["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published June 15, 2026] 2026
As I've said before: forget military service. Everyone should be required to work two years in retail. Especially food service. Having been a waitress during summers in my college years, I have nothing but compassion and empathy for people in the wait staff industry.
Most people I know are genuinely kind to servers. But I do have a few lunch mates who routinely test servers will to live. It's not malicious. They simply insist that wait staff are there to make you happy.
I fear those poor servers go home and drink.
Most people will remember the now-classic ordering scene in the deli in When Harry Met Sally where Harry orders a "number three" and Sally goes into a laborious order for a chef salad (dressing on the side) and a hilariously (if you're not the server) convoluted order for apple pie a la mode.
I was recently at a group birthday lunch with a friend who has to modify every single thing she orders. When the server came to take our order, this woman requested "the kale salad without the kale."
The look on the server's face ("I have definitely been in this job too long") said it all. Did this lady just want a bowl of salad dressing?
Now, one would think that my friend might want to just order a different salad from the menu. The Caesar, for example. But no. She liked (most of) the other ingredients in the salad (carrots, Brussels sprouts, orange, cilantro, avocado, cashews) but wasn't a fan of kale. Or the soy vinaigrette dressing either. So she queried if they could make the kale salad with some other type of greens. And a different dressing. And no cashews.
The server gamely worked with her on this, finally getting my friend to agree to romaine, but noting this would have to be confirmed with the chef. There was then a discussion of alternate dressings, finally electing a vinaigrette with red wine vinegar, no soy. Cashew-adjacent nut choices were reviewed.
My lunchmate also ordered an entree (multiple substitutes there too) so when the salad arrived, she wasn't hungry for it and asked for a box to take it to go.
You almost can't tip enough.
Interestingly, you rarely (never?) see men doing this.
I was re-living my waitress days with a local waiter acquaintance who says that there is nothing he hates more than a group of 6-8 women coming in together, especially for dinner.
Why, he begs to know, can't women just order their own meal? But no, he fumes, everybody has to share a salad and an entree with someone else. And that someone is invariably at the other end of the table.
Negotiations are prolonged and interminable. His imitation is brutal:
Waiter (fifth trip over, teeth clenched in forced smile): "Have we decided yet, ladies?"
Women: "Yes, I think we're ready. Muffy and Babs are going to split an order of ravioli but Babs wants the lemon cream sauce on hers and Muffy wants the marinara. Oops, that's the other way around. They also want to split a house salad, one with balsamic vinaigrette on the side, and the other tossed with the honey mustard, if that s not too much trouble. ZsuZsu and Topper are going to split the goat cheese pizza but hold the red onion on one half, and a small house salad with no feta, and no tomatoes unless they're organic. Bitsy and I will have the Greek sampler plate but since she doesn't like falafel, could you put her falafel on my plate, and my lamb kabob on hers? If there's only one of something, just cut it in half. (Smiles.) We don't want to make this complicated."
Several minutes later: "Is it too late to change the ravioli to linguine?"
Several minutes after that: "Bitsy has just reminded us to confirm with your chef that none of your food products come from China."
The food comes. No one can remember what they ordered.
It's even worse, he says, if the restaurant serves anything even remotely ethnic.
"Whats in it?" [Answer: the ingredients listed on the menu.]
"Is it spicy?" [Well, yeah. It s supposed to be spicy.]
"Can you make it not spicy?" [What s your definition of 'not spicy'? And if you don't like spicy, order the ravioli!]
And don t even get him started on the wine. It doesn't matter that every time they come in he tells them that there are approximately five glasses in a bottle. They still have to ask how many glasses in a bottle. And then first round negotiations begin: who wants red and who wants white followed by an extensive cost analysis of ordering a bottle of red plus three glasses of white versus a bottle of each. Preferences for Pinot Grigio vs. Chardonnay, Cabernet vs. Merlot are tallied. The waiter s recommendations on the wine list will be solicited, he says, but universally ignored.
But the coup de grace is the check. This, he maintains, makes everything before it look like a day at the Shores. It's when the waiter decides it's really time to go back and get his B.A. Or a gun license. The cell phone calculators come out. Who had what, or more specifically, half of what, must be ascertained before figuring in tax and tip. Two people have invariably realized they have no cash and want to either write a check for their portion or put just their part on a credit card. If guys were there, my waiter acquaintance maintains, they'd divide the check by eight. No calculators would be seen. They would never hand you eight credit cards. And then ask you to put a different amount on each.
As far as he's concerned, a 70% tip from these women would be reasonable. But still not enough. What he really wants is a table full of guys.
Inga in her waitress uniform in Beach Haven, New Jersey
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