Among California wine professionals, posts discussing hospitality faux pas elicit copious responses. Tasting room jobs are sought after by wine enthusiasts willing to work long days, special events and weekends. No matter how tired or disturbed they are, they can’t show it. If the winery’s mission is to be known for it’s wonderful hospitality, staff can’t carry around any negativity; admittedly a tall order but it’s the difference between a hit & miss winery and an excellent winery.
Industry professionals are often flummoxed by two arguments: 1) who is at fault–the seemingly rude customer or an employee listening with an agenda? and (2) what comeback might be justified as a response.
In Germany, I had an amusing exchange with a restaurant worker who was overwhelmed and listening with an agenda.
Three minutes after leaving my hotel, it started to rain and quickly turned into a deluge. I ducked into the nearest restaurant along with 100 other people. Literally, an almost empty restaurant was immediately packed. A greeter told me to order at the counter, gave me a little credit card and said to pay on my way out. I queued up with other patrons who sent their children scurrying to secure tables. I watched and listened carefully so I could find my way through the process. When my turn came, speaking only English, I told the Italian who spoke German that I wanted a house salad and to add prosciutto to it. I had followed the lead of the woman in front of me who had requested chicken on her salad.
The man glared at me and said, “you want ham?!” I replied, “prosciutto.” He then flung his hand into a tray and pulled out a fist of ham, “this is ham!,” he bellowed, then he turned, opened a refrigerator and took out a tub of uncooked chicken, “This is chicken! What do you want?” I wondered why doesn’t a guy who’s name must be Carlo Giovanni know the word prosciutto?
A well-dressed German lady offered to translate, “what do you want, maybe I can help?” she asked sweetly. I timidly said, “prosciutto?” She slowly turned and eye-locked the guy behind the counter; without another word being said, he shut his mouth, look chagrined and put prosciutto on my salad.
My second hospitality story is a fable with the moral at the end.
My first morning at a 4-star hotel in Paris, I enjoyed some packet-coffee and cream in my room, took a shower, washed some laundry in the sink and contemplated my 7-day stay. I had reservations elsewhere but booked this hotel after coming in two days early. I absolutely loved the hotel I was in, so I decided to stay the full week and cancel my other reservation.
Perhaps since I had just enjoyed 5-days in Germany and was thinking about the impressive efficiency I had experienced, I decided to write down my preferences for coffee and laundry and give it to the hotel staff. I waltzed downstairs and handed my little note to the lady at the desk and announced, “Since I’m staying for a week, I thought I’d let you know my preferences. Is it okay to have 3 coffees and six creams in my room every day? And I’ll reuse my towels, so don’t wash them daily unless I leave them on the floor.” I said all of this sweetly with a smile, so imagine my surprise, when the short French lady with the sturdy frame said with a poker-face, “We can not do that.”
“You can’t give me 3 coffees and 6 creams?” I asked, genuinely taken aback.
“No,” she continued with a completely straight face, “That was your welcome, only.” I replied, “I’ve never heard of such a thing, you don’t replenish the coffee packets?” “No, it is only your welcome. You have coffee at breakfast. And we change the towels every day. Some hotels don’t, that is not how we do it here,” and then she dismissed me with a curt movement of her head.
As I walked around Paris, I thought about both of these exchanges. The Italian-German was obviously listening with an agenda so he could not hear my request; perhaps I was the only person ever to ask for proscuitto on my salad so he did not trust his hearing. I had also probably offended the order of things, orderliness is revered in Germany, so my bad.
With Grace (who I later found out was the manager) I concluded that although my intention was good, I had come across as a rude American and she had got me back good. I smiled when I realized that she had got me back in her French way; a straight face and just saying, nope, can’t do it, even though of course she could. When I returned to the hotel, my room was exactly as I had requested, and the next morning, I waltzed down the stairs and shared a knowing smile with her, Good Morning Grace! she smiled back, Bonjour Mademoiselle.
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