Please Be Afraid To Touch

A few Saturdays ago, someone deeply touched me on my brunch shift, literally. It was my first table of the day, a Jewish family, party of six. It goes something like this:

“Hi my name is Josh, I’ll be your server today. Can I start you all off with something to drink?”

Only three of them had arrived when I first approached the table.

“Just water,” one of them answered without making eye contact. Bad sign. So I wandered the mostly empty restaurant looking for my busser, whose name I didn’t recognize which meant he was either new or one of the few whose names I just can’t ever create a category for in my head. It isn’t right, I’m just being honest. There are a few guys on the bus staff who I have worked with multiple times, and yet their names still mean nothing to me. Anyway, mystery busser was nowhere to be found, which, is no real surprise. I recognized that I was being stupid, and that it would be way faster and take less of my own energy to just get the six waters and the brunch bread basket, and go back to the table.

When I got back, all six guests had arrived. I remember noting that they were not a particularly attractive family. Thinking back, they all kind of looked like rabbits, but that comparison could be largely affected by the fact that they all ordered small vegetable dishes from our anitipasti bar for brunch. There was something rabbit-like about the way they all nibbled their assorted veggies, one small bite at a time.

I put the waters down, and as is my routine, posed the question, “Would anybody like anything other than water.” Translated, Just how cheap are you? I was at the young side of the table. Two young girls who wore faces entirely too cynical for their age looked up and just shook their heads, “no.” Instead of screaming to the other end of the table and being ignored (a major pet peeve of mine) I walked around to the other side of the table, and once again, posed the question, “Anything other than water?”

That was precisely when he did it. It was so unexpected that I experienced a three to four second delay as it happened. He wore khaki pants, a jean button down shirt, a green fleece zipper vest, glasses and a brown brimmed baseball hat (he would call it a cap) with some kind of corporate giant’s name written across its front. His answer to “anything other than water,” was to place the palm of his hand directly over my knee cap, and then to move his hand up my thigh, until his fingers brushed against my prized possessions. Once the delay ran its course and I was conscious that I had a married (his wife was sitting right next to him) middle-aged Jewish man with his hand on my package, I took a step away from the table, focusing my line of sight directly ahead. There was nothing else for me to do.

“Just water then,” and I half-ran to the server station in some kind of shock.

It only got worse when I stubbornly attempted to take their order from the end of the table with the cynical children, and everyone followed suit, except him. He pretended as though he could not hear me, or as though his order was too complex to be spoken with a projected voice over three other people. I carefully walked to his side of the table, maintaining more than an arms length distance between the two of us at all times. He ordered something simple like our asparagus and fontina cheese omelet, and instead of handing me the menu like every other member of his family so naturally did, he simply sat, hands in his lap (ready to attack, I was sure) looking at the menu and then back at me repeatedly. Taunting me and somewhat challenging me.

I kid you not that from a good three feet away from the table, I bent my body like I would in dance rehearsal doing a flat back stretch, keeping my groin out of harms way, grabbed his menu (thanking the higher powers that be for my long arms) and walked away from the table in the direction that was absolutely opposite to him. I can’t even begin to fathom what the poor couple sitting at the table behind me as I bent over thought about as I obnoxiously shoved my ass in their faces. I wasn’t their waiter so I’m sure they just shrugged and mutually agreed (whether out loud or not) that they were happy they didn’t get the oddball server.

What is it with people at restaurants thinking it is ever okay to grab, touch, or grope their waiters and waitresses? To me, the moment I am touched by a customer all rules breakdown. Now, you as the toucher have removed all blockades I once respected in how I spoke to you. Now, it is every man for himself.



