Have you seen this contraption? It's a 7 inch tall interactive, touchscreen restaurant menu tablet from E La Carte.

And it might very well be part of your dining future.

My feelings toward it are mixed, at best.

I am historically resistant to technological change. I quietly mourned the compact disc's triumph over the long playing record; I didn't see the necessity of a laptop computer when my desktop one worked perfectly fine; I was forcibly enrolled in Twitter by a friend; and the only reason I purchased a cell phone was because I would not be able to find my boyfriend in a crowd of 20,000 people 500 miles from home without one.

And yet I have come to embrace all of these technologies. In fact, I am physically embracing my computer as I type this on top of my lap. With my phone in my pocket. Playing downloaded music. The Twitter feed, however, is turned off. I have my limits.

I have the feeling that ordering from a touchscreen menu is one of those limits.

It isn't as though I haven't done it before. Anyone who has taken a Virgin Airlines flight has seen these screens. We pull up the food menu, place our index fingers to the screen to make our choices, then swipe our credit cards along the bottom of the tablet. Shortly thereafter, a flight attendant appears with what we have ordered. It isn't exactly magic, but it is certainly efficient.

However, I do to miss being asked the question "Chicken or fish?" I may get my cold falafel sandwich quickly, but I never feel very good about it. There's a subtle but important difference between being handed a tray of food and being served it.

The people at E La Carte state that their menu tablet isn't meant to replace those who serve. Rather, it is "meant to make the hospitality experience more convenient, social, and fun for the guests and more profitable for the restaurant operator."

With the tablet, guests can "order, pay, play games, and give feedback straight from their seats."

According to the product's makers, there are three main benefits for the restaurant:

1. Boost average check size by up to 10% through up-selling, pictures, and impulse orders.

2. Improving customer retention with easy-to-use loyalty and survey interactions.

3. Improve service by quick payment, retaining customer order history, and games at the table.

How on earth can a computer up-sell better than a human being? I think I need this explained to me.

When my friend Roy alerted me to this new piece of technology, my first reaction as both a career server at a fine dining establishment and someone resistant to new technology was to view the E La Carte tablet as vilely impersonal and a threat to my profession. Over the last 24 hours, however, I have calmed myself as I weigh what I imagine the cons-- and the pros-- are of this particular piece of equipment.

There are three important components a good restaurant must supply in order to provide its guests with a great dining experience (just pick up a Zagat guide and look at their rating criteria if you don't believe me):

1. Great food

2. Congenial décor

3. Excellent service

Though the menu tablet aims to provide photos of all the menu items, I am wondering if its creators have taken into account the fact that someone is going to have to style, photograph, photo edit, and upload a photo every time a new dish is created.

Substitutions? E La Carte states that guests can make alterations to their chosen menu item through this product. Simple enough when a guest might prefer mashed potatoes to french fries with their Porterhouse, but what about more complex-- or outrageous-- requests? Is it time then for a server to appear at the table with the bad news?

Computer says no.

As for décor, I get irritated when the people I eat with leave their smart phones on the table. I don't want a 7 inch piece of electronics shining at me as I dine. A candle on the table and the smiles of my companions are all the glow I need, thank you very much.

And what about the human component of the dining experience that this gadget swears it is not intended to replace? As a server, one of the most important parts of my job is to form a personal connection with my guest. Argue all you like, but there is a certain amount of server/guest bonding that happens within the first few moments of interaction. When I say hello and ask someone if they'd like a drink or if they just want to settle in a moment and catch their breath, I'm not just offering to go fetch them something-- I'm giving them the sense that they are going to be well taken care of.

The nuances of human vs. computer interaction are too many to get into in this post.

I understand that both restaurant owners and restaurant guests can benefit from such a menu in cases where one is looking merely to satisfy one's hunger quickly and efficiently, like at a corporate chain restaurant such as Applebee's (which is rumored to be adopting the tablets). Such venues already have standardized menu items that are photographically illustrated.

