A Perfect "10"

Serving others is a tough job, but there’s something about service that just makes it all worthwhile. Looking back it seems a bit counter-intuitive that anyone would want to make their living in service to others. Typically those in the service industry lack: consistent hours, holidays off, flattering clothing, ample rest, downtime, and are additionally expected to be polite even in the face of guests who border on the occasionally hostile. Not exactly the poster child of reasons for getting into this. And yet we do. Hmmmm, perhaps there’s more to it than we initially see. To that point, MRI studies indicate that we have parts in our brain that activate when we “give”, which can take the form of donating, volunteering and, for those select lucky few, finding an avocation. Indeed most people have an intrinsic need to look outside themselves for meaning; sometimes this is in the form of assistance to others, sometimes in service to others. Whether we are wired to do so or acquire it as a learned behavior, exposure to service at a young age leads people to tend toward service. And service driven people have benefits in their learning, having deeper and intimate understanding of the learning and subsequent behaviors, and additionally develop intangible skills of munificence and genuineness. Either way, there is that spark of altruism that seems to surpass compensation as a reason for doing something. People in the service-centric life benefit not only those they serve but this basic need we possess, not merely for self actualization, but for eleemosynary purposes as well; gratifying ourselves as we realize we are helping others.

It was a day like any other, reservation book was full, 325 reservations in our 110 seat room. We were going to be busy. To add to it, the phone was ringing off the hook and people were looking for a nice place to eat. You see, the World Cup was in town and as such lots of people needed to find dining arrangements. As expected, the night started off with and maintained a frenetic pace. There was no room for errors; the machine needed to be well maintained to keep it on the tracks.

“Chef! Chef, we have a VIP on table 51.” my food runner darted into the kitchen to inform me followed quickly by the Maitre ‘d and the server.

“Chef, VIP on table 51.” they repeated.

“Got it guys, thank you.”my nonchalant-ness did not work for them.

“Chef! VIP!”, they repeated the message.

“I heard you the first time. VIP, table 51. Now why don’t you get out there and see if they want a drink. I thought you said they were a VIP, so why don’t you get them a drink!?!” With that, the server and food runner sped off into the dining room through the swinging door.

“And what about everyone else? How should I treat them?” In my eyes, everyone is a VIP.

“Chef, I don’t think you understand. This VIP…” he persisted, and while I entertain the notion that VIP status does exist, I really do protest when it comes at the expense of the naturally-given expectations of my normal clientele...my regulars, who are perhaps the most important people of all, and doubly so when the alleged VIP doesn't even want to be treated differently. They just want to be treated like everyone else. Nonetheless, my Maitre ‘d continued,

“It’s Pelé !”. Well now, you could hear a pin drop. I’m not sure if you have ever worked in a kitchen, a kitchen filled with Spanish speaking guys from Mexico who play and watch soccer religiously every weekend. Pele is a pretty big deal. Admittedly, I was even a little gobsmacked. I mean I played soccer as a youth, was weaned on stories of the famous bicycle kick that won the world cup, went to Cosmos games with my dad, and now this cultural icon who played his way out of poverty shoeless with a ball made of tied up rags was in my dining room. I felt humbled.

As I looked into the dining room, I could see a small commotion building at the table.

“OK then, why don’t you get out there and give the man room to breath...and perhaps enjoy his meal?” I motioned to the Maitre ‘d that his attention was needed in the dining room. And as he looked to where my eyes were darting he concurred and ran off into the dining room.

    Needless to say there was a bit of distraction amongst my line cooks that evening. At every chance they would gaze longingly into the dining room in hopes of catching a glimpse of this hero. At times I would even catch them by the swinging door, peering through into the dining room for a better vantaged view. They wanted to meet him so badly. It didn’t help that a few of my waitstaff broke character and violated my rule about guest privacy and asked our guest for autographs. Which they flaunted as they went periodically through the kitchen and warranted a talking-to later on. Regardless, from that point on, he was treated as any other guest, unharassed. We prepared his table’s food, sent it out and kept on with the night.

    Once the meal was over they stayed at the table for a while, as one might imagine from sojourners meeting in a distant city. As part of my routine I checked on the guests in the dining room to make sure we hit our mark. And, I eventually wound up at Pelé’s table.

“ How was your meal this evening?” I opened, making eye contact around the table to elicit responses.

“Fine”, “Wonderful”, a chorus of compliments; just what I loved to hear.

“Very good.” Pelés deep rich voice echoed out. I blushed, my cooks were nearly falling over themselves peeking out of the kitchen.

“I’m so very glad.” pause, “ I must apologize for the commotion earlier,  we do not typically treat our guests like that.” I was referring to the unprofessional way our staff solicited our guest. At which point the waiter crumbing the table shrank away. “I’ll chat with them later about that.” The table smiled and giggled.

“Thank you Chef, everything was really wonderful” he continued.

“Thank you Sir, it was an honor to serve you.” bowing in the direction of the table, I began to dismiss myself. “Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Wait.” He stopped me in my tracks, “may I please say thank you to your staff?”

“Mr. Pelé Sir, I couldn’t impose.” I truly disagree with soliciting guests. They are just trying to have a meal, but it soon became apparent that this gentleman enjoyed enough privacy tonight.

“But, if they could, I would love to say thank you in person.” He continued.

“Sir, that would mean the world to them.They have been tremendously excited all night that you are here.” and with that I motioned to the kitchen, my crew nearly falling over themselves exiting the kitchen.

    One by one Pelé greeted and spoke to my crew in the near empty dining room, and the unfamiliar feeling of an air conditioned dining room was nearly as uncommon as this type of recognition; certainly from someone they emulated so much. Watching this great man treat my guys with gratitude and appreciation was again humbling. They cherished the intimacy, handshake and personalized memento allotted each one, right down to my dishwasher. It did bring to light the benefit of my policy when they compared the simple signatures he put on the scraps of paper of those who pestered him earlier to their own treasured keepsakes.

“Thank you so much Sir, have a beautiful evening.”  And with that and a handshake, I made my way back into the kitchen.

    I’ve never seen my crew so happy cleaning the kitchen. The common drudgery seemed a bit lighter today after such recognition for what they normally do everyday because they love it, which is to serve.

You might think the crew's reward for their service was the attention from a celebrity they admired. In truth, they would have accomplished the same success that evening regardless of the guest...regardless of the gifts or adulation they received. The work was its own reward; it was just a little more obvious that night.