traffic was moving slowly on southbound I-95. Shawn Montero had left a Pompano Beach bar with three friends, and now all four were stuck in traffic. You don't buy beer, you just rent it, and Shawn couldn't wait another moment to relieve himself.

"I need to take a leak."

He was dying to go.

Traffic was deadlocked, so the waterlogged man climbed out, put his hand on the divider, and jumped over the low concrete wall... only to fall 65 feet to his death.

"He probably thought there was a road, but there wasn't," said a Fort Lauderdale police spokesman. His mother shared her thoughts. "Shawn didn't do a whole lot for a living. He got along on his charm, just like his father." Though his death was tragic, it proves the old adage: Look before you leak!

Let's Be More Precise

WRONG:
"Speaking to the press, a neighbor described the accident as unspeakable."
RIGHT:
"Gesturing to the press, a neighbor pantomimed that the accident was unspeakable."

Monologue | Aired Thursday night on NBC: President Obama is traveling to Asia this week. He’ll be making a trip to China. While he’s there, Obama plans to visit the Forbidden City, the Great Wall, and America’s money.

Monologue | Aired Thursday night on CBS: Remember the crazy astronaut lady who put on a diaper and drove cross country? She was in love with another astronaut. And I said to myself, well that’s what happens when you mix vodka and Tang.

On Monday, Oprah Winfrey and Sarah Palin will sit down and they’re going to talk for an entire hour. And I was thinking, too bad John McCain didn’t do that with her before he chose her as his running mate.

COLUMN: We're Interrogating the Suspects

By Tobin Barnes
It happened a week or so ago, over Halloween weekend, actually.

We were visited by…by…well, some would call it evil.

If I were superstitious, I might consider the two related, but I’m not, so I’m going to use the rational approach to figure this out.

Here’s the current situation:

The house is chaotic, totally without its normal order and symmetry. Yes, it’s uncharacteristically a mess. Things are topsy-turvy. This should be here but it’s over there, and that should be…wait, I forgot where that was before. Anyway, nothing is where it belongs.

Added to that, our psyches have been stretched to the breaking point. We’re sleepless, irritable, and tense.

I keep on hearing this high-pitched plaintive sound, begging for something other than what it’s getting. It goes like this: Yip, yip, yip, hoooowl. But sometimes it’s like this: Yip, yip, yip, and then there’s a peeeeee.

All this echoes through my mind like some demonic harpy infesting my sanity, even when nothing’s happening.

All in all, it’s like some demented scene from Poe.

So what’s the cause of all this domestic madness?

That’s right. You’ve already guessed it.

We got a puppy.

“But why?” you ask, having suffered yourself.

All I can say is…I don’t know.

It was sudden, see, like a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Ka-pow!

Yeah. We were just looking, and all of a sudden the trigger was pulled…I’d like to think unintentionally, accidentally maybe. But, yes, the damage was certainly self-inflicted.

Heck, all we were doing was checking out a pet ad in the paper. Next thing you know we’re driving sixty miles to see a puppy, and then the next thing, well…you know. It was cute.

And now we’re suffering severe gunshot trauma.

Ouch! It hurts.

I think…no, let me start over; we weren’t thinking at all. We were hoping (that’s much more accurate) that this dog would be as easy as our other one that died of old age back in April.

Good old Matty. What a sweetheart! Never—from the very first day—did she give us a lick of trouble, literally or figuratively.

Except for maybe those times…. Nah, those have become vague blips on the consciousness radar.

Uh huh, Matty was always an absolute angel, anyway she was from our skewed, nostalgic, still-mourning point of view.

But those salad days are now long gone, even though we had planned on doing everything right with the new puppy—everything by the book…several of them.

Same breed? Check.

Same gender? Check.

Same age? Check.

Same result? Surprise!

The dog gods must have conspired against us. We had had it too good for too long with the first dog. And, maybe, we hadn’t appreciated her pleasant disposition as much as we should have, like making a daily offering of gratitude—perhaps a daily devotional of, “We are not worthy!”

Something like that might have appeased them.

After all, the dog gods are fickle. Evidently they decided it was payback time. Yes, time to make a substantial deposit in the karma pain bank of restitution.