Why Wait To Be Told

What I Expect, What I Get, and the Lost Art of Just Doing Your Damn Job

The food and beverage industry just might be the only business on the planet where you can hire someone, train them, show them exactly what needs done, and somehow still end up wondering why the job isn’t getting done.

Maybe it’s like this everywhere. I don’t know. I can only speak from my own experience, and I’ve got plenty of that.

So if there’s even a remote chance that you’ll someday scroll past a restaurant job posting and think, Hey, I could do that, I sincerely hope this blog finds you first.

Because we’re going to talk about what I expect versus what I get. And, more importantly, what I think a normal day at work should actually look like.

SHOW UP READY TO WORK

When you walk into the building for your shift, I expect you to be ready to work. Wild concept, apparently.

That means ready to take care of whatever needs done within your job, not personal business, extended phone time, standing around bullshitting, or my personal favorite: finding tiny, meaningless things to do so you can look busy without actually accomplishing anything.

There is a huge difference between being at work and working.

Restaurant owners know the difference. Trust me. We see you wiping the same six-inch section of countertop for the fourth time.

FRONT OF HOUSE: LEARN YOUR BUSINESS

If you work FOH -Front of House- here’s the traditional career path:

Apply for the job. Interview for the job. Oversell yourself so you sound incredibly capable. Accept the job. Get trained. Hustle like crazy while everyone is watching.

Then, once you’re comfortable, see exactly how little you can get away with doing.

Perfect. Or, and stay with me here, you could actually learn the business you applied to work in. Before you ever clock in, learn the products you’re selling.

At my place, that means a shit ton of beer and some pretty damn good food.

Learn the beer. What style is it? Where is it from? What’s interesting about it? What’s the story behind the brewery or the can art? Customers love a good story. Check your product.

Restock what needs restocked. If something is low or out, write it on one of the whiteboards provided specifically for that purpose.

Know what soda brands we carry. Check the bag-in-boxes. Know how to change one. Walk through the areas where customers are going to sit and eat. Are the tables clean? Is there food on the floor? Did somebody spill something? Don’t step over it six times waiting for another human being to discover it.

Know how to use the POS. Know how to change a keg. Tapping a keg is incredibly simple unless you decide to turn it into an advanced science project.

Know where things are stocked. And please understand that napkins, condiments, coffee, salt, pepper, sugars, creamers, dressings and every other little thing a restaurant needs do not magically refill themselves overnight.

If you couldn’t restock something at the end of your previous shift, then when you walk in for the next one, get on it.

And if your attitude is: “Someone else will do it.” Then you are probably not the right fit for this business.

ONCE THE RUSH ENDS, YOUR JOB DOESN’T

Working in food and beverage is supposed to be fun. And a lot of the time, it is. There are also moments when you’re getting absolutely murdered, tickets are flying, customers are everywhere and you become convinced the rush will never end.

Every job has those moments. But eventually the dust settles. And when it does, guess what? There is still a job to do.

YOUR job. The absence of customers does not mean the beginning of recess.

AND NOW… THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE: BOH

Back of House. The magical land capable of sending me spiraling into another dimension.

The process starts the same way.

Apply. Interview. Tell me how experienced you are. Tell me everything you can cook. Tell me how busy your last restaurant was. Tell me all the things your last job made you do, then don’t do it here.

Get hired. Get trained. Learn the menu. Get shown exactly how things are prepared.

Then have a complete meltdown the first time you’re required to actually cook during a rush. Fantastic.

But before any of that happens, let’s start with something simpler.

Get to work on time.

And in a restaurant, “on time” doesn’t mean flying through the door at the exact second your shift starts and then spending fifteen minutes getting yourself situated. 20 minutes early is on time!

Be ready. Know the menu. Know the portions. Know how dishes are supposed to look.

Most importantly, understand that the customer who orders something Tuesday should receive essentially the same dish as the customer who orders it Friday.

Consistency matters. Every plate. Every shift. Every time.

PREP ISN’T OPTIONAL

Prep might be the least glamorous and most important part of a restaurant kitchen. What needs done will vary from restaurant to restaurant.

At mine? There’s a list.

Appetizers need portioned and bagged every single day.

Chicken needs cooked, sliced and diced for the appropriate recipes. Pasta sauce needs made. Chili needs cooked. BBQ pulled pork needs cooked, pulled, portioned and stored. Beef needs cooked and sliced. Mac & cheese needs made. Coleslaw needs made, with backup.

Potato chippers need cooked and prepped. Dressings need portioned. Cheeses needs portioned and wrapped. Product in the walk-in needs unboxed, organized and stacked properly.

Stations need checked and completely stocked before service. Menu items need cooked according to the recipes and required temperatures.

Ranch needs made… which, based on the amount people consume, may actually be the single most important substance keeping American society together.

And then there’s cleaning. Sweep. Mop. Check the trash throughout the building. Take it to the dumpster. None of this is exciting. None of it makes you a celebrity chef.

But all of it is the job. The same job you saw advertised. The same job you applied for. The same job you sat across from me and said you were capable of doing. And the same job you’re being paid to perform.

“NOBODY TOLD ME”

This one absolutely kills me. “Nobody told me to do it.” Why should they have to?