Touchscreen menus might also be a terrific boon for people who, for varying reasons, are unable to communicate well with spoken words. I've seen what an iPad can do for kids with autism. Could such interactive menus also help them gain confidence in ordering dinner? It's an idea that intrigues me.

They may also be helpful to those unfamiliar with a particular cuisine and/or language (ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant and felt entirely helpless?). The idea of a computer with a built-in glossary of terms and ingredients (or a translator) is an intriguing one.

And just think about how it could transform a wine list. 86'ed items could be immediately removed from the menu. Can't remember what grapes are in that Grüner Veltliner? (hint: it's Grüner Veltliner, but you would be spared the humiliation of asking such a question if you could simply click over to a glossary or related link.) Of course, the drawback is that one could get so lost in so much information, that one might never be able to choose. Or put the damned menu down.

I think a tool such as the E La Carta has some excellent possibilities, but not in the way it's being marketed. In addition to the ideas previously mentioned, I think that such a product used as a menu would cut down on the need for paper menus that must be thrown away or otherwise recycled every time they are either dirtied or in need of updating.

But then you should give your order to a human being and remove the electronic device from the dinner table. Talk to him. Ask for her opinion. Just interact. Technology can be a wonderful thing, but not at the expense of interpersonal exchange. It has its time and its place.

The other day I was riding to work on the bus. When I had taken my seat, I reflexively pulled out my iPhone to play a game of cribbage or stare at Facebook updates or do something-- anything-- to shut out my surroundings. Then something wonderful happened:

My battery died.

I was alarmed by how helpless I felt and my immediate thought was "Now what am I supposed to do?" And then I felt like a fool. I looked at my fellow passengers on the bus. Every person on it my age or younger was using their smart phone. None of them were smiling. It was just the old Chinese ladies at the front who were chatting and laughing away. I had no idea what they were saying, but they seemed to be doing perfectly fine without a touchscreen at arm's length.

It struck me then that this is precisely what we're all doing when we can't manage to pull our eyes away from our gadgets-- we are keeping people at arm's length. And that personal computers aren't, well, personable.

We spend so much of our time in front of computers-- I know I do. Working as a waiter is a marvelous antidote to technology because every night I am forced to talk to people I've never met before. I ask them questions like "How are you?" and "Where are you from?" Granted, I get paid to do so, but it's something I actually look forward to. It pulls me out of myself and, for a few hours every evening, my focus is on the welfare of other people.

And I look for the same thing when I am the one who is dining. I want to feel welcomed as a guest, not merely a customer. However much of a fantasy that might be at times, I want to believe it. I want to thank the person who placed that martini in front of me. I want to talk to a human being, not press buttons (unless they happen to the the emotional buttons of my dining partner). I want to feel as though I am being taken care of.

I just don't happen to think that's possible with a computer.

What are your thoughts? Like the idea? Hate it?

A week or so ago, I had dinner with an old friend and her family at a very, very tony restaurant here in San Francisco. The layout of the space was beautiful-- everything was styled to the teeth: the flowers, the décor, the enormous boards of cheese which sat near the bar, offering a come on to the men in the general vicinity that was nearly as pungent and gooey as those from the perfume-soaked women who jockeyed for prime barstools. Even the service staff looked as if it had been culled from the pages of a Brooks Brothers catalogue-- they were clean cut, attractive, and wearing dark, conservative suits.

Everything looked perfect.

When we sat down at our table, we discovered a delightful surprise-- the large, hard bound menus revealed a personal message: "Happy Birthday Jill" on the inside. She was touched. I think. Anyway, she was pleased.

We were excited about the menu's offerings. There in small black print were things I'd never had, but had always wanted to try, but lacked either the energy or knowhow to actually hunt down and cook for myself. Things like rampion and fiddlehead ferns.

The sommelier was spot on, too. I told him what part of the world we felt like drinking from, what we were willing to spend, and what sort of basic qualities we wanted. He returned promptly with exactly what I was looking for.

