#61 - Confessions of a Superhero

Confessions of a Superhero

5/31/05 (#61)

I didn't choose to be a superhero. Call it what you will---blessing, curse, or anomaly---it is as familiar to me as the sound of my own voice, as second-nature as being left-handed, and thus, is rarely a subject for contemplation. I've seen some superheroes wrestle with their destiny (mortals, too, though destiny usually trounces them in comically uneven battle), but I chose to embrace mine.

I first noticed my calling in my fifth-grade class Thanksgiving reenactment. Mrs. Parks had brought in a small A&P feast for her homeroom students, and rather than going to the chartreuse-painted cafeteria that particular Wednesday, we pushed the desks into two long rows, donned our construction-paper pilgrim hats or Indian feathers, and sat down for thin slices of stuffed turkey logs, mashed potatoes, and a colorful mix of spongy carrots and peas.

Except I couldn't sit.

How could I when it was clear that the potatoes had passed right by Wendy Kenniston? That Dan Pelletier had spilled his Dixie Cup of cider and, embarrassed, tried to cover it with his tissue-paper headdress? I pushed back my chair, tightened my crepe-paper belt, and set about righting these injustices. "Well aren't you the best little helper," Mrs. Parks beamed, but there was no time for compliments---I had two 12-tops waiting for pumpkin pie.

In the years that followed, additional evidence of my unusual abilities surfaced: With no formal training, I was able to a fold cloth napkins into swans---or flowers, or stars, or a seemingly endless variation of layered parallelograms; At my parents parties, I could visually identify the contents of poured wines---this glass merlot, that glass pinot, the plastic cup shiraz; At age 12, my lemonade stand got a review in the local newspaper, a write-up that raved as much about the cloth napkins and "provocative musical ambience" (John Coltrane from a boom box hidden behind the cooler) as it did my "deliciously sippable potables." (My secret? Real lemons, and a splash of iced tea in each pitcher.) These clues were all pieces of a larger puzzle, and when fitted effortlessly one next to another, the picture began to emerge:

I was special.

I was Waitron.

I know, you're thinking: "That's your superhuman power? Food service?!" And I'll grant you, I'm no Aquaman. But then, let's take a poll: When was the last time your boat was trapped in a fluke Willamette river whirlpool? It's been a while, no? But when was the last time you sat at a restaurant and mumbled, "Fercrissakes, where the hell is our waiter?" Probably three times this month if you eat anywhere that doesn't serve their ketchup in packets. Aquaman is just an on-call savior---me, I'm putting in my 40 hours. (So I repeat, with pride: I'm no Aquaman.)

I should clarify that all of my superpowers are not natural. The heat-transference capability that allows me to regulate the temperature of the plate by transferring heat to or from my hand to ensure optimal serving temperature, I was born with that one. Ditto on my ability to calculate and split a 10-meal check in my head while still giving directions to the Schnitzer concert hall, and (in those cases of multiple credit-card-wielding macho men) to determine which person at the table is most able (or eager) to settle the bill. But I have supplemented these natural traits with a B.A. degree in Adjectives (my personal best is 39 descriptions of the daily special without repeating a single modifier) with additional non-credit classes in The History of Cheese, The Fine Lines Between Spinach, Kale and Collard Greens, and Accents of the World. (Even as a superhero, small talk is an essential part of many dining experiences, and while people from Alabama don't like to be told, "y'all sound like you're from the south", they love it when you say, "So how far from Mobile was home?")

When my training was sufficient to allow myself on-demand invisibility (the ultimate goal of each of history's great waiters), I followed the path of most superheros: I went to where I was needed most---obviously, Portland was that place. I arrived to hear Portland diners speak the words "well done" and "rare" as if they were a futile plea rather than a command, and to see patrons say "sauce on the side" with an incredulous tone that clearly evidenced their expectation that the sauce would arrive slathered on the bun. For a man of my particular sensibilities, it pained me to witness this decayed state of the industry, to sense that customers and waiters had developed into adversaries rather than allies. A waiter should be the enabler to a delicious meal, not an obstacle to it.

I've had my work cut out for me. Like veteran athletes who try to mentor the rookies, I have taken jobs at dozens of local bistros and brew pubs, trying to instill in my co-workers a sense of the importance of our jobs---if you think of yourself as mere errand girl, carting food from the kitchen to the table like a farmhand filling the trough, then you will get from your customers the same respect that the farmhand gets from the pigs. But if you carry yourself with grace, work with efficiency, and present yourself with intelligence, those proverbial pigs are going to tell all of their swine friends about the excellent work you do. (Speaking metaphorically, of course.)

Of course, my efforts have met with my share of disappointments. While most Portland eateries have a few staff members who recognize the value of exceptional service, there are so many more who refuse accept certain simple facts of waiting tables, including (but not limited to):

1) Cold toast is not "a fact of life"
2) In the realm of coffee, Milk and Half & Half are not synonymous
3) Sour cream delivered after the burrito is eaten is no longer a condiment
4) "How are you?" is cordiality. If the customer knew in advance that the response would include information on your diabetic cat or your girlfriend who is knocking boots with the cook, they would not have asked.
5) "Don't you mean the low-fat version?" isn't funny. Even less so when you try to explain the humor.

No doubt about it, I've got my work cut out for me. Everyday when I get home from work, I remove my work clothes to find my Waitron superhero costume (black spandex, white cuffs and collar, the chest sporting a giant W formed with silver flatware) drenched with sweat, but I am fighting the good fight, so I fight on. I have pledged to train my apprentices so that an army of us will one day rid this town of bad service, and when that's done, the next town, and then the next, until one glorious day, cafes across the nation will resound with the moans of pleasure that come at the end of a perfect dining experience.

Of course, it would be easier to motivate my apprentices if exceptional service was not met with the same 8% tip that the farmhand earns. I wonder if there are any Mathematics superheros out there---and if so, would they consider waiting tables?

©2005 wpreagan