If you’ve worked somewhere for a year, why does another adult need to tell you that the thing you’ve done hundreds of times needs done again today?

If the ranch gets made every day… MAKE THE DAMN RANCH.

If the station gets stocked every day… STOCK THE STATION.

If the trash is full… TAKE OUT THE TRASH.

If something is empty… REFILL IT.

If something is dirty… CLEAN IT.

You don’t need a meeting. You don’t need a memo. You don’t need someone standing over you providing turn-by-turn navigation like restaurant GPS.

Seeing what needs done and doing it is part of the job. That’s the piece people seem to miss.

CRITICISM ISN’T AN ATTACK

Here’s another disappearing skill: Being able to hear that you did something wrong without acting like you’ve just been personally betrayed.

Restaurant work requires correction. Food gets sent back. Mistakes happen. Someone is going to tell you that something wasn’t done correctly.

That’s not necessarily an attack. That’s information. Fix it. Learn from it. Get better.

I’ve made mistakes my entire career. I’ll make more tomorrow. The difference is what you do after somebody points one out.

You can get defensive. You can blame someone else. You can sulk for the rest of the shift.

Or you can say: “Got it.” And make sure it doesn’t happen again. One of those responses makes you better.

THE SECRET ISN’T REALLY A SECRET

The food and beverage industry comes with some great perks. It can be chaotic, hilarious, exhausting and ridiculously fun, sometimes all within the same fifteen minutes.

And succeeding in it isn’t complicated. Manage your time. Prioritize. Use some common sense. Have a sense of urgency when urgency is required.

Show up. Be ready. Learn your job. Pay attention. Have some pride in what you do. Hold yourself accountable. Accept criticism. Learn from failure. And when you see something that needs done…

DO IT.

I’ve watched far too many people fail at seemingly simple tasks, and I keep coming back to the same question: Why?

Nobody expects perfection. I certainly don’t. But I do expect effort. I expect awareness. I expect you to give a shit. Because somebody is always paying attention.

Your coworkers notice. Your managers notice. Your customers notice. And your owner definitely notices.

So make sure when the people paying attention see you, they’re thinking: “I’m glad that person works here.”

Not: “What the hell are you doing here?”

WHAT HAPPENED TO SOCIAL MEDIA?

The Bullshit We’ve All Agree To

There was a time when social media was actually… well, social.

Crazy concept, I know.

Back when Facebook first became a thing, people actually used it to keep up with people.

You’d open your feed and see pictures of your kids. Your family. Your friends. Somebody’s vacation. A birthday party. A night out. Maybe your buddy standing next to a fish he caught that was definitely much smaller than the fish he claimed it was.

It was fun.

If somebody moved away, you could still keep up with them. You could see their new house, their kids growing up, their vacations, their lives.

It was basically a giant digital family album where everybody got to peek into everybody else’s lives.

And then…We fucked it up.

Today, open Facebook and start scrolling.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Within the first hundred videos, you’re going to encounter approximately 47 people who have suddenly become experts in constitutional law, criminal procedure and police tactics because they watched a traffic stop on their phone.

You know the ones. There’s a police officer standing on the side of the road, dealing with somebody who just got pulled over, and some guy sitting in his basement is narrating the entire thing.

“You see right there? That’s an unlawful stop. Officer has no jurisdiction. He can’t do that. That’s a violation of your Fourth Amendment rights.”

Buddy… You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.

But apparently you’ve watched enough YouTube videos to become the Supreme Court.

Then, just when you’ve recovered from that stupidity, along comes the cooking expert. And apparently we’re all chefs now.

“Today I’m going to show you how to make AMAZING barbecue ribs in the crock pot!”

No. No you’re not.

You’re going to put ribs in a crock pot, drown them in barbecue sauce, cook them until they’re the consistency of a rubber band and then tell everyone you’ve discovered the secret to authentic barbecue.

You have not.

Then come the fake doorbell-camera videos. Oh, for fuck’s sake!

Apparently every neighborhood in America now has a Ring camera recording elaborate Hollywood productions where somebody’s pretending to steal a package, confront a neighbor, get caught trespassing, rescue a puppy, fight an Amazon driver or discover a raccoon operating a forklift.

And somehow everyone is standing there with perfect lighting, perfect camera angles and crystal-clear audio.

Sure. Totally real.

Nothing suspicious about that whatsoever.

At some point, social media stopped being about sharing your life and became about manufacturing content.

And that’s the part I don’t understand. When did everybody decide they needed to become an entertainer?

What happened to going to work?

Seriously. Did I miss a memo?

Did somebody send out a mass email saying, “Hey everyone, good news! Nobody has to have a job anymore. Just film yourself arguing with strangers, make fake videos and explain traffic stops you don’t understand. Apparently there’s money in it.”

And the really crazy part is…

There actually is. People have figured out that attention can be monetized.

The more ridiculous the content, the more people watch. The more people watch, the more money you can make.

So now we’re incentivizing people to become progressively more ridiculous because apparently being normal doesn’t generate enough clicks.

And that’s how we got here. We didn’t just build a technology that connects people.

We built a machine that rewards bullshit.