One lunch I had the lovely privilege of waiting on our general manager and a few guys from corporate who were there to do taste testing. I hate that kind of shit because basically it just means that I have to jump through hoops to prove to these idiots that I am a “good server.” What the hell kind of title is that anyway? I asked the guys what they wanted to drink and my general manager ordered a bottle of flat water, and one of the guys from corporate ordered a bottle of sparkling water. The other two ordered soft drinks. Thinking it would be easier, I brought two empty highball glasses to the table for the two guys who did not specify what kind of water they wanted. Additionally, I nicely placed six slices – three lemon, three lime – along the ridge of a wine glass. When I got to the table, I started with the waters. I gave the sparkling to the guy who ordered it, and the flat to my general manager. While I still had the large bottle of water, I placed two empty water glasses in front of the other two guys. The closest one to me was an Asian guy (and that really has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that I will be referring to him as the Asian one from here on out). I asked him, “Sir, would you like flat or sparkling.”

“I said I wanted a diet coke.” He sounded like a five year-old boy – the type you would never think is cute because he is just that outstandingly heinous.

“Right, I have that right here on my tray. Would you like water as well?”

“No. Just the diet coke.” I passive aggressively plopped the diet coke in front of him and moved on to the other man, who, had ordered lemonade. I figured, let me tackle his lemonade first (people have a tendency to jump on the asshole bandwagon when someone else at their table leads the way, so I figured I wouldn’t bother giving him the chance to pull the same crap with me). I have a theory that people like to create reasons to be displeased together, because a bad tip is so much more justifiable if they can all agree that the server was an idiot. Once the lemonade was safely and soundly within his reach, I asked,

“How about you sir, any water?”

“No.” The only thing left on my tray was the wine glass with the lemon and lime slices. I placed it directly in the center of the table, and as I did it, lemonade guy pointed, his lip curling in disgust, focusing his attention on my general manager, and said,

“What is this?” His hand was waving, like all Italians hands do, for emphasis.

“Oh, I, ah, think it is a for our water.” Shockingly my general manager was trying to defend my honor.

“Is this some kind of new policy,” lemonade guy asked.

“No, ah, I think it is the choice of our server. In case we want them.” It actually warmed my heart that the monster who I knew as my general manager had kindness after all. I figured I would jump in and do some self-defense, rather than leave him hanging with his obviously difficult colleagues.

“Yeah, since you ordered both flat and sparkling water, I just figured I would bring options for both. Usually people want limes with sparkling and lemon with flat so…” And this is when touching occurred. The Asian man grabbed my arm, his palm inches back from my wrist on the top part of my forearm. He squeezed so hard that his wedding ring was crushing my vein. I squinted momentarily then manned up for the sake of not looking like a little bitch. I knew it was on now.

“What we are trying to get through to you, kid, is that if people want lemons or limes with their water…they will ask.” If my life were a sitcom, time would have stopped and I’d have had a Zach Morris from Saved By the Bell aside in which I said (as flamboyantly as possible) “OH NO HE DIDN’T!” Instead I took my eyes from his, and let them slowly travel down to my arm, where he was attempting to pop a major vein open.

“Well, if I wanted to be touched, sir, I would have asked to be, but thank you for your advice, I will keep it in mind as I continue to strive to be the best server I can be here at Roman’s.” I flung my arm, sending his hand frantically back into his lap.

My manager didn’t say a word, I just saw him turn slightly red. I am still so shocked that I wasn’t completely reamed out for that encounter. The Asian guy did the paying, and he actually left me over twenty percent. Maybe he understood that he’d broken the rules, and that since he’d broken his code, it was only appropriate and perhaps even necessary that I did the same. I guess it might have been pragmatic for me to find a better, less caustic way of letting him know how disgusting he was being. I’m told my friend Sekou once told a woman in a calm and soothing voice, “Ma’am, yelling at me isn’t going to get your food out any faster.” That is the kind of finesse I lack in dealing with these third rate New York Upper West side aliens who believe the world is Manhattan and that sitting at a booth that some ancient opera singer can boot them out of at her will means their shit doesn’t stink. But no, their shit does stink, trust me, I know, we have very small, poorly ventilated bathrooms.

That evening in pre-shift management informed waiters not to bring lemon or lime with water unless customers specifically requested it. No one followed that rule, and it has never come up again.