The meal itself was delightful. The flavors and textures and plating were gorgeous, if a little on the meagre side, but that was to be expected in such a place. We were having a grand old time. Unfortunately, there was one element that completely fell flat on its face, as far as I was concerned:

The service.

The waiter was polite. Almost too much so. He was deferential to the point of seeming afraid to approach the table as we talked. When we asked his opinion on specific dishes, he didn't seem to have any, yet when someone at the table asked what his favorite items were, he told us something to the effect that everything was delicious.

And when asking us if we had made our decisions, he made the fatal (with me) error of saying something akin to "Have we decided on our dinner?"

Funny, I never thought to ask if he was hungry. I thought of asking another waiter if he could pull up an extra chair so that we could make it dinner for five.

What on earth was he so afraid of? Three lovely Texas woman? Me? Is that what made him shy away from the table so much that he couldn't manage to fill our wine glasses when they were going on empty? Was he simply less interested in us because we were more than likely not spending as much money as his other tables?

Sitting there in my plush banquette, I wondered to myself this question:

What the hell does it take to get a great waiter in this town? I have had so few. The only answer I could come up with is this:

Luck. Pure, unholy luck.

It doesn't seem to matter much what type of venue you are patronizing. High end restaurants are no guarantee of great service, though one's expectations are higher when there. Boulevard? I've had both great service and totally lack-luster service. Masa's? I was lucky enough to have someone I knew take care of me. We were the only people in the place that seemed to be having a good time. The French Laundry? Don't get me started. One of the best servers I have ever encountered in this city was at a little breakfast place in the Haight. I wanted to kiss her and give her all of my money. At least I had enough courage to do the latter.

Of course, I am a professional waiter by trade, so I tend to notice everything happening around me when dining out. It's an occupational hazard. I do not, however, think my standards are sky high. Nor do I think they are universal. My ideas of great service might differ from yours. Here are my particular needs and idiosyncrasies:

My ideal server...

• Is confident in his knowledge of the food and wine he serves.

• Has opinions.

• Is not afraid to either approach my table nor make menu suggestions.

• Is friendly and warm, but not over-sharing.

• Does not say "How are we this evening?" or "Have we decided yet?" He uses the plural "you."

• Does not tell me her name when she walks up to the table for the first time. If she is wonderful and engaging, I will ask for her name as well as give her my own.

• Does not try to sell me something right off the bat. Rather, he says "Hello."

• Lets me know if she feels I am ordering too much food.

• Asks me if the temperature of my wine is good and if I would prefer my white wine on the table or on ice.

• Keeps my wine glass filled, but does not over-pour.

• Is as kind to the table next to me as she is to me.

• Does not look disheartened when I order a bottle of wine that costs less than $100.

• Claims an undramatic responsibility for any mishaps. Mistakes happen. They don't bother me.

• Acts as if he cares about what he's doing.

• Makes me feel welcome.

• Makes me feel as if I am being taken care of.

Frankly, it's that last bullet point that I want the most. When I dine out, I just want to be taken care of. Not coddled. Not ass-kissed. Just taken care of.

I mean, this is the hospitality industry I'm talking about, isn't it?

What do you expect from your servers? I'd really like to know. Of course, if you are one of those people who feels that a server should be seen and not heard, you may feel free to refrain from comment.

Today's post is directed at my waiter brethren, should there be any reading. The rest of you, of course, are most welcome to read.

The other night, I waited on a rather handsome European couple. Spanish. First time in San Francisco. They were youngish, well-dressed, and very polite. They ordered wine, three courses of food, and bottled water. So far, so good. When I checked in with them at each course, they seemed happy. The temperature of their wine? Excellent-- they even thanked me for asking. My dessert suggestions? They took them and loved them. These were not menu-pointers, miming their way through a meal because they lacked the local language skills.

When I brought them their check, they examined the bill, slipped in some cash and said, "Thank you, that's fine," indicating that they would not need change.