And then there’s Marketplace. Sweet Jesus…

Facebook Marketplace used to be a place where you could actually find things people were selling.

Now you’ll find an item photographed with what appears to be a 100-year-old Polaroid camera with the lens covered in bacon grease.

“Excellent condition. $400 firm.” You can’t even tell what the fucking thing is.

Is that a lawn mower?

A washing machine?

A motorcycle?

A deceased relative?

Who knows.

And for every two legitimate items listed, there seem to be a hundred profiles of mysteriously single women who apparently live three miles away, are looking for a good man and somehow ended up posting their dating profile under USED FURNITURE.

I’m just trying to buy a fucking table. Leave me alone, Susan.

And here’s the part that really bothers me.

We were told technology was supposed to make our lives better.

Faster. Easier. More connected. And in some ways, it absolutely has.

But somewhere along the way, we traded away an enormous amount of our privacy for convenience.

Our phones know where we go.

Our apps know what we search for.

Our devices listen for commands.

Our televisions know what we watch.

Our cars know where we’ve been.

And every time we scroll, click, search, watch or pause on something, we’re feeding another little piece of ourselves into the machine.

And what do we do with all this incredible technology?

We scroll. And scroll. And scroll.

And somehow, after three hours of watching a guy explain why a police officer doesn’t know the law, a woman making crock-pot ribs and a fake video of a guy getting attacked by a raccoon…

we’re somehow dumber than when we started.

That’s progress, apparently. Maybe I’m just getting old.

Maybe I’m becoming that guy who remembers when people actually called each other instead of sending a thumbs-up emoji.

Maybe I’m just nostalgic for a time when people took pictures because they wanted to remember something, rather than because they wanted strangers to watch it.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that I rarely even use Facebook anymore.

I’ll still post for my business. I’ll share my blogs. I’ll keep up with people I actually care about.

But I don’t want to spend my evening watching manufactured bullshit designed by an algorithm to keep my thumb moving.

I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to be manipulated.

And I sure as hell don’t need some guy named FreedomPatriot1776 explaining constitutional law to me from the passenger seat of his Ford F-150.

I just want to see what my friends are doing.

Show me your vacation. Show me your kids. Show me the ridiculous dinner you cooked.

Tell me about the concert you went to. Post a picture of the mountain you climbed. Tell me about something that actually happened.

Be fucking human.

Because somewhere along the way, social media stopped being about people sharing their lives… and became millions of people desperately trying to convince the rest of us that their fake little life is worth watching.

And honestly? I hate it here.

Place Your Orders, Pay Your Bills & Pray Somebody Loads the Truck

There is something happening in the food and beverage industry that I don’t think enough people are talking about.

The supply chain isn’t just struggling. In some places, accountability has damn near disappeared.

Now before somebody from a distribution company gets their feelings hurt, let me be clear: I understand the world we’re working in.

COVID changed the workforce. Inflation changed pricing. Labor shortages changed operations. Food shortages happened. Transportation became more difficult. Finding good employees became harder. Keeping good employees became even harder.

And small-business owners felt every bit of it.

We still do. I’ve owned and operated a restaurant through all of this. I understand that sometimes a product isn’t available. I understand that a truck can break down. I understand that somebody can call off. I understand that mistakes happen.

What I don’t understand is how the mistakes keep happening with seemingly no accountability.

The Distributor Missed. Guess Who Gets Blamed?

Here’s a scenario that happens far more often than it should.

We place an order. We order the ground beef. We order the specialty IPA. We order the wings. We order the produce.

We do our part. Then the truck arrives.

And guess what’s missing? The ground beef. Or the beer. Or half the damn order. $7800 worth of food. And only $3000 worth shows up!

Maybe it wasn’t loaded. Maybe it was out of stock. Maybe somebody entered the order incorrectly. Maybe the warehouse screwed it up. Maybe nobody knows what happened.

And honestly, sometimes we don’t even get a particularly useful explanation.

But here’s the problem:

The customer doesn’t care whose fault it was.

And I understand that. If you walk into my restaurant and I advertise a particular burger, beer, wing flavor or special and I don’t have it, you’re disappointed.

You should be. But here’s the part customers don’t always see:

It isn’t necessarily the restaurant that failed to provide it.

We ordered it. We paid for it. We were told it was coming.

And somebody simply didn’t put it on the truck. Yet I’m the person standing there apologizing. I’m the person explaining why we don’t have it.

I’m the person watching a customer walk out because we couldn’t provide what they wanted. And I’m the person who still has to pay the vendor bills.

Because Apparently the Money Always Gets Loaded

This is where my frustration really starts. If a small business doesn’t have a product to sell because a distributor failed to deliver it, does the distributor lose revenue?

Not at all!

They still expect payment. They still expect invoices paid on time. They still expect us to meet our obligations.

And don’t misunderstand me, I believe businesses should pay their bills. If you owe somebody money, you should pay them.

But there seems to be an incredibly convenient one-way expectation of accountability.

We are expected to be accountable for everything.

Our customers expect us to have the products. Our employees expect us to have the hours. Our landlords expect the rent.

The government expects the taxes. Our vendors expect payment. Our customers expect quality. And our distributors expect orders.

But who holds the distributor accountable when they consistently fail to provide the products we ordered?

