Last evening, at a neighborhood restaurant, I had a splendid meal, and not the least splendid thing about it was our waiter. He efficiently answered questions about the menu. He refilled our wine glasses at precisely the right moment. He paced delivery of courses—drinks, salad, entree, coffee—at the perfect length. He was cordial without lapsing into familiarity. Middle-aged, knowledgeable about the dishes on offer, reserved, he never came to the table to ask if everything was all right, having already made sure it was. At the meal’s end he set down the check and quietly disappeared. When he picked it up, he thanked us for coming to the restaurant. Perfecto, the entire performance, and much appreciated by all of us at the table.

Mastery of any job is always impressive, but mastery of the job of waiter in our time is less and less in evidence. More and more waiters and waitresses—”servers,” in the politically correct term—are young people just passing through until something better turns up. When you summon a waiter to your table in New York, the joke is, you call out “Actor.” In Los Angeles, when a young person tells you he or she is a actor, you ask, “At what restaurant?”