Diapathetic

(I’m the head hostess on staff at an up-scale restaurant on a very busy Friday night. It’s not long before the restaurant is packed with customers waiting for tables. The hostesses are located at a desk directly in front of the front doors where patrons check in and get a pager, which is customary for any restaurant with high wait times. An angry female customer approaches our desk in the middle of the dinner rush. There is a long line of people waiting to check in.)

Customer: “How much longer is it going to be?! We’ve been waiting forty-five minutes!”

Coworker: “I’m sorry, ma’am. May I have your name or pager number so I can check where you are on the list?”

Customer: “What pager number? I never gave you my name and we never got a pager!”

Coworker: *recognizing customer* “Oh… uh…”

Me: “I apologize for the misunderstanding, ma’am. Did you check in with the girls here when you arrived?”

Customer: “Well, yeah! I asked if tables were available and they said there was a wait! Nobody told me I had to give my name! My children are starving!”

Coworker: “I’m sorry. I would have gotten your information, but you walked away when I informed you of our hour-long wait—”

Customer: “Well, this is ridiculous. We’ve been standing right over there watching you for the past hour! My son is diabetic!”

Me: “Again, I apologize for the miscommunication. Perhaps if you have a small snack for your son to tide him over, we can get you in as soon as possible.”

Customer: “What?! I don’t just carry food around with me! Can’t you bring him something from the kitchen?!”

(We got them in at the next available table, if only to make her go away!)