The art of listening is a funny thing. I believe we learn to use our voice and body to demand a response from our environment before we learn to listen to our surroundings and other individuals. I don’t spend a huge amount of time around baby humans, but it almost seems as though listening is something they have to adjust to. It is instinctual to cry when their immediate needs are not being met, but when do they come to know familiar voices and the meanings of specific tones?
I was speaking to a fella the other night at work who genuinely appeared interested in talking to me. It was at the end of the night and he and his mates were the only customers left at the bar. We had discovered we had a couple of shared passions and he continued to ask questions long after I had poured him his beer. The funny thing was that he really didn’t seem to be listening to me. He would ask a question, I would offer my response, then he’d reply with something somewhat irrelevant, as though he’d been having a conversation with himself. A few minutes after he’d returned to his mates sitting at their table he actually called out and asked me what we’d been talking about! Maybe the guy was tired, perhaps he’d had a bad day, I don’t know. But it just struck me as strange behaviour. Anyway, his question surprised me so much that I couldn’t elicit a response and just laughed at him out loud.
I appreciate a good listener. I love it when someone is able to truly hear what you are saying – even if things are not being captured by one’s words. I would even suggest that eyes are more useful than the ear when it comes to that sort of hearing.
Filed under: waitressing
Here’s a rundown on just a few of the regular character types I come across as I do my job…
The ‘this is my shout or I’ll deck ya’ type – these are the ones that’ll go out to dinner with friends and will attempt to pay for the bill before they’ve even ordered mains. If both parties actually make it to the register a full-on brawl ensues until one party manages to push their money into the till and throws their friends cash onto the floor and stamp all over it.
The ‘could I have this, but with…and replace…” – please swap the roast veg with semi-steamed/slightly grilled but not soggy carrots and could you ensure that my lettuce is iceburg, I can’t stand that rocket stuff, while you’re at it I’ll have the hollandaise on the side and, no, actually please replace the hollandaise with the red-wine gravy, and can my steak please be medium rare, but more on the rare side. No worries – poor old Wolf in the kitchen loves these ones!
The ‘I can out-eat every one of you’ type – yes, alpha males beware, the Reef & Beef after sour dough starters and entrees of more dead animal is not the easiest way to show off your masculine prowess.
The ‘I know how to better arrange your furniture than you do’ – that’s right, you’re paying for the meal so why not just reposition your table so you can be 23cm closer to that window, swap chairs and request a lighting change. Oh and yes of course you can be the DJ tonight and change my dull old Goyte cd for Enya.
The ‘this is just right’ customer - yes, you do make my evening. You are genuinely thankful and you understand when your order’s a little slow because it’s been placed behind three large tables. You have a laugh (even if it’s at ‘I know how to better arrange your furniture than you do’s expense). You guys rock.
I encounter a number of people as I wait on tables in the little restaurant I work at. As I tend to the delivery of topped up plates, the removal of an abundance of left-overs and the constant flow of requests, I can’t help but overhear some of the words shared over a drink or meal. It fascinates me how varied the attitudes and intentions brought to these verbal exchanges can be. I suppose this particular milieu generally attracts people from a similar financial and cultural background. Nevertheless, they each bring their own baggage to the dinnertable talk.
A couple sit on table eight – the table requested by every couple, open fire on one side, window overlooking the trees on the other. I am certain they are determined to make this night as miserable as could be. Frowning brows shade the eyes of one before she even sits down. He passes a snide remark aimed at her. I sense troubled waters and leave them to examine the menu. The night continues in this fashion and little is shared between the two other than the wooden table that holds their plates of food.
I was saddened by the shroud of resentment that enveloped table eight that night. This couple seemed so consumed by wretchedness, like animals crouching in their own filth. On the whole people are much more open to making the most of the night’s company. Generally the restaurant is a place where friends catch-up, a romantic dinner is shared, a family birthday is celebrated or drinks are had to fuel a memorable few hours. What went wrong on table eight? Maybe they were just sick of the pretence of life.
