Service with a smile

After years of eating out in places where the height of service was getting an extra ketchup pack for your Super Fries, it was disconcerting to walk into the restaurant and see a dozen of well-dressed men eager to escort your family to your table.

But if you really want to see service, get into trouble. At Castaway Cay, when my 4-year-old daughter started crying because the blister burst on her foot, we were surrounded by seemingly hundreds of Disney employees offering help. One used her SuperSoaker to help me wash sand off her foot, another offered a bandage -- which BTW stayed on for two days; what did it use for adhesive, LiquidNails? -- while a third offered advice. I'm sure I saw Michael Eisner in the pack somewhere.

This sounds like bitching, but it really is not. I am so totally unused to attention. Service is a dirty word. Cheerfulness spreading like radar sets my teeth on edge. Yet I grew to quickly love the attention. I truly appreciated every last bit of it, which is why I felt like a crack addict with an empty Baggie when the trip was over.

All material is ©2000-2001 Bill Peschel unless otherwise noted.