“I’m not usually a difficult customer,” The Beverly Hills housewife said out of the corner of her red lipsticked mouth. “I just don’t understand why getting me a drink is such a production.”
It was a Friday night and the restaurant was packed. I had spotted the guests’ unhappiness across the room when I scanned the dining room for signals of possible problems. My glance bounced over happy customers curved over plates and full cocktail glasses, and stopped hard against a squared edge of a black suit and the stiff neck of the man wearing it.
I was already moving across the room towards the four-top when the suited man’s friend, a man with gray hair and no drink, swiveled in his chair in search of assistance. I stepped up to the table and took my place next to the ladies perched in their seats. The women were two rigid examples of a 60-something Beverly Hills housewife.
“Good evening,” I said with my most soothing voice of leadership. “May I help you?”
“I should hope so,” the white knuckled man with no drink said. “We’ve been here thirty minutes and our server hasn’t been able to get us a drink.” I nodded. Time warps and stretches into large increments when you’re a desperate for something. I had seen a trusted server working hard to find a single malt scotch for the suited gentlemen, surely their thirty minutes were—in real time—actually just five or six. But in the world of the customer, perception and reality don’t always meet.
The make-up primed blonde housewife continued. “I don’t want anything crazy. I just want a glass of chardonnay.”
I smiled. A deep breath would fuel my calm. This would not be an easy turn around.
