Coffee and Consequence

 I had my semi-annual meeting with consultants in what has half-jokingly become the “Secret Syndicate.” Fittingly enough, we met in an Italian Restaurant reserved months in advance.

The waiter was incredibly attentive. Responded to half-empty wine glasses with a silent, refilling flourish. Accepted the incredibly complex request of one of our pickier Italian members. (He asked something like, “I want al dente pasta, but don’t insult the prosciutto; I’ll know if you do.”) Our waiter took pictures, making sure the lighting was right, and that my head was actually visible in the photograph.

The meal was superb. Conversation and connection abounded. Toasts and plans made. My standard writer’s Manhattan clinked gently as I thought fondly of my departed family of writers who preceded me. For the waiter, a well-deserved 20% on the $770 meal.

Then something happened. His unassailable customer service shriveled against an idiotic policy. A small chink caused a fissure in the evening, prompting conversation and shaken expectations. My marketing coach Dan Kennedy often says, “Little hinges swing big doors.” Never more true.

After I had signed the check and calculated the tip therein, my partner in conversation smelled the espresso. “Ahh, that smells great,” he said looking up at the waiter, with check folder now in hand. “May I have a shot?”

“Sure” said the waiter. Then he did the unthinkable. 

He extracted my now signed copy of the receipt, and said, “I’ll print you up a new one to include the coffee.”

My jaw left chin marks on the table. All of ours did. My espresso-desirous friend was agog. “Did he really just do that?” he asked with incredulity. “Did he just risk a $155 tip for a $3 cup of coffee… on a $770 bill?”

Yes, he did.

And I had to refigure and re-include his tip when he brought it back. I probably should’ve impugned the act with greatly lessened total. Yet, countering his near sabotage of the tip was my decision to disallow pettiness to color this grand evening. Perspective. As I handed the check folder back, I saw him, the management, their idiotic policy and the restaurant in an utterly different light. So did those who witnessed it.

This incident has never left my mind because it taught me an important lesson I’ll never forget. Small things matter. Your otherwise perfect service call goes up in smoke when a size 11 mud print lands unapologetically on the Oriental Rug. Your flawless furnace installation results in a frustrated callback when you forget to tell the homeowner how to use the thermostat. Your $3,000 panel replacement is a riddle of confusion without labeling the circuits.

Give your team members the authority to exercise intelligence when a small missile of discontent is launched, or better yet, train to avoid it entirely. Don’t just fix the equipment; fix the customer.

After the Italian restaurant fiasco, I had lunch with my retired psychologist neighbor. It was his 78th birthday, and my treat. We finished a great meal and always captivating conversation. (Not many of my lunch mates regularly quote Dostoevsky and Maritain.)

After the check was presented and totals totaled, my friend said in eerily parallel fashion, “That coffee smells great. If my young friend has time, I’d love a cup.”

He looked at me for approval – and if you know anyone who can dismiss the birthday wish of a wizened friend, I don’t want to meet them. So with a nod, the kind waitress trots off and brings back two cups.

“Please add that to my bill,” I encouraged.

“Are you kidding? It was my pleasure.” And she turned away. She may be surprised to see an extra $10 bill on top of her ticket, with the words, “Mine too.”

Small things matter.

Adams Hudson