Our head waiter at The Tree Top Restaurant had a way of describing a particularly busy evening. He called it “digging yourself out of a hole.”
The hole usually began forming shortly after the first guests arrived. Orders accumulated, the kitchen grew busier, and suddenly every table seemed to need something at once. You moved from one task to another, trying to stay a step ahead, knowing that falling behind could turn a demanding evening into a disaster.
Somehow, you kept going. Eventually, the last guests departed, the tables were cleared, and you realized you’d made it. Afterward, we’d share stories about our evening, laugh about the challenges, and congratulate one another on surviving another night.
One spring evening in 1975, I dug myself out of a particularly deep hole.
The Tree Top was an elegant restaurant in the Fargo-Moorhead area, known for exceptional food and tableside service. Our manager, Clint, often reminded us that we were performers on a stage. Our job wasn’t simply to serve dinner. It was to provide every patron with an exceptional evening.
And performing required practice.
Preparing a Caesar salad tableside, deboning a Dover sole, or making fettuccine Alfredo demanded knowledge, timing, and a little showmanship. We had to explain unfamiliar dishes, anticipate what our guests needed, and keep the evening moving without making anyone feel rushed.
That particular spring evening, the restaurant was especially busy. It was prom night for students at Fargo North High School.
Among my guests were six teenagers dressed for the occasion. One of the boys, Tom, was a friend I’d made while working at the Sons of Norway. We’d kept in touch and played tennis together. He was a terrific young man, and I was delighted to see him and his friends.
They were polite, enthusiastic, and full of questions about the menu. The girls ordered Dover sole, while the boys chose baked pork chops accompanied by fettuccine Alfredo.
I also had another table of six.
Six grown men.
Four were pleasant and considerate. One had been drinking too much, and another seemed determined to make my evening miserable. I no longer remember whether they were celebrating a bachelor’s party or entertaining a speaker after a presentation. What I remember vividly is the challenge of serving them.
The intoxicated gentleman repeatedly tested my patience, while his companion added difficulties of his own. Fortunately, the other four recognized what was happening. They were gracious, and I could tell they appreciated my efforts to remain composed.
Meanwhile, I had two additional tables, both occupied by couples.
Four tables. Sixteen guests. Two elaborate tableside preparations for the prom party, a demanding table of men, and an increasingly busy dining room.
The hole was getting deeper.
Fortunately, Dave, one of my fellow waiters, came to my rescue. While I prepared the fettuccine Alfredo for the boys, Dave handled the Dover sole for the girls. Tableside service could be a performance, but on an evening like that, teamwork mattered as much as showmanship.
The evening continued at a relentless pace. Orders went to the kitchen, drinks needed attention, dishes arrived, and guests had questions. I moved between tables, doing my best to make each party feel as though it had my undivided attention.
At one of my tables for two, a gentleman told me he’d been watching how I handled the six men. He’d once been a waiter himself and understood the challenges. He complimented my patience and professionalism.
That meant a great deal to me.
At the men’s table, one of the four considerate guests quietly handed me two twenty-dollar bills before I’d even presented their check. Forty dollars! And when the evening ended, they left another generous tip.
Tom and his friends were generous, too. They enjoyed their dinner and headed off to the prom, leaving me with the satisfaction of having contributed to a memorable evening.
Because my two large parties had arrived when the restaurant opened, I was able to seat additional guests at those tables later in the evening. For a waiter, turning tables meant another opportunity to earn tips. And that night, the opportunities kept coming.
By closing time, I was exhausted. We all were.
Craig, our dining room bartender, mixed drinks exclusively for the servers and tracked our tips throughout the evening. Each server had a jar where Craig collected the money as tabs were closed.
That night, Craig told Dave that I’d earned more than anyone else. Dave passed the news along, and soon everyone knew.
I’d made $270 in tips.
In 1975.
It was the most I’d ever earned in a single evening as a waiter. I never matched it.
At the time, the money was certainly exciting. But looking back, what stays with me is something more important.
Working at The Tree Top taught me that exceptional service is rarely effortless. It requires preparation, patience, good judgment, and the ability to anticipate another individual’s needs. It means knowing your subject well enough to explain it clearly, remaining composed when circumstances become difficult, and recognizing when someone else can lend a hand.
Those lessons followed me long after I hung up my waiter’s jacket.
As a pharmacist, I learned that patients needed more than medications handed across a counter. They needed understanding. In sales, I discovered that listening carefully and solving problems mattered more than delivering a polished presentation. And as a writer, I’ve come to appreciate that communicating well begins with considering what the reader needs.
Different professions. Different audiences. Much the same responsibility.
Clint used to tell us that we were performers on a stage. I understand his words differently now. The performance wasn’t about drawing attention to ourselves. It was about making the experience meaningful for those we served.
That spring evening, I thought I’d learned how to handle a busy dining room.
It took me years to appreciate how much more I’d learned.
The finest service isn’t about being noticed. It’s about making others feel valued.
