The New York Post is not one of my go-to information sources, but you never know what will show up in your feed, and I clicked on an article about something called the Gen Z gaze.
The first line in the article: “If you’ve ever walked up to a cashier or front desk and been met with a silent stare, you’ve been a victim of the ‘Gen Z gaze’.”
Maybe you know the stare. You’re next in line and when your turn comes you are not greeted or asked how you can be helped or what you would like. Nothing. The impetus is on you to speak first.
One person quoted in the Post story said they feel they need to apologize when they walk up to a counter because the employees seem so put out by their presence.
Some complainers—or victims, depending on how you see it—who are mostly older people, say that young people are too entitled and resent having a customer-facing service job. Others say Gen Z lacks people skills due to Covid isolation and an all-consuming digital life.
I fall into the category of an older person, but I tend to go easy on the younger generation. I’ve got two Gen Z offspring of my own, and while they are both incredible young adults—well-adjusted, responsible, good communicators, empathetic, etc.—they face many challenges, as all young adults do making their way in the world. One of the biggest challenges is living in this burning, predatory, divided, economically tilted country that we older generations are leaving to them.
So give me your fucking blank stare—maybe I deserve it. On the other hand, you have a job, it happens to be customer-facing, and it’s your responsibility to do it right.
The same day I read this article, Harriet and I rode our bikes up the rail trail to Voorheesville and to one of the newer and most popular restaurants on the scene: Anthony’s by Romo Pizza, where the pizza is said to be the best around and the wait times are long.
Clever adults that we are, we arrived like two gray-haired elders seeking the early bird special and found two seats at the bar. There were two bartenders on duty, both of the Gen Z cohort. We didn’t get much eye contact, and I immediately thought of the article I’d read earlier that day, but the bartender put down menus and asked us for our drink orders. We each got a beer.
So far, so good.
But that was it. For our entire experience at the restaurant, we were never again acknowledged by either bartender or even looked at, unless I said something first to get their attention. They seemed to float behind the bar as if they sedated, or sleepwalking. They were more interested in lining up cans on a shelf than they were in the customers seated in front of them.
I had to ask one of them to take our order, which he did. When the food was delivered, I had to ask for silverware, napkins, and plates. Which we got.
My glass was empty. Neither bartender looked at it. Neither asked if I wanted another beer or something else to drink. If they had, I would have ordered another beverage, which would increase my check total and their tip. Instead, I ate without drinking.
When we were finished and had leftover slices, I got one of the bartender’s attention and asked if they could wrap up the remains. He asked if I wanted a box, which meant a pizza box, but I said we were on bikes and couldn’t carry a box. I asked if they had a piece of aluminum foil I could use.
Now both bartenders were there, as if this were a crisis, because they looked at each other as if they didn’t know what aluminum foil was and highly doubted their restaurant kitchen would have any.
We settled on a small plastic container.
Then I had to ask for the check.
Then I had to ask them to run my credit card for the check.
And then came the encore. The check put down in front of me was for $42. I confess I didn’t look at it closely; the amount seemed within the range of possibility. The bartender took my credit card and the check, but then had a private, back-turned-to-the-customer meeting with her fellow bartender. They were talking about our bill.
A moment later, my card was run and returned to me with a copy of the bill. I noticed now the amount was $54. This time I took a closer look. It was the right amount: everything we ordered was on it and nothing more.
They had originally given me the wrong check, noticed their mistake, corrected it, but said not one word to me about it.
I said nothing either. I was fed up with their indifference and incompetence and didn’t want to talk them. I didn’t want to look at them, and they sure as hell didn’t want to look at me.
This goes down as some of the worst service I’ve ever experienced in a restaurant. The bartenders are in no way blameless for their lack of professionalism, but what about the manager? Who trained these two? Who told them to avoid helping customers as much as possible and instead make sure the canned cocktails are fully stocked? Who told them never to make a customer feel welcome? Who told them it’s not necessary to provide plates, napkins, and silverware when people eat? Who trained them to never notice a customer’s empty glass and offer them a fresh drink?
It’s not just a Gen Z gaze going on here, if such a thing even exists. Something is operationally wrong at Anthony’s by Romos.
But the pizza was excellent. At least there’s that. Next time, strictly takeout.
