You know me. I’ve brought you your coffee, poured your beer, gotten you that side of ranch. I’ve split your check for you, made sure your filet was cooked properly, presented your wine. Whether in the Village or on Town Square, a burger joint or a steakhouse, fine dining or comfort food, I’ve been your server. You tell me what you want and I try to create an experience that makes you feel good. It’s more than eating or drinking, it’s an event that makes you glad to have spent your hard-earned money. You have your expectations of the food and the ambiance. But that’s only the beginning of what you want from me. Sometimes you want to hear my life story, sometimes you want me to be invisible while you’re on a hot date. I’m not supposed to notice your embarrassing comments or when your mother bursts into tears over dessert. You want me to innately know how to treat you this time, tonight. And you evaluate me on my ability to do so while keeping my mouth shut. You are allowed to judge me both by the money you graciously leave for me and what you tell others about my performance. You have a voice: to my manager, to your friends, even to complete strangers on Trip Advisor. But as of now, I have a voice, too. And I have been watching and judging as well. Are your children terrors? Is your father-in-law racist and cheap? Is the restaurant owner flirting with your wife? Is that even your wife? Yes, you know me. And I know you. I am your Secret Server.