I'm not particularly fond of regulars. In every restaurant I've ever worked, there'd be a guest or two who came in at least once a week. I touched on the demanding nature of regulars who frequent diners in my post on the Limerick, but they are not alone. I've had bar regulars, Mexican restaurant regulars, and even country club regulars on whom we kept dossiers of personal preferences that went far beyond food allergies. (Mrs. Wentworth would arrive at her table to see we'd already placed a pillow in her chair to soothe her troubled back. The mashed potatoes on Dr. Lawrence's plate COULD NOT TOUCH his steak or he would send it back.) I appreciate the business regulars bring to a restaurant and I serve them the best I can, but in the end, I simply prefer to see fresh faces every dinner shift.
No post on regulars would be complete without a pic of the most famous one of all time: Norm Peterson.
You see, the relationship between server and regular is just a little bit awkward. They're more than just another customer, because we see them all the time. We know the names of their kids and what they do for a living. Likewise, regulars generally care about the staff and learn about our lives outside the restaurant. Things are great, until it comes time to exchange money. The passing of cash from one person to another just underscores the fact that I'm in a subservient position and it's my job to be nice to them. I'd say regulars could be your friends save for the fact that they're paying for the relationship. It's exchange-of-pleasantry prostitution. I'm a happiness hooker. And I don't come cheap.
To be fair, this is solely my personal opinion and I'm sure it's not what most other servers think of their frequent guests. I just always find the situation uncomfortable.
Except for Paul.
I first met Paul when I was running food to him at the bar. I put down his steak and he looked up at me and said, "I didn't order this. I wanted chicken." I looked back at the bartender, who seemed more annoyed with the guest than apologetic for her mistake. I would later learn that he had already been to the restaurant for a few nights in a row, and she and he had established a comfortable rapport. I, however, fell over myself trying to fix the error and called him Mr. G--- one too many times.
"Call me Paul," he insisted.
"Of course, Mr. G---," I replied. He rolled his eyes.
For the next two months he would come to visit every night that we were open, always eating by himself at the bar. We slowly got to know each other better, and eventually I threw professionalism to the side and started to call him by his first name.
I know you might be imagining a strange loner who has nothing better to do than go to the same restaurant for the fifth night this week, but Paul isn't that. He is accomplished, interesting, kind, and -- for the most part -- completely appropriate. He's not a weirdo. He talks with us when we have time, then sits down and keeps to himself when we're busy with other customers. Have there been missteps on Paul's part? Yes, but they're rare. One night he fell down in the bushes outside, and there were actual leaves in his hair when he stood up again. Paul maintains he was "overserved" by our bar staff, but we claim innocence.
Eight short weeks after he arrived, Paul announced he was leaving to go live back up north for the rest of the year. He pulled me aside and gave me a hug, and said, "Sarah, you're one of the good ones." Is there a sweeter compliment? I felt sad because for the first time in my life, I was sorry to see a regular leave.
Fast forward nine months to this February, when Paul popped back into our lives. He came walking down the hallway unannounced, and my mouth spread into a grin. I didn't think I'd ever see him again! "Be still my heart," I said in his ear as we gave each other a hug.
Paul got even more relaxed during his second season of being a regular at the restaurant. One night he stood amidst the crowd at our bar, holding our remote control and changing the TV station to his preference as if he were in his own damn living room. The next night the restaurant phone was sitting out on the bar next to his stool, and I asked if he was starting to take personal calls at our restaurant. He wasn't, or so he says.
Paul was supportive of all our endeavors without being in the way. When it got crowded he directed guests to the hostess stand so we wouldn't have to do it. He ordered what the bartender felt like having for dinner and gave her half of it to eat when she got off of work. He sold our expensive specials to people who were waiting for a table. He even had a party of eight men give me cash because they decided to sit at the bar instead of in my section. Many of my tables got up and thanked Paul on the way out. Everyone loved him.
And then it happened again. One night last week, he pulled me aside and told me he was leaving the next day to go up north for the rest of the year. We were all upset that he'd be gone, and for so long. There were tears. It's possible that he was sent off with too much fanfare and that he ended up in the bushes again. Whatever. We'll put up with that from Paul, because he's a good guy and so far it's a once-a-year occurrence. I truly wish he didn't have to go. The best thing I can say about a regular is that he makes going to work even better. Paul does that. And I miss him already.
TIPS ON HOW TO BE A WELL-LOVED REGULAR LIKE PAUL
1. Don't think you deserve special treatment just because you're there frequently. We want to send perks to the guests who show up and are polite. When something is demanded of us, all that goodwill goes out the window.
2. Don't be lewd or inappropriate or creepy. Paul kept it classy. For the most part.
3. Give the restaurant staff a chance to miss you. If you show up every day for 12 months straight, you will probably be taken for granted. If you take some time between visits, everyone will be happy when you do walk back through the door.
4. Remember that the staff is at work. Paul never made us feel like we were rude for ending a conversation or breezing by him with plates in our hands.
5. Tip generously. Duh.
