Service Staff

Is there anybody who has greater acting prowess than service staff? I’m sitting at a beach bar in the tropics, watching tourists stuff their face with chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, and fully-fixin’d American burgers. Hardly even aware that they’re eating, they wash down their gobbles with tall beers and cocktails (that are most aptly described as, “boozy smoothies”). Granted, these tourists are who this place was built for. (And don’t get me wrong, I am a tourist here. I’m not one of those traveling elitists who thinks they’re better than traveling families or regularly-trodden places. Sure, I’m indulging in a ginger, lemon, honey iced tea, while reading some classic Swiss-German literature, and expressing my creativity by crafting this writing piece. But I’m no elitist. I’d be lying if I didn’t entertain an order of a banana peanut butter smoothie with a lil floater of something spicy. I know it sounds quite crazy but ya can’t knock it til ya experiment wit it, ya feel me?) These tourists are who this place was built for. A quadrangle pool with disproportionate angles. A shallow ledge enabling the kids to jump 4 feet deep… on repeat. The cess pool providing endless entertainment for the imaginative children. It’s Chlorine-treated child care: a dream for exhausted parents everywhere. And here, the parents can truly live without a care. The kids have their pool games. The parents have their poolside, relaxation-inducing, remind-me-of-home-inhibitors. The parents can satisfy their hunger, or that of their offspring, with a single wave. A single wave and the service staff come running walking over with a most enthusiastic saunter. Ready to satisfy the needs of the still-splashing 5-year old with the beaded braids. “Another mango smoothie!” No “please”? No worries. The service staff is here to please. The service staff is here to serve — dutifully, joyfully, gratefully. Grateful that the tourists came to patronize the Mecca that was built specifically for them. They made the Hajj from London, Sydney, Tokyo, and Texas. The service staff, in their standard-issue Hawaiian shirts (which begs the question of why the Hawaiians get credit for an entire category of semi-formal tropical merch?) share the responsibilities of convincing the guests that they’re living their most parasitic paradisic life. Some toss tropical fruits in a blender intended to mask the taste of the rum that’s about to flow into a tourist’s half-gaping, half-awake face. Some mop the floors to help the guests forget that there is, indeed, a beach out there. A mere 10 yards away. (But why swim in the great expanse of the majestic ocean? There’s a pool right here, with a bar… and a server. The ocean’s only purpose is to provide the backdrop for my latest-braggy-bikini-look-at-me IG story. So, the sand is an intolerable inconvenience. Get it away from here! And hurry!) Meanwhile, most members of the Hawaiian-clad Filipino army are running enthusiastically walking to the front lines to deliver reinforcements of tall beers and boozy smoothies. The most critical tool in their arsenal: the pizza-oven-sized-over-the-shoulder-cocktail-balancer-and-empties-ejector. You know what I’m talking about: the server’s flying saucer. But that’s no UFO! That’s round 3 of tall beers & boozy smoothies, as well as a 2nd round of chicken nuggies for the youngies. There’s nothing wrong with these folks making the journey to relax poolside in paradise. They earned it. And, in fact, everyone here encourages it. Because, after all, this place was built for these tourists. I just wish there was a higher standard of treatment for the service staff. And not the kind of patronizing gratitude where an adult shifts their tone to the same one they’d use to address their 5-year old. “Oh no! That’s OK, sweetie!” is an appropriate response for your child who just spilled their mango smoothie. Not so much when it’s said to a 30-year old adult in a Hawaiian shirt. The one who just informed you that they’re out of pineapple for your boozy smoothie. Technically respectful on the surface, exceptionally patronizing when tone is taken in context. However, I must admit, patronizing is 1 step of evolution ahead of those whose instinctual response is blatant disrespect. A presumed aura of superiority over the human who stands in front of them, ready to serve them, putting on an absolute SHOW of enthusiasm in order to be paid minimum wage + (often-unpaid) tips. “Ugh… Are you kidding me?!? I wanted pineapple in my smoothie!!!” As sympathetically embarrassed as I become when I see this happen, I have to admit that I enjoy the entertainment of watching a grown man throw a temper tantrum. But the real entertainment value comes from observing the response from the service staff. A refusal to break character, unlike an SNL sketch with a Ryan Gosling feature. This performance deserves a standing ovation on the corner of Broadway & 42nd. “I’m so sorry, sir. I am sooo sorry. I really regret to inform you of this most major inconvenience. Please tell me how I can make this up to you.” This apology delivered with such genuine heartbreak on behalf of the patron. The server appears more apologetic than the patron’s wife when she admitted to having an affair… with the patron’s best man… on the day of their wedding. This apology delivered by the human whose job description in no way concerns pineapple acquisition. (And, let’s be honest, the bar’s actual inventory management person wasn’t demand-forecasting a thrice-per-day boozy pineapple smoothie patron.) A willing, heartfelt apology, even though the server deserves zero culpability. And although the patron appears to want to condemn this server for all eternity, although this patron is threatening to let this pineapple-absent-from-the-blender-blunder become a day-ruiner, the server offers gentle acceptance to the accusation-spewing tirader. And the server’s stance is unshaking. No matter the mood of the server, they wear a bright smile, offer a warm greeting, and step with an enthusiastic saunter while hauling a fit-for-a-wedding-sized cake platter of gluttony over their shoulder. No matter how many special orders the family of 6 submits, the server receives the requests with a smile & non-judgment, “Let me double check with the kitchen but I’m sure we can make that modification.” It’s no matter that the Dad just ordered a sugar-free, intoxicant-free boozy smoothie with mango, banana, and pineapple because he’s “counting his calories”, while the Mom ordered a gluten-free quesadilla after housing a burger (bun & all) an hour earlier. As a society, if we want to observe a Masterclass in patience, we needn’t look any further than the service staff. Saints walking working among us. Thespians in training can be found in the movies. Thespians in practice can be found at your local restaurant. Thespians deserving hall of fame status can be found at a tropical tourist trap resort. Although the [business owners] of the resort might express gratitude for our patronage, the service staff, who actually make the place run enthusiastically walk, deserve our admiration. They’re staging a performance of Broadway-combined-with-Blockbuster proportions. Smiling, enthusiasming, non-judging… all while shoulder pressing your “sugar-free” boozy smoothie, your wife’s “gluten-free” flour tortilla quesadilla, and your 5-year old’s 3rd round of chicken nuggies. So, please, please, please give them a round of applause. Or, at the very least, please, dear God, say, “thank you.”