The pride of being a country of waiters

"We are a country of waiters," is still sometimes said in a derogatory tone. In a profession often seen as transitory—a stepping stone until finding "something of my own"—Javier Gil, from the Madrid restaurant Gaytán, has managed to shine and win the title of Waiter of the Year. Neither head waiter, maître d', nor sommelier—though he is all three—he proudly defines himself as a waiter. "It's what I am," without complexes.

The recognition comes after a demanding final, almost as much as a service with a full dining room. For him, a full room is like "many finals in one, because it forces you to give the best service to each and every table, without leaving anything behind"; but in return, it offers the support of the team. At the slightest obstacle, "there is always someone ready to ensure the mistake goes unnoticed," he points out, recalling that hospitality is almost always a team effort.

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His relationship with the profession began early and almost out of obligation. Or, as he himself admits, "as a punishment." He was 14 when he came home with a poor report card, and his father gave him a direct alternative: work in the family restaurant during the summer. He donned a uniform that was too large for him and spent his days washing dishes. But something in him awoke. "I loved feeling the adrenaline of the service, seeing how everything fell into place and nobody lacked anything." That summer marked his path.

After that came training, culinary school, stints in France and Ireland, and a career in the dining room that now positions him as a reference. His dream is to one day start his own thing, but he does not plan to stop working the dining room. "When you have a business, it forces you to be more in management, but I never want to lose that thrill of being close to the customer," he explains.

It is in that close distance where the soul of the profession lies. Techniques can be learned—decanting a wine, preparing a cocktail—but the essence is making those who sit at the table feel comfortable. His formula is simple: "treat the customer as if they were a guest in your home, without forgetting boundaries that cannot be crossed." It is not about forcing a feigned familiarity, but about an honest closeness that the diner perceives.

Diligence, the key

Pleasing those eager to enjoy is easy, but dealing with grumpy customers is also necessary. Javier does not take it personally. "Most are demanding people who know what they want, and your task is to give it to them." And if someone crosses a line, knowing how to mark it elegantly is part of the profession. "The customer is king, but cannot be a tyrant." They are the minority. "The best thing is that they don't even need to call you, because you have anticipated their needs."

This diligence likely translates into good tips, but he responds diplomatically. "You have to treat all customers equally; often the best tip is that they leave grateful and return." That gesture, more than a few coins, confirms that the job is well done.

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In a country that lives, to a large extent, off tourism, Javier defends the level of service in Spain. Compared to the distant French waiter or the sugary—and interested—American kindness, he claims a unique style: "a mix of closeness and cheekiness, but maintaining proper form."

He is also aware that such vocation is not abundant. There is a shortage of hands in hospitality. Are young people as lazy as they say? "Not at all. The sector has mistreated its workers for a long time, and now they demand the same rights as in other fields." In his opinion, this change is not a weakness: "To make customers happy, we need to be happy ourselves."

Perhaps that's why his example is so inspiring: it shows that the profession can be very rewarding. Well considered, maybe it's a pride to be a country of waiters.