The restaurant I have begun working at characterizes itself as a “fine-dining” restaurant, and I’m someone who grew up on Chinese takeout and Kraft mac and cheese. My employer looked at me incredulously when I had no idea what Beef Burgundy was, when I pronounced ‘Cabernet’ as ‘Cabaret’ and had no idea the difference between Boston Scrod and Scrod Romano. Autocorrect just fixed half those words for me.
Nevertheless, my first table was a friendly trio of elderly women. When I fumbled over the specials and forgot the soups of the day, I felt obligated to tell them that they were my very first table. They smiled kindly and told me I was “doing great.”
As I was clearing their plates away and they were preparing to leave, one of the ladies stopped me. “Sweetie, what is your name?”
“Oh no! I didn’t even tell you my name!” I said, mildly horrified. “It’s Lindsay.”
“Lindsay, you did a great job sweetheart.” And they left me a really big, undeserved tip.