It was the Wednesday night shift at Merle’s Barbecue, right toward the end of the dinner rush when you begin to feel a dull ache in your feet that extends all the way up to your over-smiling cheeks.
A new table sat down. Being a waitress — and therefore prone to stereotype — I quickly evaluate them like most of my tables. Foreigners are awful. Most aren’t used to American tipping and usually leave less than 5 percent. Parents of small children? Demanding and needy. Old people? I can’t stand old people.
But this table was that special breed of terrible: Northwestern students. Unfazed, I began my spiel. Would you like to hear the specials? Have you ever been to Merle’s? Do you want to know about our —
“Yeah, I’ll take another beer,” the rude little man interjects.
“Of course, another Goose Island for you?”
“No, I want a Sierra now,” as if I were worth anything, I would have had it to his table by now.
The remainder of their meal proceeded just this way. No one looked me in the eye as I took their order. They pretended I wasn’t there as I cleared their plates. They even carried on a conversation while I was telling them about dessert — then asked me to repeat myself.
I know not all students are like this, and many non-students can be worse. But it’s shocking how much students tend to treat members of the service industry like a low-level caste.
Nellie, the floor janitor my freshman year, came in every morning to clean the bathroom and vacuum. And every morning, groggy freshmen walked around her like she wasn’t there, despite her efforts to befriend us. They stepped in her neatly swept piles and left paper towels strewn about sinks she had cleaned.
Had they taken the time, they would have found a hilarious and wise soul. “If you take a shot in the morning of whatever you drank the night before, it’ll kill that hangover quick, honey,” she told me once.
Evanston has many restaurants, which, while providing an array of dining options, also are helpful to those of us who pay rent or loans or tuition. Every friend I have who works in a restaurant has told me some horror story — students who have pretend not to know their classmates while being served, or people who talk to waiters like children.
What is it about being at NU that makes us think we’re better? Students don’t treat me poorly because they know I’m a fellow undergraduate; it’s because they don’t know I go to NU, or can’t reconcile the fact that, yes, the service class and your English class are not that far apart.
The people who cook our food and clean up after us are as diverse and interesting as we are. Spending a moment to say “hello,” or “thank you,” would help us realize that, and maybe pick up a useful tip or two.
Besides, those kids only tipped me 10 percent and I’m still pretty pissed.
Rina Martin is a Communication sophomore. She can be reached at
