Last night, my daughter and I went to the Buffalo Wild Wings in Glen Mills. The evening started slowly. Very slowly. After more than 20 minutes, I had to flag down a server to take our order, only to be offered fries so cold and weary-looking that the waiter, to his credit, reordered them without being asked. His embarrassment was palpable, and honestly, human.
The wings I requested—fried hard, well-done, confirmed three separate times—were neither. I didn’t eat them. Dessert, which I had preordered along with my entree, arrived very late and proved to be the final plot twist: a cookie that was both charred and raw, a culinary paradox no one asked for. At this point, the waiter could only sigh. He apologized repeatedly and explained that he had already requested a manager, knowing full well how far off the rails the evening had gone.
So we waited. And waited.
Eventually, I went to the front of the restaurant and asked multiple employees for a manager. Each time, they disappeared into the back, never to return—like understudies who forgot their cues. When a man finally approached the area, he walked past me to seat other guests, although a host was already present. Then he almost walked past me again. I stopped him and asked if he was the manager.
He was. His name was Tyler.
Tyler confirmed he knew our table wanted to speak with him but explained he was busy dealing with broken glass in the kitchen. Fair enough—except I had just watched him perform host duties and walk past my table where my adult daughter remained seated alone, still waiting. When I explained this, Tyler became defensive. There was no apology and no acknowledgment of neglect.
When I attempted to describe the issues with our meal, not once raising my voice, he cut me off. “Your meal is on me. No need to pay.” And with that, he walked away.
It felt less like a resolution and more like a dismissal. As though comping the meal absolved him of listening, responsibility, or basic courtesy. I was no longer a guest—just an inconvenience to be cleared.
I could have left it there. After all, the meal cost me nothing. But this review isn’t just for future customers. It’s for Tyler, on the off chance he ever reads it.
People don’t come to restaurants solely for food. (I can cook at home.) They come to be cared for, even briefly. Hospitality isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence. In service, how you serve matters just as much as what you serve.
Tyler, if you choose not to have a heart for people, food service—and certainly restaurant leadership—is not the right place for you. As for me, I won’t be back. But I do hope you pause long enough to consider the work you’re doing and whether it is truly where you want to be. Some jobs require speed. Others require skill. Hospitality requires both—and something harder to teach: humanity. Last night, that was the one thing missing from the menu. Be well.