1. Hi, I’m Alec. I’ll Be Your Personal Punching Bag Tonight

Steps of Service

So here we are. First article. Took me three weeks, four “life happens” moments, and about seventeen drafts that ended with me ordering fries at the bar instead. Blame the kitchen. They’ve distracted me for years.

Let’s talk about what you, dear guest, don’t see. The steps of service. The ballet we’re forced to perform while praying no one at the table asks if the salmon is “fishy.”

Some tables are dreamboats. They call you over when they need something, smile, tip 20 percent, and vanish like polite ghosts. Others treat you like their personal cruise director, lawyer, therapist, and magician. They’ll try to flirt for free drinks, beg for last-minute reservations, and occasionally meow at you. This job is nothing if not unpredictable.

Anyway. First table of the night. The printer spits out your chit. The host sprints to you like a mob boss that you owe money. It might say VIP or worse, nothing at all, which means chaos. You (or your service assistant) have 90 seconds to greet them. Two bottles of water. One stays on the table. One you pour like it’s a champagne toast at the royal wedding. One hand behind your back because… presentation. By the way, they’ll still ask for ice because room temp water is apparently a war crime. This is where I’d have to agree. If they request sparkling, it’s time to put your combat boots on Forrest.

While water is poured, your brain runs a checklist:

• Shirt tucked? Mostly.

• Apron on? Lighter and wine key inside? Panic. Oh, found it.

• Necklace clasp still in the front? Why does this thing betray me.

• Smile? Forced but present.

Now you strut in like you own the place. Red carpet vibes. Jazz hands if you’re feeling bold. This table’s a six-top, no notes, and they’ve canceled eight times. Ninth time’s the charm, apparently. Who says that? Me, now. Let’s go.

The Greet

The goal is charm without looking like you rehearsed in the mirror. Smile, eye contact, pretend you’re not thinking about the eight other tables about to get sat.

“Hi folks, welcome in. How’s everyone doing tonight?”

Wait three seconds. Someone will say “water” like it’s an emergency. Someone else will pretend they’re not ready, then order two drinks with fifteen modifiers. This is normal. Nod, smile, write like a court stenographer.

Menu Drop & First Round

Get the drinks in fast. Bartenders move on bar time, which means four minutes can become twelve. If you come back empty-handed, they’ll think you disappeared to the Himalayas. So hustle.

While you’re gone, they’ll decide they’re starving. They will have opened the menus, pointed at nothing, and started the sentence with “We were thinking…”

You’ll have exactly eight seconds to nod thoughtfully before running to the POS like it’s the Olympics.

Order Taking

Bring your pen, your smile, and the patience of a kindergarten teacher. This is the performance. Listen like their choices are groundbreaking. Offer a suggestion or two, not seven. Write it down. Always repeat the order back. It buys you credibility and ten fewer “wait, I didn’t order that” later.

As you walk away, they will immediately change their minds. This is law.

Food Running

Plates hit your arms like Tetris pieces. You’re half server, half amateur weightlifter. Smile while your wrist screams. Announce dishes confidently, even when you’ve forgotten which steak is medium rare. (Pro tip: someone will correct you. Thank them like they saved your life.)

Then vanish. Stay close enough to notice if they drop a fork, far enough they can’t ask about the gluten content of the air.

The Check Drop

The sweet release. Slide the check like it’s made of glass. Smile, thank them, walk away like you have no emotional stake in the number they’re about to write down.

They will linger. They will tell life stories. They will ask if you “have fun doing this.” Smile. Say yes enthusiastically. Inside, scream softly.

Closing Thoughts

And then it’s over. They leave, the table’s wrecked, and you stand there holding a receipt like it holds the secrets of the universe. You reset the table, chug lukewarm water from your side station cup, and wait for the next chit to print. Because it always does. That’s the thing about this job—service ends, but it never really ends. So you fix your apron, spin the necklace clasp back where it belongs, and get ready to do the whole circus again.

I really love what I do.

Disclaimer: This is satire. If you think you recognize yourself, you don’t.