Excessively happy people annoy the shit out of me.
Especially at restaurants.
“Hi! My name is Meagan, and I’ll be taking care of you.”
Crap. Here we go.
“So, how’s everyone doing today? Everyone doing great!? Is this your first time here? Yes? Awesome! Well, welcome. We are soooo happy to have you!”
Meagan beams as though she’s just found her new BFF.
“How about we get you started with some of our famous bacon-wrapped scallops? Oooohhh . . . sooo good. They’re my personal favorite. That would be awesome, right?”
Sure, Meagan. That would be awesome.
It goes on like this. The entire time.
And I can’t get the hell out of there fast enough.
Part of it’s temperament.
I just can’t stomach that stuff.
The other part is training.
During those portions of my Naval Academy summers spent under the tutelage of a retired Navy Captain determined to mold me into the quintessence of Navy officer-ship, I received mandatory instruction in fine dining.
In addition to choking down rare steaks and dry martinis, I learned the important subtleties of good service while making a tour of some of the nicest restaurants in Washington, DC.
Foremost, neither a host nor server ever shared his name or attempted to ingratiate himself to patrons through happy chit-chat.
“I don’t give a damn who you are or what your name is,” the Captain would say of the restaurant’s staff. “I just expect you to do your job.”
And that job entailed the staff’s intuitively sensing a diner’s tastes, based upon only a limited number of cues.
For example, at one of the Captain’s favorite places, the very moment he finished his first martini, the waiter would quietly appear with a second.
The Captain hadn’t asked for it, but the waiter, having carefully observed him since arriving at the table, knew precisely how he operated when it came to cocktails.
And he was exactly right.
That is good service.
A good wait staff also knows how to manage the pace of a meal without requiring any direction.
The best example is the removal of dishes from the table.
At most U.S. restaurants today, waiters and waitresses take away used plates the instant a diner drops his fork.
This, even if other members of the party are still eating.
In the world of fine dining to which the Captain exposed me, that would never have happened.
That’s because it is impolite to make anyone at the table feel rushed by clearing any portion of the table before everyone is finished.
All of this seems to be lost upon the Meagans of today’s restaurant industry, at least below a certain price point.
And, being the prick I am, no matter where I’m eating, it drives me mildly berserk when the restaurant staff departs from the Captain’s standard of proper service.
My standard.
Which brings me to Robert.
I was back in Michigan for the weekend to catch up with some buddies.
Upon landing, I did a quick search online for a Mediterranean restaurant between the airport and my hometown for lunch.
I was in a falafel kind of mood.
There was a place right along my route with glowing reviews, so I decided to check it out.
As I approached the front door, I could see the restaurant was almost entirely full.
That was promising.
And as I stepped inside, I was met by the smell of fresh naan baking in an open brick oven.
Also good.
But then, as I stood there congratulating myself on my choice of restaurant, I was greeted—more like accosted—by the host.
Robert.
“Hello! Welcome! Good to see you! I am soooo glad you’re here!”
He was shouting, enveloping me in a sudden, rapid-fire, happiness ambush.
He was Meagan on speed.
“My name is Robert! And it is my privilege to be your host today!”
Robert looked to be in his late-fifties and of Middle Eastern descent.
He was dressed in a burgundy shirt with a loud, patterned tie, and black pants.
Around his neck, arranged over his tie, he wore some sort of gold medallion.
It looked as though he’d won an Olympic medal for . . . I don’t know, being annoying.
“Is this your first time with us?” Robert asked me.
I’d learned a long time ago to say no, no matter what, to dodge the question.
Because if you say yes, people like Robert will want to know where you’re from and your whole goddamned life story.
And then they’ll want to tell you theirs.
I have no patience for any of that.
I’d been there before, I told him.
“That’s wonderful!” Robert said. “Well, welcome back. Let’s get you situated, so you can enjoy some amazing food and wonderful service.”
He then walked me to a table halfway between the front door and kitchen.
From there, I was safely out of Robert’s clutches, but still able to observe him as he ambushed other patrons as they entered the restaurant.
A steady stream of people arrived, all greeted by a shouting Robert.
Standing at the podium just inside the entrance, he was like Liberace at the piano . . . aggressively, flamboyantly happy.
When a young couple arrived, the two were met with, “Oh, my gosh . . . look at those smiles! Just look at those, would you? They light up the entire room! Fantastic . . .”
When he wasn’t accosting arriving customers, Robert was either working the room or giving orders to the restaurant staff in a combination of French and Arabic.
That made me think he was North African.
As I sat and observed, two things became apparent.
First, Robert ran a tight ship.
The kitchen staff was in constant motion, as were the waiters, all of whom looked and sounded to be family members.
The young guy who waited on me was courteous and efficient.
It was obvious he’d been well trained.
And the falafel was incredible, some of the best I’d ever had.
None of that happened by accident.
Robert had high standards and held his people to them.
I respected that.
Second, as much as Robert’s over-the-top happiness made me want to vomit, I had to admit it seemed genuine.
He really was happy.
Maybe he’d come to the U.S. as a refugee, fleeing some war.
Or maybe he just felt life had dealt him a good hand, and he was grateful for it.
Whatever the case, there was no part of his interaction with customers or staff that seemed forced of feigned.
That was just Robert.
I noticed he said the same thing to all patrons as they departed.
“Be happy, always!”
Which, of course, is delusional.
No one is that happy. Even happy people.
The next morning, I took off for a run on the trail that loops around my old hometown.
It’s incredible—exceptionally well-constructed and maintained.
And it was just past peak fall colors in Western Michigan.
Ideal running conditions.
The full trail makes a six-mile loop.
And you can add an optional, two-mile loop if you circumnavigate an adjoining lake.
I thought I’d start with six miles and see how I was feeling.
And it turned out I was feeling great.
Until, that is, about five miles in, when the trail suddenly ended on some back road out in the middle of nowhere.
I must have zoned out and missed a turn.
Rather than backtrack, I decided to navigate my way back to town.
And my six-mile run quickly turned into a half-marathon.
But, instead of getting pissed about it, I found myself repeating, like a mantra,
Be happy, always . . . Be happy, always . . .
Damn you, Robert!
And thank you.
Surprisingly, it helped.
To paraphrase the song by AJR, I wasn’t happy about missing a turn and subjecting my shins to an additional hour of abuse.
But, I had to admit, I was way less sad.
Nonetheless, the question remains, what would my mentor, the Captain, have thought about Robert, his restaurant, and his gushing, in-your-face happiness?
Probably not much.
Likely, he would have called the cops and had Robert arrested.
Robert is not the Captain’s kind of guy.
Nor is his restaurant the Captain’s kind of place.
And that’s fine.
Me?
I’d definitely go back.
Not for a dose of Robert’s ridiculous happiness.
But for the falafel.
Definitely the falafel.