There was a time when a waiter served. They welcomed, guided, advised — sometimes even entertained. They were the link between the kitchen and the customer, the human face of hospitality. Today, instead, a waiter sells. But not like a skilled salesperson, trained and rewarded. They sell without even knowing it — or worse, because someone told them to — with no commission, no bonus, and not even a thank you.
The new company mantra, whispered during pre-shift briefings by someone who just finished reading a marketing handbook — or more likely, an Instagram story on how to boost sales in 10 easy steps — goes something like this: “You’re not here just to serve, you’re here to sell.” And off we go with the forced up-selling: push that second course, offer the premium water, suggest the most expensive wine — even if you don’t believe in it, even if you know the guest just came here to eat.
All of this, of course, without any real tools. No sales training, no shared strategy, no genuine involvement. Just a top-down order, often from someone who hasn’t set foot in the dining room in years. And so, while the chef basks in glory (and maybe a quarter-end bonus), you’re left trying to convince table twelve to get an extra appetizer — only to hear they’re “not that hungry.” The result? Not only are you not rewarded — you’re blamed if you don’t sell. And if you dare ask for an incentive, you’re hit with the usual company slogan: “We’re a team here.” Sure. Except in this team, someone scores the goals, and someone else chases the ball — for free.
Sell, but for free
In every other industry, selling means earning. Commissions, bonuses, performance-based rewards, incentives to hit targets. Sell a car? You get a cut. Sell a travel package? You have your margin. Sell a subscription? Here comes your bonus. But in the dining room? None of that.
You got the guest to order a €90 bottle of wine? Good job. Your reward is… personal satisfaction. And maybe, if you’re lucky, a pat on the back from the manager — who’ll still ask you to clear the table quickly because it needs turning over.
There’s no line on your paycheck that reflects what you’ve brought into the business. No structured recognition system, no shared results. In fact, sometimes your only “reward” is being tasked with training the new hire — the one making the same wage as you but who’s never heard of fermentation, tannins, or dry aging. The waiter thus becomes an unpaid salesman, a food consultant, a kitchen storyteller working on commission… for someone else. And if you dare raise the issue, you’re told “that’s your job.” As if “job” were just a synonym for “shut up and hustle — you’re lucky you’re even getting paid.”
To Sell or to Serve?
At some point, the problem isn’t just economic — it’s human. Because sure, you might even accept the idea of selling, if only you were treated like a salesperson. But here, you’re expected to do emotional marketing while running from table to table, hands full, a smile glued to your face, and feet screaming in pain. You have to “tell the story of the dish,” even if the chef changed it five minutes ago without saying a word. You’re supposed to make every suggestion sound spontaneous, every recommendation feel sincere — even when it’s yet another directive from the manager, worried about food cost and average ticket size.
The result? A subtle kind of professional schizophrenia. On one hand, you’re expected to be a knowledgeable consultant, able to guide the guest toward a memorable experience. On the other, you’re treated like a basic executor, tasked with selling more covers, more desserts, more margin.
But be careful: the guest is not stupid. If they sense you’re “pushing” something, they tense up. They shut down. They smell a trap. And that’s where the relationship cracks: you’re no longer the friendly ally creating a great moment — you’re just another smiling salesperson, on payroll.
And for those who chose to work in hospitality, that’s a small daily betrayal. In the dining room, trust is everything. But if you’re selling on command, without truly believing in it, that trust becomes a bargaining chip. And you become a caricature of the professional you want to be.
Training? Better rely on gut feeling. Or survival instinct.
“You need to do more up-selling.”
“You need to present the dishes better.”
“You need to highlight the wine list.”
Perfect. But how, exactly? With what tools, what preparation, what support?
Often, the answer is a classic of the restaurant industry: absolutely nothing. No course, no updated spec sheets, no tasting sessions, no real discussions. At best, a rushed briefing before service, between a quick coffee and a scolding for a wrinkled uniform.
The waiter is expected to sell like a pro — but with the tools of an amateur. Depending on charisma, small talk, and the old trick of “this is the chef’s recommendation today” — even if the chef gives you a death stare for saying it.
And if you ask for some ongoing training, they say there’s no time, that service comes first, that you learn by doing — the infamous training on the job. “Working the floor is like going to school,” they say. True. But in a proper school, at least you have teachers, materials, a method. Here, there’s only chaos, and the expectation that you float in it with a smile. So you go on fumbling, improvising, wasting potential. And every time a colleague quits, someone shrugs and says: “They just weren’t cut out for it.” No. Maybe they just weren’t supported.
America vs Europe: Same Smiles, Different Fates
In the United States, waiters absolutely sell — but there’s a small difference: it pays off. Thanks to the tip-based system, front-of-house staff have every reason to increase the bill, and they do it with a certain pride. More than that: selling is an integral part of the job, taught, practiced, and often incentivized with bonuses and prizes. In mid- to high-end restaurants, a skilled waiter can earn more than an office worker — and no one bats an eye. It’s a career, not a fallback option.
In Europe — especially Southern Europe — the situation is, let’s say, a bit more creative. Here too, staff are expected to upsell, suggest, highlight. But there’s no compensation structure to match these demands. Tips are sporadic, sometimes shared, sometimes swallowed up by murky systems. Wages are fixed, often modest, and disconnected from any kind of performance. The only real “reward”? Maybe… an early close if the night goes well.
The difference? In the U.S., the more you sell, the more you earn. In Europe, you often sell on someone else’s behalf, while staying stuck at square one — and are expected to be grateful for the “opportunity to grow.” Selling itself is not the issue. The problem is doing it within a system that takes without giving, that demands passion, training, and flexibility — but offers nothing in return.
Another Path Is Possible (But It Needs to Be Paid)
The point is not to stop selling. A well-trained, passionate waiter sells naturally. They describe a wine, suggest a special, design a personalized experience like a tailor fitting a suit. They do it because they know the product, they believe in it, and they understand that selling is part of hospitality. But all of this only works if there’s real recognition behind it — not just a vague “good job” at the end of the shift, when you’re lucky.
Want front-of-house staff to improve sales? Great. Then you need clear incentives, ongoing training, and genuine engagement. You need to treat those who work the floor as professionals, not just multitasking operators to squeeze dry and forget. What’s needed — let’s say it — is to redistribute value. Including economic value.
Because if the average ticket rises thanks to the dining room, then it’s only fair that part of the margin goes to those who did that invisible but essential work. And if a restaurant thrives because there’s a waiter who can build relationships, retain customers, and give meaning to the whole experience — then maybe it’s time to stop calling them just a “waiter,” and start calling them what they truly are: a pillar of the restaurant. And, maybe, pay them accordingly.