Because apparently the answer is:

“Well, we’ll try to do better next week.”

Fantastic. I’ll just tell my customers that.

“Sorry about your dinner. The warehouse is working on it.” I’m sure that’ll go over beautifully.

The Revolving Door

And then there’s the staffing issue.

I understand it. The people working in these industries today aren’t necessarily responsible for creating the labor environment they’re working in.

But at some point, someone has to own the result.

A sales rep doesn’t call. A new rep shows up and doesn’t know the account.

A manager doesn’t return the call. An order doesn’t get entered correctly. A product becomes unavailable and nobody tells you until the truck arrives.

A new product launches and somehow the restaurant doesn’t know about it. A vendor stops by once every six weeks, if that, and asks if you need anything, and disappears again.

Meanwhile, there are customers asking us: “Why don’t you have this?”

Because we didn’t know it existed. Or because it wasn’t available. Or because nobody bothered to tell us. Or because we ordered it and someone didn’t load it.

And we’re the ones who look incompetent.

That’s the part that pisses me off.

Because I’ve spent a lifetime in the food and beverage business trying to do this correctly.

There are people in this industry who have spent decades learning products, building relationships, understanding restaurants and helping operators succeed. And when someone comes into the industry with zero ownership, zero communication and zero urgency, they don’t just make their company look bad.

They make the rest of us look bad.

Not Every Vendor Is the Problem

And here’s where I want to give credit where credit is due.

There are vendors and distributors who absolutely get it. You know the ones. The reps who actually call. The ones who stop in. The ones who know what you’re selling.

The ones who tell you about a new product before you hear about it from a customer.

The ones who say: “Hey, I noticed you’re selling a lot of this. We’ve got something new coming in that I think you’d like.”

Those people are valuable.

That’s what a vendor relationship is supposed to be.

It’s supposed to be a relationship. Not:“Here’s your invoice. See you next week.”

Your success should matter to the people selling you the products that make your business successful.

Because here’s a crazy concept: If I make money, I buy more from you.

If my restaurant grows, your sales grow. If I add products, your sales grow. If I open another location, your sales grow.

My success is literally part of your business model. So why wouldn’t you want me to succeed?

So What Do We Do About It?

Here’s the uncomfortable answer:

We vote with our wallets.

I’ve completely stopped ordering from some vendors. Call it a boycott if you want. I call it business.

If a company consistently can’t provide what I need, consistently can’t communicate, consistently makes mistakes and consistently expects me to absorb the consequences of those mistakes, eventually I have to make a decision.

It’s not personal. It’s business.

There are other companies willing to earn my money. And that’s really the only leverage a small business has.

We can’t force a giant distributor to care about our profit margin. We can’t force a warehouse employee to load our order correctly.

We can’t force a sales rep to return a phone call. We can’t force corporate executives to understand what happens on the other end of their supply chain.

But we can choose where we spend our money.

And maybe that’s where accountability begins.

The Customer Doesn’t See the Broken Chain

This might be the biggest problem of all.

The customer sees the restaurant. They don’t see the distributor. They don’t see the warehouse. They don’t see the order confirmation. They don’t see the missing pallet. They don’t see the email we sent. They don’t see the phone calls. They don’t see the employee who didn’t load the truck.

They see an empty shelf. They see “86’d.” They see “Sorry, we’re out.”

And they blame the establishment. Sometimes that’s fair. Sometimes it absolutely isn’t. Because the restaurant can only sell what it has. And we can only sell what somebody actually delivers.

You can’t cook what isn’t in the building.

The Food & Beverage Industry Deserves Better

I’m not asking for perfection. Mistakes happen. People screw up. Trucks break down. Products go out of stock. Employees call off.

That’s life. What I’m asking for is accountability and communication.

Tell me you screwed up. Tell me the product isn’t coming. Tell me before the truck gets here. Give me an alternative.

Have a backup plan. Know my business. Know what I sell. Know what I normally order.

And for God’s sake, if you know something isn’t going to be available, don’t make me find out from the delivery driver.

We’re all trying to survive the same post-COVID business environment.

Small businesses are fighting rising costs, labor shortages, inflation, regulations, insurance, taxes and customers who are already paying more for less.

We don’t need our vendors making the job harder than it already is.

Because when you consistently fail to deliver the products we’ve ordered, you’re not just inconveniencing us.

You’re costing us sales.

You’re disappointing our customers. You’re damaging our reputation. And you’re making us look like we don’t know what we’re doing.

Eventually, we have a choice. We find another vendor. So here’s the new business model:

Place your orders. Pay your bills. Hope somebody competent loads the truck.

And if they don’t? Well…

there’s always another vendor willing to take your money.

Maybe that’s the accountability we’ve been missing all along.

Why I Hate Technology

Before everyone starts telling me how technology has made life easier, hear me out.

I’m trying to enclose my back deck, so I jumped on Lowe’s website to order the materials. Everything seemed simple enough. I selected delivery, and the website proudly announced that if I completed my order before 2:00 PM, I qualified for same-day delivery.

Perfect.

I placed the order around 12:30 PM.

A few minutes later, the confirmation email arrived… and that’s when the fun began.

