I almost didn’t go inside. From what I could see, every table in the restaurant was taken.
This was bad news for someone about to catch an international flight. This place in the departures area was my only chance to eat real food, but it was packed like a suitcase. I’d be lucky even to sit at the bar, I thought as I waded in.
One server, then another, crossed my path, their eyes fixed straight ahead as they ferried food in one direction and dishes in the other. Without a need to notice me, they simply didn’t. There was enough to do without bothering to tell me what I already knew.
Near the back of the room, a third server crossed my path, carrying a tray full of dishes. Without slowing down, she looked my way and gave me a big smile. To the left, by the window, was a free table. My luck was changing!
Like clockwork
I had hardly sat down when Tara, as the young woman was called, came over to take my order. She calmly answered my questions about the different dishes on the menu before she was on her way. Moments later, she brought the drink, then different items of food as they were ready. She came back often to check that everything was all right.
Through the window, I watched the planes take off and land. It was just like the situation inside the restaurant. Everything had to run like clockwork. Customers had to get their food, be able to pay, and leave in time to catch their flights. No one could afford to wait. New customers like me were coming in frequently.
Tara was on her feet the entire time, but she worked calmly, methodically, and with a smile. From the kitchen to the bar to the customers, she moved in a spiral orbit that guaranteed she’d go past every other table on one trip and the remaining tables on the next, without missing a single customer.
“It’s crazy in here,” Tara said to no one in particular on two of her flybys.
The right attitude
I wondered if she had only recently started working there, retaining a naive enthusiasm for what had to be an underpaid, repetitive job. But her systematic approach to it convinced me she’d been there a while. She’d turned the job on its head, made herself the center of attention, and genuinely enjoyed the experience.
Tara spread her good cheer to everyone in this part of the restaurant. With hardly a free minute, she fit in bits of small talk where she could. She was patient with foreign guests who spoke in thick accents. To the Americans who commented on her name’s literary significance, she graciously pretended she hadn’t heard that a thousand times before.
Tara raked in the tips. Only one guy at the next table, absorbed in The Fountainhead, failed to notice her.
I took my time and ordered dessert as the other passengers left to catch their flights, which were all scheduled around dinnertime. I hadn’t thought about it, but the restaurant work followed a predictable pattern. From any point in the day, Tara could look forward to the precise moment when she’d be able to relax.
Still, I couldn’t let her remarkable attitude go uncommented.
“I just wanted to let you know how impressed I am at the way you managed to be so cheerful and attentive when so much was going on,” I said. “People are getting on international flights. They’ll be cooped up in a box for eight hours. You are their last impression of the United States. Thank you for giving everyone so much positive energy to take with them.”
Overjoyed at this recognition, Tara did something I’d never have expected: she gave me a hug.
We’re so quick to complain — and we should complain — when service is poor. But when it’s good, an acknowledgement of that can be very, very welcome.