I examined the cash inside the bill folder. $130. Their meal was $126.25. I rushed to the bar and rather hurriedly asked one of our bartenders to make me some change, and quickly, because "I'm about to get "f---ed by table 10," I said. In front of my boss.

I received the change and gently placed the remaining $3.75 back in the bill folder with the three little bills neatly peaking out of the corner back on their table. Perhaps, I thought, there had been a mistake in their calculation. They might examine the contents and increase the 2.97% tip they were unwittingly leaving me. During the next half hour, during which I refilled their waters, folded their napkins, and asked if they had suitable transportation home, they never re-examined the contents of the folder. As they stood up to leave, I felt the anger swelling up behind my eyes. But I smiled, tilted my head and knitted my brow in such a way that would indicate that I was slightly perplexed to the marginally perceptive, and said, "Good night," with such a subtle questioning at the end of it I am uncertain as to whether typing a question mark is deserved.

They didn't so much ignore me as act oblivious to my words. I thought the best thing for me to do was walk away before I did something foolish, like stick my foot out as they approached the steps to the exit.

I stood by the hostess stand at the front door as they approached, giving them one more chance. I tried to obtain eye contact with the man, but he would not meet my eye. Instead, he held out his coat check. Fortunately, the hostess on duty took it before I had the opportunity to ignore his gesture or reply to it with one of my own. I followed her to the coat closet.

"Spit in it," I said. "I think you should spit in his coat." I'm sure she thought I was joking. "Or, at least, drop-kick it when you hand it to him." The sad thing is, I wasn't joking.

Well, that moment at the coat check served as a little reality check for me.

At our shift meeting earlier in the evening, my boss had warned us that summer was approaching. Our regular customers would be crowded out by out-of-towners, both of the American and foreign variety. Cranky travelers and people for whom American-style tipping was, well, a foreign concept. The announcement brought down the mood of the staff, but he was speaking the truth, and the point of his little speech was that we needed to basically suck it up and treat these new guests with the same warmth we treat our regulars. We needed to kill them with kindness, regardless of what kind of tips a Spaniard, German, or Canadian might leave. I briefly wondered which type of insecticide added to coffee would be considered kind.

He was right, of course. So what was I angry about?:

1. The money. My service merited at least another $20 in gratuity.

2. I let these two people get under my skin on the very night my boss had warned us, as though he had somehow jinxed me.

3. The fact that I let any guest get under my skin.

I consider myself fortunate in terms of my experience as a professional waiter. I work at a wonderful restaurant. It's upscale without being over-the-top, has a fun vibe, and is always packed with people-- it's not easy to get a last minute reservation, though we will bend over backwards to try to accommodate. The guests, by and large, are either affluent and willing to spend money or, at the very least, enthusiastic about dining with us. I almost never just wait on people, but act more like the host of a dinner party at every table in my station-- offering my suggestions, painting verbal pictures yet-to-be-seen food items, getting people to relax and open up. I work in a place where a handshake normally accompanies the "good nights", and a hug or even a kiss from the women is not at all uncommon. "Goodbye" is almost never said, but rather "see you again, soon."

And, normally, my tips reflect my service. Twenty percent is the norm, but twenty-five or thirty is not unusual, either. Am I spoiled? I don't think so. I work hard at what I do, and I am frankly very good at it.

But I allowed the two idiots who gave me a 2.97% tip to get to me. I had tied my own sense of worth to money. $3.75, to be exact. It colored my outlook for the rest of the evening. Fortunately, they were my last table, so I brought no thundercloud to my other guests.

I sometimes find working exclusively for tips a bit harrowing. There is a vagueness of income that is frustrating-- never knowing exactly how much one is going to earn in a month makes budgeting difficult. Waiters have nights when they're on fire and making money hand-over-fist, others when their sections are populated by women who bring photo albums with them and haven't seen each other in years-- splitting salads and making two hundred substitutions.

