“I think you should know I’m friends with the owner.”
That’s how my fucking night started. Designer Suit and Hottie Date walked in without a reservation on a Saturday night, marched themselves up to the hostess desk and informed me they needed a table for two.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but all of our tables are spoken for this evening,” I informed him. “However, we do have plenty of availability in our lounge on a first come first served basis and we’d be happy to accommodate you for dinner there.”
Hottie Date rolled her eyes at that one, implying that Designer Suit’s ability to conquer her panties later was in serious jeopardy should he not be able to cough up the romantic booth she had her sights set on. He yanked a twenty out of his wallet, pulled me aside and placed it in my hand with that handshake-bribe thing people who fail to make reservations often do. “I’m sure there’s something we can work out,” he whispered at me.
“Again, I apologize, Sir,” I said while returning his bribe. “But there’s really nothing I can do. All of our tables are being held for people with reservations. I assure you that you’ll receive excellent service in our lounge area, however.”
Hottie Date poked him in the ribs and whispered something in his ear. She must’ve confirmed the only love he’d be getting later was from his own left hand, because Designer Suit took it to the next level without hesitation. “Can I speak to your manager, please?”
I love that shit, like I’m some goddamn tollbooth you just bought an express pass to drive on through without stopping. Dickhead. “Sir, I am the manager on duty this evening,” I took great pleasure in informing him. That not being the answer he was looking for, he suddenly sported the look of a man entertaining visions of lotion and internet porn. Having swung and missed twice, he had but one card left to play and he threw it on the table, letting me in on the little secret of his friendship with our owner.
Well, fuck me, what was I thinking? Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?
Not.
So here’s the deal. If you walk into a restaurant and announce that you’re friends with the owner – either by telling the hostess upon your arrival or clueing your server in the moment he or she approaches your table – then you just automatically guaranteed yourself a crappy table and second rate service. That’s because we’d rather spend our valuable time providing service to people who actually came in to eat rather than swim upstream through lukewarm pretense.
It’s like people who are genuinely rich. They don’t make stupid comments like “I’m a good tipper, so be sure to give me your best service.” They don’t brag about what kind of car they drive or try to impress you with which neighborhoods they live in. Rich people have already arrived, and don’t need to validate themselves by announcing their wealth to every minimum wage worker they come in contact with. Trust me, I know who the owner’s friends are. They come in unannounced, don’t expect anything extra, are always grateful for anything they receive above and beyond the ordinary and express their appreciation by tipping appropriately.
Then there are the other kinds of friends, who 99.9% of everyone else falls into the category of. These are the same poop-balled queefshavers who try to coerce restaurant workers into providing them an elevated experience by claiming they spend their free time hobnobbing with the owners of the joint. I used to work for a national seafood restaurant chain that was 95 units strong at the time, and I met more friends of the owners of that fucking concept regardless of which state or location I was in – which were several - than anyplace I’ve ever worked. I swear, Bill McCormick and Doug Schmick had more friends, most of whom they’d never met, than a coke dealer giving out free samples on the street corner.
But here’s the thing. Just because you’re able to read an owner’s name off a company website doesn’t make you part of their inner circle. Having bumped into an owner ten years ago in one of his restaurants and having him buy you a drink so you’d shut the fuck up and leave him alone doesn’t mean you’re his buddy. And here’s a newsflash…That personalized birthday card you receive every year with the owner’s signature on it with an offer of a complimentary dessert was in actuality signed by a secretary and is little more than a marketing ploy catering to your vanity to persuade you to come in and part with more of your money. That chocolate lava cake costs us pennies compared to what you’re going to spend to get it, dumbass.
Like I told you, I know who the owner’s friends are. And you ain’t on the list.
“Sir, you could be the President of the United States and I wouldn’t be able to get you a table tonight without a reservation,” I lied to Designer Suit. After all, the President isn’t friends with the owner, either.
Hottie Date, realizing the impenetrable wall they were banging their heads against, elbowed Designer Suit in the ribs again. “Let’s just go somewhere else,” she said while looking me up and down with the same look you get on your face when you walk into a public restroom stall and the person before you didn’t flush the toilet after making a doo-doo.
Designer Suit, realizing he’d lost the battle but refusing to concede the war, especially since he was still holding out hope for avoiding self-gratification later, fired his final salvo. “Can I have your name? I want to make sure the owner knows how you treat his friends when he isn’t around,” he threatened. I gave him one of my business cards, wished them both a pleasant evening and encouraged them to join us again in the future. He snatched the card from me and they both huffed and puffed their way out the door, back into the overbooked Saturday ether.
The next couple approached the desk. Casually dressed, they wore their smiles genuinely and were unaccompanied by the stale air of pretense. “Good evening, thank you for joining us, how may I help you,” I smiled back.
“Hi, Johnston reservation for two at six o’clock,” the man said.
All of a sudden, I was back to making friends.