Would you like fries with that?

With the girls at my in-law's for the day, and the baby in for a nap, I am posting from the comfort of my bed. Yes, the location updates will now cease, but as I have already discussed posting from both the bathroom and bedroom, how much more inappropriate is it really going to get? My love affair with Shirley, which is what I have named my new laptop, has only begun though.

So Monday was President's Day, and Hubby mercifully had the day off to make the kids' week-long hiatus from school that much more manageable. (Seriously? A week off during a time of year we are all trying to pinch pennies after the holidays and it's too cold to kick them out in the back yard is too cruel, but having been a teacher myself and benefited from the plentiful vacation days I will promptly shut my donut-hole.) We took the kids out to lunch and after being on the receiving end of some of the worst service of my life I was reminded of my own days as a waitress, or server as they are now called, I have decided that in addition to compulsory primary grade education, our country should make mandatory a stint in such a food service role. Kind of like Israel and the army, minus the guns and stuff.

Having spent the longest, hardest year of my life supporting myself by waiting tables while finishing my Masters, student teaching and planning my wedding, I know firsthand there are valuable lessons to be learned from this job. In fact, I can unequivocally say my stint in the restaurant industry made me a better person and with my brief interaction with today's youth I think some time with a name tag and tray would do them a world of good.

First, waiting tables teaches you the importance of first impressions. They way you present yourself to a table and how friendly you are can directly affect your earnings. This might solve some of this long hair nonsense I see going on with the boys, but I digress. Second, while serving food you learn to eat shit gracefully, which is an essential workplace lesson. Waiting tables in wealthy Greenwich I was faced with asshole after Wall Street asshole who thought having a lot of money gave him the right to talk down to service people. Now having my explosive temper, things could have gotten ugly, but I was there to do a job, make my tips and get out. You have to be able to see the big picture and give good customer service to idiots and in today's "everybody wins" culture kids could use a dose of having to feel bad and still having to perform well because they have to.

Speaking of eating shit, you not only have to do that in the front of the house (the dining room for the uninitiated), but in the kitchen as well. Back there you are the scum of the earth. Even the Ecuadorian dishwasher with one eye and a limp is higher on the totem pole than you and you will have to grovel and beg from people who would normally make you cross the street should you see them coming. How much money your dad makes or where you went to college mean nothing. Do you enter your orders well, are you respectful of the head chef, and more importantly the line cooks, who control whether the dickhead on table three who thinks he wants his steak medium rare, but really means medium, gets the meat he sent back in time to finish his meal with his buddies and their salad-eating trophy wives and still give you a decent tip? You learn to respect the person in charge even if he looks like he dodged Border Control yesterday and barely speaks English. Servers who don't respect the kitchen never get their orders on the fly and wind up with accordingly bad tips.

You also learn some convenient life skills on the job like how to open wine and champagne, how to filet a fish table side and how to carry multiple plates on your forearms. You also learn how to treat restaurant staff once you are back on the other side of the table. You will forever know when you are getting good and bad service and be able to react accordingly. On Monday, when I knew our waiter had screwed up our ticket and should have been over to our table assuring us our food would be ready soon (that's another vital lesson - how to cover your ass - because he couldn't really admit his error) instead of hiding in the kitchen I went and found a manager and the problem was fixed. On the other hand, I know when the kitchen is in the weeds (busy) and the poor server is being hung out to dry watching her tips evaporate because the grill guy has a hangover and keeps fucking up the steaks and I react with appropriate sympathy, order another drink and still plan on tipping her twenty percent.

Tipping, sweet mother of God do not get me started. Deep breath...MIDDLE AGED WOMEN ARE THE WORST TIPPERS ON THE PLANET AND THEY NEED TO BE STOPPED*. Sorry, but I have worked too many lunch services in wealthy neighborhoods where two female pals each order a salad and a glass of white wine only to leave me five bucks. Was it the minimally acceptable fifteen percent? Sure. But why not leave twenty percent or if the bill is low a higher amount? Waiters get no other pay except tips as the paltry base pay only covers taxes so while two bucks might not seem like a big deal to you, when it's added up a few times it can make the difference between a decent day at work and "Why the hell did I even come in today?" Ladies, think of these workers as your own children and throw down the extra five bucks. He or she probably had their balls busted in the kitchen on your behalf getting your damn dressing on the side.

The last and truly most valuable thing you learn as a restaurant worker is that you do not want to work there forever. Putting in a few shifts with a "lifer" - someone who is over thirty with no real career plan or who is still trying to find themselves - motivates like no lecture from your parents will. Seeing some guy your dad's age trying to make rent or scrounging free drinks at the bar makes your boring Poli Sci class look pretty appealing pretty fast. Stints in restaurants should be like stays in the hospital, quick and for a purpose.

So the next time you go out to eat, take a look at the poor schmuck serving your food. Give him a break if he's really trying and don't be afraid to talk to the manager if he's really not. But for the love of Christ, if you get good service you must leave twenty percent or there is a special place in hell for you that involves an apron, a notepad and a tray and all of the customers want everything on the side.

*Mick , I know this isn't you but I hope you teach everyone your age this lesson.