The shipping address was wrong.

Not my fault, either. My billing address and shipping address in my account are both correct. Somehow, Lowe’s system decided to take my correct street address and randomly attach the wrong city and state to it.

No big deal, right? Surely I can edit it online.

Nope.

After several failed attempts, I called the store. After fighting my way through the automated prompts, I finally reached someone in shipping. I explained the issue, and she assured me it would be corrected.

An hour later, I checked the tracking. Still wrong.

So I tried the online chat. No luck.

At this point, I called again.

This time I spoke slowly. I spelled everything. I repeated every detail. The representative read the address back to me perfectly.

Success… or so I thought.

A few minutes later I checked again.

Wrong. Again.

By now it’s pushing 6:00 PM, and the same-day delivery I was promised has come and gone. I have no idea if my order will show up, get delivered to the wrong place, or be canceled altogether. Only thing I do know, I was 100% charges for the delivery and materials.

And that’s when it hit me. This isn’t really about my lumber.

It’s about what we’ve become.

This is a Lowe’s store in my own town. The delivery drivers know these streets. They know the neighborhoods. They know where they’re going.

So why can’t someone simply load the truck, pick up the phone, call me, and say, “Hey Pete, just confirming your address before we head your way.”

Problem solved.

Instead, everyone is trapped inside a computer system that refuses to cooperate. The employees can’t override it. The website can’t fix it. The chat can’t understand it. The technology that was supposed to make everything easier has become the very thing preventing a simple solution.

We’ve become so dependent on technology that when it fails, people don’t know how to work around it anymore. And this is how stores waste money! Employees standing around doing nothing when technology fails the consumer.

Common sense has been replaced with computer prompts. Real conversations have been replaced with automated menus.

Problem-solving has been replaced with, “I’m sorry, the system won’t let me.”

Here’s the ironic part: the people I spoke with were trying to help. They weren’t the problem.

The problem was that the technology had all the control.

We’ve reached a point where good employees are made to look incompetent because they’re handcuffed by software. Great customer service gets buried under layers of automation. And when the computer makes a mistake, everyone just waits for the computer to fix… the mistake the computer created.

Technology is an incredible tool. But it’s a terrible boss. When computers replace common sense instead of supporting it, everybody loses.

So here I sit, waiting to see if my order ever arrives, wondering if somewhere inside a server there’s a computer convinced my house magically moved to another state.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll get my lumber.

Or maybe I’ll just get another email telling me everything is “on schedule.”

Because apparently that’s what progress looks like. Like running my own business, I often wonder if that one employee will step up and take care of all the problems!

Teamwork Wins Championships

At Basil’s, we don’t believe in “my table.”

We believe in our guests.

That might sound like a small difference, but it changes everything.

A guest doesn’t know, or care, whose section they’re sitting in.

They don’t see sections. They see one restaurant. They see one team.

And every interaction they have shapes their opinion of Basil’s.

If you’re walking past a table and notice an empty drink, don’t keep walking because it isn’t your table.

If a guest asks for ranch, extra napkins, another beer, or a to-go box, help them.

If food is sitting in the kitchen getting cold, run it.

If another server gets double-seated, greet the new table while they finish taking an order.

The question shouldn’t be:

“Is this my table?”

The question should be:

“What does this guest need right now?”

Communication is the Glue

Helping another server doesn’t mean creating confusion.

It means communicating.

If a guest adds another drink…

Tell the server.

If they decide to add an appetizer…

Tell the server.

If they ask for dessert after you’ve cleared the plates…

Tell the server.

Thirty seconds of communication can prevent ten minutes of confusion.

Guests shouldn’t have to repeat themselves because we didn’t communicate with each other.

The smoother we communicate, the smoother their experience feels.

We Share Tips Because We Share Success

At Basil’s, we tip-share for a reason.

Hospitality is a team sport. No one wins by themselves. When one server is overwhelmed, the entire restaurant feels it.

When one server gets behind, drinks take longer.

Food sits in the kitchen. Tables wait. Guests become frustrated.

But when everyone jumps in, the dining room flows.

One person runs food. Another refills drinks. Someone else clears plates.

Suddenly, what looked like chaos becomes teamwork.

When everyone helps, everyone succeeds.

Don’t Walk Empty

One of the simplest habits you can build is this:

Never make a wasted trip.

Walking to the kitchen? Take dirty dishes.

Coming back to the dining room? Carry food.

Passing the drink station? Refill something.

Walking past a table? Scan it.

Can you clear a plate?

Refill a drink?

Deliver ketchup?

Every trip should accomplish more than one task.

That’s not working harder. That’s working smarter.

One Team. One Dining Room.

Championship teams don’t ask,

“Whose job is this?”

They ask,

“What does the team need right now?”

That’s the culture we’re building at Basil’s.

Not a group of individual servers.

ONE TEAM.

One dining room.

One guest experience.

Because at the end of the night, guests won’t remember who owned Table 2.

They’ll remember how everyone made them feel.

Critics: The Loudest People Usually Aren’t the Ones Building Anything

Before we go any further, let me make one thing clear.

I’m not talking about the friend who tells you your idea has a flaw because they genuinely want to see you succeed. I’m not talking about the customer who offers honest feedback that helps a business improve. Those people are valuable.