The fact that my income is wholly dependent upon how much a stranger feels I am worth is rather frightening if I stop to think about it for long. So I don't.

The fact that I sometimes allow my own sense of worth to be determined by strangers is even worse. I feel validated when a group of business guys leaves an extra hundred dollars on top of an automatic 20% tip. I feel utterly deflated when Spaniards screw me.

It's crazy-making. I do the same thing every night with mostly rave reviews. Sometimes, I get the shaft. And in my calmer moments, I can shake it off easily.

But the summer season is upon us, complete with the usual unprepared tourist who freeze their asses of in their shorts and hastily- Wharf-bought San Francisco sweatshirts in the middle of July. As a member of the hospitality industry, I need to remind myself that I cannot give lessons in tipping etiquette to the ignorant, but merely accept them as they are. I'm not a bad waiter if I receive a 2.97% tip, I'm a bad waiter if I am, well, inhospitable. In the meantime, I'll have to accept the occasional bad tip along with all the good ones and dream of the day after Labor Day, when our summer really begins and the tourists go back to the non-tipping lands from which they came.

After a pre-shift service meeting at work the other night, a colleague of mine turned to me and said, "You know, when I go out, I don't even expect good service anymore." I found myself identifying with him.

The following evening he came up to me with a revision-- "Actually, I've come to expect bad service." I thought that was rather harsh, but it got me thinking...

How hard is it to find a good waiter around here? This is one of the great restaurant capitals of the world. Thousands upon thousands of foodies live in the Bay Area. Surely, more than a few work in the service industry.

Of course, being a foodie does not necessarily make one a great waiter. It might provide an excellent culinary knowledge base from which to build, but a great waiter also needs patience, an eye for detail, a battle-tested calm, great diplomatic skills, and human warmth.

Taking care of strangers' needs is a tricky business because, often times, the need goes beyond mere feeding and watering. Taking care of a woman who is trying to impress clients? A man attempting to seduce his date? A table full of women with scrapbooks and wrapped presents on a "Girls Night Out"? Grandma's 80th birthday? If you've been a party to any of those parties, you know what I mean. A great waiter can take any of those situations and turn them into triumph. A bad waiter can turn them into one of those horror stories you tell at cocktail parties.

We all have our opinions as to what great restaurant service is. I think a great waiter has the ability to either wholly incorporate him or herself into a guests dining experience or, if need be, create an environment where the needs of the guests are met with an almost Beauty-and-the Beast-like invisibility. And I am talking Cocteau, not Disney. As a server, I find that I am much more suited to the former rather than the latter.

Following my colleague's comments on the state of San Francisco's service industry, I thought about my own dining experiences. Had I had any great waiters lately? Mostly, I drew a blank. One only remembers the really good or the exceptionally bad. In the good category, I could come up with only two in the past couple of months and both examples occurred where I least expected great service. The best of those two was a young server at Kate's' Kitchen in the Haight. It's hard to pinpoint precisely what it was about her, aside from keeping the coffee cup filled, warning against my ordering too much food, her sense of humor, or her deft analysis of the pros and cons of the cheddar pancakes versus the hash. In my opinion, what made her a great server was all of this and that human warmth factor I have already mentioned. She actually seemed concerned, like her eye was on us, and not in an are-you-stealing-the-silver? sort of way. The fact that she managed this when the restaurant was packed to the gills with a waiting list half a mile long impressed me. I watched her. She wasn't just singling out my table for special service. She treated everyone like that. I think I was a little bit in love.

I'm not getting into the terrible service experiences I've had in the recent past because I'd be typing here all day and I've got another 200 or so people to help take care of at lunch today. I just needed to tell myself something positive about the service industry today because all I ever seem to read is about bitter waiters and bad experiences.

Have you unearthed any great waiters lately? If so, tell me who and where. I want details. Pleeeeeeeaze.

I have a radical idea. It's edgy. Cutting edge, perhaps. Or you could say I've fallen off the edge.

