The other night in Miami, I found myself in a position that is one of the distinct privileges of a life in hospitality. I was assisting an old friend and colleague with some technology needs at his restaurant, Amazonica. Instead of grabbing a quick bite at the bar or burying my face in a laptop, I sat at a table, dining solo.
For the uninitiated, dining alone is often seen as a lonely pursuit. For an insider, it is the best seat in the house to observe the theatre of operations. And make no mistake, when done right, a dining room is pure theatre.
I watched the floor. It wasn’t just people moving food from point A to point B; it was a ballet. The staff moved with a purposeful yet gliding motion throughout the venue. No frantic rushing, no wasted steps, just fluid, intentional movement. Over the course of the meal, multiple members of the team attended my table. In a lesser establishment, this fragmentation leads to chaos. Here, it was seamless. Everyone who approached was acutely aware of the stage of the service, the status of the dish, and the nuances of the table.
For the average diner, this fluidity registers simply as joy; a night where everything just feels right. They bask in the ease of it. But for the industry professional, watching this unfold hits differently. We don’t just see the service; we see the grind. We recognize the hours of briefing, the rigorous training, and the relentless cultivation of culture required to make the difficult look effortless.
There is a profound difference between a “server” and a “waiter.” A server is a transport mechanism. A waiter practices a craft. They understand the sanctity of the guest’s space, hovering on the periphery, invisible until the split second they are needed. They never break the flow.
I was there to fix the tech. But I stayed for the art, reminded that while systems support the operation, only culture delivers the magic.
Life is so tech. But the best service is purely human.
Mark Fancourt
