Please Don't Make Your Server Be the Bad Guy With Your Kids

I once saw a child in my section take off their shoes and crawl underneath the table to play at their parents’ feet. Seeing that I was the one who had mopped the floor that day before the restaurant opened, I knew exactly how clean the floor was: not very. On top of that, a glass had broken there the night before, so there was the strong possibility of a slivery shard that went unnoticed, since I was the one who cleaned it up. I gently told the parents that it probably wasn’t a good idea for their kid to be on the floor for those exact reasons. Rather than thanking me for caring about the wellbeing of their offspring, they told the little boy, “The waiter says you can’t be under the table and you need to sit in your chair.” 

The moppet looked at me with a level of disdain that no five-year-old should have. I was the bad guy, keeping him from doing what he wanted to do. Instead of his parents, you know, just parenting, they used me as a scapegoat to make their child stop doing something he shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Servers are not parents. Well, many servers are parents, but not necessarily to the children in their section. There are customers who view servers as hosts of their dining experience while others see them as servants to be dismissed when not needed. And a few customers recognize them as an easy mark to place the blame, so their kids can be mad at someone else for a change.

I don’t have kids, but I imagine it gets exhausting always having to stop your child from doing dangerous things that they’re enjoying. “Dear, I know it’s fun, but you can’t jump from the dresser to the bed.” “Sweetie, I need you to stop running with the carving knife.” Surely, parents must institute a good cop/bad cop routine so they can take turns being the villain, and single parents probably never get the chance to deflect to someone else. But don’t do it your waiter, please.

Another time, I was serving a table with a crying toddler squirming in her highchair. Her screams were more strident than any dog whistle and her face was redder than the roasted red pepper soup that was the special that night. She was throwing anything her parents placed before her, from Cheerios to silverware. I offered crayons and extra bread which is the extent of my knowledge when it comes to a toddler tantrum. As I stood there, my ears seconds away from bleeding, the father told the little girl, “If you don’t stop crying right this minute, that man is going to make you leave the restaurant.” 

I looked around to see what horrible man would do such a thing and then realized it was me that was supposedly going to oust a toddler onto the streets of Midtown Manhattan. Her tears immediately stopped and she looked at me like I was Cruella deVil about to turn her puppy into a fur coat. The father seemed immensely pleased with his decision. Again I don’t have children, but even I know you can’t just bounce a baby out to the curb of 49th Street and Seventh Avenue — the Upper East Side, maybe, but definitely not Times Square. Once again. I was the bad guy.

I know raising kids is difficult and there must be times when a stressed-out parent is looking for a life preserver, trying to stay afloat until the next crisis has to be made right. It might seem easy to use your server for that when your kid is having a meltdown in the middle of the dining room, but try not to do your server like that. If you decide to, though, don’t let them hear you. Really, I’m not a horrible man, but there’s a little girl somewhere in this world who thinks I wanted to kick her to the curb.