I’m talking about a different breed entirely.

The critic who isn’t trying to help, they’re trying to hurt.

The one who waits in the shadows for someone to post, create, celebrate, or dream, just so they can swoop in with sarcasm, insults, or negativity. They don’t offer solutions. They don’t build anything themselves. They simply tear down what someone else had the courage to create.

Those are the critics this blog is about.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when you realize something important.

No matter what you do… Someone is going to criticize it.

Start a business? They’ll tell you why it’ll fail. The same people today who love my restaurant, told me 12 years ago it will never work in my location.

Lose weight? They’ll explain why you’re doing it wrong.

Write a blog? They’ll critique your grammar instead of your message.

Post a picture? They’ll tell you what they would’ve done differently.

Welcome to life.

Critics are everywhere. They’re critical of what you’re doing, what you’re saying, how you’re living, and sometimes even what you’re eating for lunch. If someone is actually out there chasing a goal, there’s always someone standing on the sidelines explaining how they should be running the race.

Here’s my opinion… Most of the loudest critics aren’t busy creating anything themselves.

It’s a lot easier to judge someone who’s climbing a mountain than it is to climb one yourself.

Today, the modern critic has evolved.

Years ago, if someone wanted to criticize you, they had to actually say it to your face. Today? They hide behind a keyboard, a blank profile picture, and a comment section. You’ll recognize them pretty quickly. Their profile has three pictures, twenty-seven cat memes, a political rant from six years ago, and somehow they have an expert opinion on absolutely everything.

These keyboard warriors aren’t nearly as intimidating as they think they are.

They’re fueled by one thing… Attention.

Reply to them, and you’ve just handed them exactly what they wanted.

Argue with them, and you’ve given them a purpose for the afternoon.

Defend yourself long enough, and suddenly you’re spending your day trying to convince a stranger that your life choices are valid.

That’s a losing game every single time.

Now, every once in a while, you’ll meet a real, flesh-and-blood critic. Someone who actually has a face, a name, and enough confidence to say something in person.

Those conversations can actually be worthwhile.

Listen. Ask questions. Debate respectfully. Sometimes you’ll even learn something.

Not all criticism is bad. Honest feedback can make us better.

But there’s a huge difference between someone offering constructive advice and someone simply looking for an argument.

If you’re running a business, especially in a small town, you already know this.

Social media is one of the greatest marketing tools ever created.

It’s also one of the greatest gathering places for critics.

For every customer cheering you on, there’s another person convinced they know how to run your business better than you do.

They’re critical of your menu. Your prices. Your promotions. Your employees. Your politics. Your grammar. Your logo. (Not my logo, my logo is badass!)

Sometimes it feels like they’re disappointed you opened your doors at all.

Here’s the funny part… Most of those people have never signed a payroll, balanced inventory, worked a fourteen-hour day, or laid awake at night wondering how to make sure their employees get paid.

It’s easy to coach from the bleachers. It’s much harder to play the game.

One of the greatest responses you can give a professional critic is… absolutely nothing.

Silence.

Nothing frustrates someone looking for attention more than not receiving it.

An ignored critic eventually has to find another stage.

So live your life. Start the business. Write the blog. Post the picture. Take the trip. Learn the skill. Make the mistake. Celebrate the win.

Every decision you make belongs to you, not to the anonymous spectator refreshing Facebook while waiting for their next argument.

At the end of the day, you have to live with your choices. They don’t.

So don’t let critics determine how you speak, what you post, or how you chase your goals.

The people busy building a life rarely have time to spend tearing someone else’s apart.

And if you happen to hear some noise coming from the comment section…

Smile.

It usually means you’re doing something worth noticing.

Ted Kaczynski

What villain actually had a good point?

When a Villain Identifies a Real Problem

Today’s prompt asked: What villain actually had a good point?

This may just be the prompt I’ve been waiting for.

Ted Kaczynski.

Before anyone misunderstands where I’m going with this, let me be clear. He chose terrorism. He murdered innocent people. Whatever message he believed he was sending was forever stained by the blood of those who never deserved to become part of it. His methods weren’t just wrong… they were evil.

That should never be forgotten.

But here’s where the conversation gets uncomfortable.

What if an evil man recognized a real problem that the rest of society wouldn’t fully understand until decades later?

Long before smartphones lived in our pockets, before social media dictated our attention, before algorithms decided what we read, watched, and believed, Kaczynski warned that technology would slowly become something we could no longer live without. He argued that we’d willingly trade privacy for convenience, independence for comfort, and genuine human connection for digital substitutes.

Whether he was entirely right is up for debate. But I’ll let you all be the judge of that.

What’s harder to debate is what we see today.

People panic when they lose their phones. Families sit at the same dinner table while staring at separate screens. Social media often influences our moods, our opinions, and sometimes even our sense of self-worth. Artificial intelligence is beginning to reshape careers, education, and creativity faster than many of us can adapt. Every year, we seem more connected digitally and, in many ways, more disconnected personally.

Technology has given us incredible advances. It has saved lives, connected families across continents, revolutionized medicine, and placed the world’s knowledge in our hands. I wouldn’t want to erase any of that.

