‘Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup’

My vocabulary about airplanes stretches to ‘small’, ‘big’, ‘looks safe’ and ‘looks rickety, but sod it’.

Waitressing is a quick eye-opener to the real world- Kristina Chetcuti

To me, airplanes are simply flying buses and descriptions other than that simply zoom past my pre-frontal cortex: Orion, Tornado, Vulcan – they sound more like names of hurricanes to me.

Still, last weekend, together with an equally clueless girlfriend and four children in tow, we trailed to the air show.

This is what we saw: planes in the sky doing risky stuff; planes on the ground with pilots at hand trying to convince our five-year-olds that they ought to fly machines when they grow up (but they were adamant: they want to be tooth-fairies); hundreds of people armed with sophisticated cameras and macro-zooms snapping frame shots of every single nail on the planes; an impressively huge Hercules war plane; and four children with the appetite of Hercules himself.

Thankfully, everyone was busy looking up at the sky, for if they looked down at our picnic rug they would have been mortified at the sight of all the Tupperware, erm, ware.

I don’t know what it was – the smell of expensive fuel in the air? – but the children munched their way through the whole afternoon.

Later at a refreshment point, we were served by a youngish waitress. She was efficient and polite but looked vaguely bored as she handed me the umpteenth Hello Kitty ice-cream.

Suddenly, though, her face lit up and it wasn’t because of my generous tip. She was giving this cracking big smile and the sunniest “Oh, hello”.

Oh, hello indeed: The next customer was a dishy British pilot, wearing aviator glasses and a pilot boiler-suit thingy that gives that look-at-me swagger. (Why do pilots look so sexy in overalls and, say, Sammy Meilak used to look like Mr Potato Head in his?)

As I looked at the girl fluttering her eyelashes, I thought: forget tooth-fairies and pilots. This is what we should be encouraging our children to do when they grow up: waitressing.

I think there is no quicker way to learn about life than being a waiter. Waitressing is essentially people-watching. Without any need for training, it teaches you about human behaviour more than any other job.

We all think we are highly complex original individuals but in truth we all follow the same scripts of life, and a stint in waitressing shows you all the patterns.

When, many years ago, I used to don an apron and scribble orders and ask “Do you want fries with that?”, the restaurant floor felt like a film set. You know who’s falling in love, who’s in the dog house, who’s having an affair, who’s got a promotion and who’s on the verge of a break-up.

All this without even exchanging a word: just by observing.

Of course, you quickly learn how to assess characters and swiftly categorise customers into: tedious, unpleasant, shirty, lousy tippers. Very occasionally, you’d get the decent customer: the one who gives you a shy smile, a cheeky laugh and lingering eye-contact; the one who you wouldn’t mind if he called you over because there’s a fly in the soup.

Waitressing is a quick eye-opener to the real world. I am, obviously not referring to the artificial charm forced upon us at some dining experiences.

I absolutely hate it when I get a waiter who squats by the side of my table in faux-friendly chatter.

Who wants that level of intimacy with a complete stranger? Equally, I can’t stand waiters who constantly congratulate me on my menu choices as if they were personally gratified.

Even worse are the waiters who come over, all manual-book-brain-washed and splutter the “Hi-I’m-Aaron-and-I’ll-be-your-server” spiel. I always feel like extending my hand and saying “Hi. I don’t really want to be on first-name basis, I just want my food”. The answer will probably be a rictus grin and a “Have a nice day”.

So, no, I am not referring to the cynical, false and utterly American style of waitressing. I am talking about the Prego Café in Valletta kind of waiters. They may be as old as their vintage coffee counter but, to them, everyone is a ‘Sir’ and a ‘Madam’.

You know they’ve been observing their customers dancing the dance of life forever, and because of that they’ve mastered the art of their job and are wiser for it.

As a matter of fact, the air show waitress learnt a lesson last weekend. As she handed the beer to the pilot, she smiled some more. Did he reciprocate? No. He was one of those insufferably cocky pilots.

A few more days in waitressing will show her that conceited people are no fun. She’ll be better off waiting for the tooth-fairy.

krischetcuti@gmail.com