Being in the restaurant business means every one I know wants to tell me their latest eating-out stories. They want my ear, they want to run something by me. They whisper me close and want to find out the dirt I might know about so and so. "So," they start by leaning in and looking furtively around, "What was it like working for X?!"

But mostly, people want to tell me about how much the service sucked at their latest eating-out experience. Customers pull me aside, friends and strangers alike, and tell me about a faux pas they witnessed, or experienced.

Because I wear a double-breasted button up white coat for most of the hours during a given day or week, I am now The Expert On All Aspects Of The Restaurant Industry. I'm supposed to offer advice, help, insight, compassion, dishing fuel and maybe I'm even supposed to solve the state of the service industry in North America restaurants.

But what I've come to is something I've felt and known for some time now: being a waiter is one of the hardest positions in a restaurant. It's neck-in-neck with washing dishes. Before my fellow whites clad brethren walk away and label me a traitor, pick up and deftly pocket stones a la Shirley Jackson-style, let me clarify.

A waiter is the liaison between kitchen and diner. She/ he must intuit the tone of a kitchen, its cooks and what moods Chef is in. He/ she answers to a myriad of managers (hopefully, although I've worked in some restaurants that have no one in charge on the floor), needs to be on the good side of who's hosting (oftentimes this can be an alliance worth more money than either one would care to admit or have anyone know) hungry and impatient diners, and on top of it all, waiters must have multi-tasking skills far outweighing those of a juggling, elephant- training, acrobat.

At the end of their shift, if they're not shifty, waitstaff "tip out" bussers, bartenders, hosts, and (sometimes) dishwashers. And still, to this day, some diners don't have enough math skills to figure out percentages translating into the only language which waiters speak fluently: money.

A few years ago, well-spoken NY Times restaurant critic Frank Bruni went under-ground and became a waiter just to see how hard it was. "... I traded places and swapped perspectives, a critic joining the criticized, to get a taste of what servers go through and what we put them through, of how they see and survive us."

"How they survive us."

An apt line. Which brings me to my radical idea.

Many say that the only way to end America's wars in the Middle East would be to have a mandatory draft. If everyone could feel how war presses down on us all, then maybe we would be a little less clueless and apathetic.
My radical idea is this: I say we should have a mandatory service industry draft. I am the first to admit what a terrible waiter I make. I worked for over a decade behind a counter, tried on being a waiter once or twice, and now, although my position is called Chef, I cater to the needs of people I may never meet face to face. I am their servant, so to speak.

I'm in the pleasure business. In the business of pleasuring people.

And when you've catered to stranger's needs, not because it was fun, but because it was paying your way in the world, your compassion gear shifts and fires on a denser oil, through a different, more varied, set of pistons. Your ability to assess the whole situation, not merely your own, changes. When you wait on people all day who treat you like a servant, like you're stupid for the mere fact of creating their double-decaf-single-shot-soy-mocha latte with extra foam or bagging your croissant or pointing you in the direction of the clear, waterproof band-aids, you tend to become a different customer when it's you looking for the newest gadget at Sur La Table or bagging onions at the farmers' market or ordering your sweater over the phone.

In the United States we don't treat front of house staff like professionals. We assume they're writers and musicians and actors or students saving money for the other thing they'd rather be doing. Diners and restaurant management staff treat them like this, so it would make sense that most waiters do not treat themselves like professionals. If the circle turned in a different direction, imagine what kind of service you'd have!

My inner cook folds her arms angrily and pouts. "Why are you standing up for them? Look how much money they make!" Yes, you'd think a person who takes home 15-30%, working in a business that makes, overall, at the end of all that's said and done, about 3-5%, selling a product made by persons earning one third to one tenth (yes, this is not an exaggeration) what said staff will take home in a year, might want to work a little harder, for you, the diner, and me, the kitchen manager and food creator, but...

maybe we will all remain complacent, lazy and apathetic until our name is called in the:

Mandatory Service Industry Draft.