But somewhere along the way, many of us stopped using technology as a tool and started allowing it to use us.

That’s the difference.

And maybe that’s the lesson we’ve overlooked.

Technology itself isn’t evil. A hammer can build a home or become a weapon. The internet can educate millions or spread lies in seconds. AI can help doctors detect diseases earlier or help scammers deceive thousands. The tool isn’t making the moral decision.

We are.

Every technology eventually reflects the best and worst of the people using it.

Take Flock license plate cameras as an example. Used properly, they can help investigators locate a stolen vehicle, identify suspects, or even find a kidnapped child. Used improperly, they can become a substitute for actual police work.

Consider the case of Chrisanna Elser. Her vehicle was detected by a license plate reader in the vicinity of a reported crime. Instead of treating that information as one investigative lead among many, it became the foundation for accusing the wrong person. She maintained her innocence and ultimately had to gather her own GPS data and other records to demonstrate she wasn’t responsible before the case against her unraveled.

https://www.cbsnews.com/amp/colorado/news/flock-cameras-lead-colorado-police-wrong-suspect/

The technology didn’t fail.

The people using it did.

That’s what makes this conversation so relevant today. We have a tendency to place blind faith in technology because it feels objective. Computers don’t have emotions. Algorithms don’t get tired. Cameras don’t forget.

But technology records information. Human beings assign meaning to it.

The moment we stop questioning the output and start treating it as unquestionable truth, we’ve crossed a dangerous line. Investigative technology should generate leads, not conclusions. It should support human judgment, not replace it.

That’s why I don’t think technology itself is humanity’s downfall.

Human beings have always been remarkably good at taking useful tools and finding ways to misuse them. Technology doesn’t create our character.

It magnifies it.

If we’re compassionate, technology amplifies compassion.

If we’re innovative, it amplifies innovation.

If we’re reckless, it amplifies recklessness.

If we’re authoritarian, it amplifies surveillance.

The lesson isn’t that Ted Kaczynski was someone to admire. He wasn’t.

The lesson is that even terrible people can occasionally identify a real danger. Recognizing that danger doesn’t honor the man, it challenges us to confront the issue in ways that are thoughtful, humane, and constructive rather than destructive.

Maybe the real question isn’t whether technology is evil.

Maybe it’s whether we’ve become so dependent on it that we’ve forgotten how to control it… and whether we’ve become so willing to trust it that we’ve stopped questioning the people who wield it.

https://web.cs.ucdavis.edu/~rogaway/classes/188/materials/Industrial%20Society%20and%20Its%20Future.pdf

Drones: When Does Curiosity Become an Invasion?

A few weeks ago, a friend brought his drone to my house so we could inspect the roof and chimney.

Instead of dragging out a 60-foot ladder and risking a trip to the emergency room, we launched the drone, flew it over the house, and within minutes I had exactly what I needed. I was able to confirm that recent work had been completed correctly, all while keeping both feet safely on the ground.

That is technology at its best.

What I also realized is that this inexpensive toy from Amazon, was able to create a view of my neighborhood that I was never able to see before.

Drones have become incredibly popular over the last several years. Kids receive them as birthday and Christmas gifts. Hobbyists spend hours mastering them. Businesses use them for photography, inspections, real estate, agriculture, search and rescue, and countless other practical applications.

There is no denying that drones can be an incredible tool.

But like many advances in technology, the question isn’t whether they can do amazing things.

The question is: When do they cross the line?

Now that I’ve actually heard what a drone sounds like, I’ve started noticing one flying around my neighborhood on a regular basis.

From what I can tell, the operator is simply enjoying the hobby. The drone zips around at high speed, circles the area, and disappears before returning another day. Maybe they’re practicing. Maybe they’re filming scenic shots. Maybe they’re just having fun.

But here’s the problem.

Whether intentional or not, that drone is also looking into places that once felt private.

Every backyard it passes over… Every family barbecue… Every child playing outside… Every quiet evening spent on the patio…

The drone may not be there to spy, but it still has a camera. It may be recording. It may not. The point is, nobody on the ground knows.

That uncertainty changes how people feel in their own homes.

Imagine someone standing on the sidewalk with a pair of binoculars pointed toward your backyard. They might insist they’re only looking at the trees or watching birds. Even if that’s true, it wouldn’t exactly make you comfortable.

A drone creates that same feeling.

Legally, there isn’t much homeowners can do in many situations. The skies above us are governed differently than our property, and while there are regulations about where drones can fly, there are far fewer rules that address the everyday concerns of privacy.

So we’re left with something the law can’t easily solve.

Courtesy. Just because technology allows us to do something doesn’t always mean we should.

A responsible drone pilot can enjoy the hobby without hovering over someone’s backyard. They can capture incredible footage without making their neighbors wonder whether they’re being filmed.

Good technology deserves good judgment. I’m not against drones.

In fact, one probably saved me from climbing a 60-foot ladder.

But technology should improve our lives, not quietly chip away at the expectation that when we’re relaxing in our own backyard, we’re actually alone.

Maybe the real issue isn’t drones.

Maybe it’s whether our respect for one another has kept pace with the technology we now hold in our hands.

