Building a Relationship with your Server

I'll never forget the waiter at Chez Panisse. His name, perhaps, but not his face and certainly not his personality.

It was the mid-80s, and I was in design school. I didn't really have the cash to be spending a lot of time at Chez Panisse, a storied restaurant in Berkeley, California, but it was only the upstairs café, not the prix fixé downstairs, and a bottle of wine and a good casse-croute went a long way to restoring my sanity during those hectic days.

My dining companion was whoever I could find. I always bought, or they wouldn't have come. I didn't have a girlfriend at the time, so it was invariably a friend from the racquetball club that I played at, or rarely, a first date.

But I made it a priority to try to make it to Chez Panisse at least once a week.

The turnover there was quite slow. After all, who wouldn't want to work at Chez Panisse? At the time, it was quite possibly the most famous restaurant in North America. But when the waiter — let's call him John, because I honestly can't remember his name — suddenly entered into the mix, we somehow clicked. John was almost completely silent, all of the time. There were no long speeches or grovelling attempts at ingratiation. When he spoke, John tended to be brief, but there was a sly underpinning that one could never put one's finger on — as if the joke was always on you, but in a nice way.

So, as is my wont with servers I like (we used to call them waiters or waitresses) I gradually started tipping him more and more. It wasn't because I wanted better service. It was simply because when John served you, he served only you. He never forgot that quick "Oh, and a glass of water, too?" like most servers. Even when the restaurant was at its busiest, and it could get very busy, the glass of water would be at your table within a minute. The man had a mind like a steel trap.

It was innocent at first. I usually tipped 20% regardless, but it started creeping up with John. He was regrettably not always my server, but I gradually learned his schedule and tried to arrange my visits around it. And the tip began to creep upwards. Back then, a dinner for two with a few glasses of wine would run maybe $50. I began to tip John 25, then 30%. And silently, always silently, the experience at Chez Panisse got better and better. There was hardly a word exchanged between John and me except for the usual orders and thanks for a good dinner.

But then strange things started happening. On a very busy night, probably a Friday, I came in with a date. It was rare. I was usually with a racquetball partner or two. But John was there, and he immediately knew what had to be done. Within minutes, we were given the bay window table — the best seat in the house. I was amazed. I said nothing but felt like the guy in Goodfellas. My date was wowed. As usual, John said nothing, and attended us with the usual slight smirk on his face, as if we were all in on a huge cosmic joke to which only he knew the punchline.

That night I tipped him 60%.

And it went upwards from there. I wasn't rich, but I did the mental math. I could have this incredible time at the best restaurant in America (and I realised it even then) and all it would cost me was a little extra. I scrimped in other places in order to save for Chez Panisse.

And it paid off. One night, John put a plate of baked artisanal goat cheese (only the best for Alice Waters) down in front of me. "John, I didn't order this," I protested. He just smirked and walked away. It was not on the bill.

Another night, one with another rare date, a half-bottle of Roederer champagne was delivered in an ice bucket with two champagne glasses. By John. I knew by this time not to protest.

By this time the tip was up to 80%. This meant that on a meal costing $60, the tip was $48.

The turning point was the day I tipped John the cost of the entire meal. It was a meal in which my companion and I —I forget who — received a literal red-carpet treatment. It was like I was Charlie Sheen and we were at Spago. Dishes came fast and furious, the wine flowed — and half of it was unordered. Orange and grapefruit salad with wild fennel. Pizzetta with spring onions and anchovies. Caymus "Special Selection" Napa Cabernet.

John's expression did not change when he came to collect the credit card payment. The half-smirk remained. "Thank you, sir," he said, tipping his head slightly, and then he melted into the hubbub.

Imagine my surprise when I next brought a date and John suddenly wasn't there any more. "Oh, John," remarked the server, "He always wanted to open his own bookstore. He went off to do that. He was a good guy, huh?"

Yep. He was a good guy.

Further Reading