The White House Is Not a Theme Park

There was a time when the White House represented something.

It wasn’t about Republicans or Democrats. It wasn’t about who won the last election or who was running in the next one. It represented the highest office in the country and, whether you agreed with the person occupying it or not, there was a certain level of dignity attached to it.

Today? We’re talking about UFC fights on the White House lawn.

Dirt bikes doing jumps and tricks on the property. Professional fighters being showcased as part of White House events. Government officials discussing UFC training partnerships as if they just discovered martial arts exists.

At some point, someone needs to ask a simple question:

What exactly are we doing here?

The White House has hosted kings, queens, presidents, prime ministers, military leaders, and historic diplomatic events. It has served as the backdrop for some of the most important moments in American history. Now it feels like we’re one step away from monster trucks jumping over national monuments while someone sells commemorative t-shirts in the Rose Garden.

Before anyone starts screaming that this is an attack on UFC, dirt bikes, or motorsports, let’s get something straight.

It isn’t. I don’t mind the UFC and understand many love to watch the sport. I respect the athletes. I think freestyle motocross riders are incredibly talented. This isn’t about the activities themselves. It’s about the location. It’s about the image. And it’s about understanding that some places should still mean something.

When the White House starts looking more like an entertainment venue than the center of American government, we’ve lost sight of the difference between leadership and publicity. What’s next? Clowns selling cotton candy at the front gate?

The explanation, of course, is always the same. “It’s good publicity.” “It connects with people.” “It shows a different side of government.”

Maybe. Or maybe government has become addicted to attention.

Every week there seems to be another headline designed not to solve a problem, but to generate clicks, views, shares, and social media reactions. Christ, you can’t even get on social media anymore without scrolling through hours of arguing over what nonsense our government is doing. What they are not doing, is governing!

The economy struggles. Americans worry about inflation. Cities fight crime. Families struggle with housing costs. Small businesses battle rising expenses. Yet somehow we keep finding time for publicity stunts.

And yes, that’s exactly what they are. Publicity stunts.

The White House is not a sports arena. The White House is not a motocross park. The White House is not a reality television set. It is supposed to represent the United States of America.

For generations, Americans were taught that leadership came with responsibility, professionalism, and setting an example for the world. Just watch a senate hearing and professionalism has been tossed in the trash!

Today it often feels like we’re competing for ratings. The most disappointing part isn’t that these events are happening. The disappointing part is how many people no longer see anything wrong with it.

We’ve become so accustomed to politics becoming entertainment that an octagon on White House grounds barely raises an eyebrow anymore. That should concern all of us. Because when government starts behaving like entertainment, eventually governing becomes secondary to putting on the next show.

America became a great nation through innovation, hard work, sacrifice, and leadership. Not because we could host a fight card or a motocross exhibition on the front lawn.

Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather see the White House making headlines for solving problems than hosting spectacles. Some places should still command respect.

The White House is one of them.

Welcome to Common Sense University

If I had unlimited money, I wouldn’t build another sports stadium or luxury resort.

I’d build a school. Not a school for children. A school for adults.

I’d call it Common Sense University, or CSU for short!

The admissions requirements would be simple: be over eighteen years old and be willing to admit that maybe, just maybe, you don’t have everything figured out.

The curriculum would be unlike anything offered anywhere else.

The first course would be called Decision Making 101.

Students would learn how to gather information, think critically, and make reasonable decisions without immediately consulting social media, a conspiracy theory website, or that one cousin who somehow knows everything despite accomplishing nothing.

Next would be

Efficiency and Effectiveness.

This class would teach people how to complete tasks without turning a five-minute job into a three-hour production. Topics would include planning ahead, basic organization, and the revolutionary concept of putting things back where you found them.

Then we’d move into one of the most important courses in the entire program:

Helping Others Before Helping Yourself.

Students would discover that holding a door, returning a shopping cart, helping someone carry groceries, or simply asking, “Are you okay?” does not result in personal injury.

In fact, they might learn that communities function far better when people occasionally think about someone other than themselves.

Another required class would be Perspective 201.

Before judging someone for being rude, distracted, or having a bad day, students would be taught to consider a radical possibility:

Maybe that person is going through something you know nothing about.

Perhaps they just lost a loved one. Maybe they’re struggling financially. Maybe they’re carrying a burden that would bring most people to their knees.

The lesson is simple: you rarely know the entire story.

Which brings us to the capstone course:

Kindness Without Conditions.

Students would learn how to be friendly when it’s easy and how to remain respectful when it isn’t.

They would practice smiling, saying thank you, showing patience, and treating people with dignity even when disagreements arise.

Graduation requirements would be strict.

Students must successfully navigate a grocery store without blocking an entire aisle for a 20 minute chat with a fellow shopper.

They must merge into traffic without causing a regional crisis.

They must survive a restaurant visit without treating the staff like personal servants.

And they must return at least ten shopping carts to their proper location.

Only then would they receive their diploma.

Of course, none of this school will ever exist. But maybe it should.

Because somewhere along the way, we’ve become highly educated in many subjects while remaining surprisingly uneducated in the simple skills that make society function.

A little more common sense. A little more patience. A little more kindness.

If enough people enrolled in those classes, the world might become a much better place.