The Lost Art of Hospitality

I still remember this woman. She came into T.G.I. Fridays one night, just before the shift change. Alone. Tired. I greeted her like I would anyone. A smile and a sincere welcome. 

“Rough night?” I asked. She gave a faint smile and nodded. I offered her a seat, poured her a drink, and brought out exactly what she ordered from the kitchen. I didn’t think much of it. 

But when I placed the food in front of her, she paused. Then she said, “You’re the first person who’s been kind to me all day.” And she started to cry. 

That moment has stayed with me. Not because I did anything extraordinary, but because it reminded me how powerful the smallest gestures can be. A seat. A smile. A little warmth. That is hospitality. Not the design of the menu or the angle of the garnish. It's the feeling someone walks away with. And these days, it feels like that’s slipping through our fingers.

Hospitality in America is fractured. You still catch glimpses of it, but the foundation is cracked. In some places, the service is technically perfect but emotionally vacant. In others, it’s inconsistent. One night feels warm, the next feels like nobody showed up to care. There are places where the hospitality is so stripped down, it barely exists. You order on a screen. You seat yourself. You bus your own table. There’s no human thread left. 

I’ve worked in this industry long enough to recognize that the problem isn’t the people. It’s the structure. Teams are overworked. Owners are under pressure. Guests are more demanding. Somewhere along the way, the experience turned into a transaction. We stopped hosting and started processing. 

There was a time when hospitality felt sacred. I’ve seen it and lived it. It wasn’t about perfection or polish. It was about presence. You knew your guests, you remembered their stories, and you delivered their experience with care. 

I’ll never forget one of my first real tests behind the bar at a high end mixology spot. I was brand new and it was one of the busiest nights of the year. They dropped me into the service bar — the part of the bar that makes all the drinks for the servers, but in this case, was also connected to the guest-facing side. So now I had a full restaurant’s worth of drink tickets and 10 people sitting at the bar in front of me, watching it all unfold. 

I made at least half the drinks wrong that night. Probably more. 

But I smiled through every order. I checked in on the guests. I kept it light with the servers. I made it fun, even when I was drowning. And somehow, people felt that. The guests in front of me didn’t get annoyed. They leaned in and became part of the moment. They watched me hustle, laughed with me, stayed longer than they planned to. 

At the end of the shift, the servers were high-fiving me and the guests were thanking me. I didn’t hit the recipes, but I hit something more important. I made people feel good. That’s hospitality.

Hospitality didn’t fall apart all at once. It faded. 

First, we chased speed. Faster ticket times, faster turns. Then came the tablets, the QR codes, the text-to-order. Somewhere in there, the pandemic hit, and the burnout got real. Teams collapsed. The ones who stayed carried the weight. And some guests — not all, but some — became more impatient, more entitled, and less generous. 

Even the high-end spots started to lose their way. You might get a beautiful plate, a flawless drink, and never once feel like someone actually saw you. 

There are places out there where good hospitality still exists, and I’ve been lucky enough to sit in their chairs. In Chicago, I had dinner at Omakase Yume. Just eight seats at a sushi counter in the West Loop. Michelin-starred, yes, but that’s not what stood out. It was Chef Sangtae Park. He greeted every guest personally, talked to us like we were old friends, told stories about the rice, the fish, the journey. Nothing felt scripted or forced. It was the kind of attention you can’t fake. The kind that makes you feel like you’re home, even if you’ve never been there before. 

In Nashville, I wandered into Santa’s Pub. I didn’t expect much — it’s a trailer covered in Christmas lights with a cash-only bar and karaoke every night. But the second I walked in, the energy changed. Everyone was in the same rhythm. The bartender smiled and slid me a beer without asking too many questions. The regulars were singing off-key and nobody cared. I stayed for three hours. Not because of the drinks, but because of the way it felt to be there.

These places may not have the flash. Sometimes the service is slow or the drinks are simple. But they understand something deeper: Guests are not just customers, they’re part of the fabric of the restaurant.

The spots that still do it right often come with trade-offs. Small towns. Independent ownership. Tight staffing. Sometimes the cocktails are basic. Sometimes the food takes longer. But what you gain is a feeling that someone truly gives a damn about your experience. 

Meanwhile, the high-efficiency places might look perfect with their polished glassware and curated playlists. But there’s no real pulse there. You walk in, get served, and walk out unchanged. 

We’ve traded connection for convenience and we’re feeling the cost.

I’ve been in this business for a long time. I’ve opened bars, trained teams, and worked with some of the best in the world. And here’s what I know: hospitality is one of the last places in our culture where strangers still look each other in the eye and say, "You're good, I’ve got you." 

That matters, now more than ever. 

I value hospitality because it brings people together. Not online or through filters. But face to face. It’s real, it’s immediate. It’s human. 

I said this recently on a podcast and I meant every word. In the word heart, there’s art. Hospitality is both. It’s a craft. It’s a rhythm. It’s knowing when to speak and when to listen. When to step in and when to step back. It’s not just a job, it’s a form of care. 

We live in a world moving faster every day. More tech. Less touch. Hospitality is what pulls us back to each other. It teaches empathy. It invites us to slow down and show up. 

That woman from Fridays? I don’t remember what I served her. But I remember the way she softened. The way she needed that moment. That’s what we’re protecting. That’s what’s at stake.

I’m not saying every place has to go back in time or that we should throw out all the progress. But I am saying we need to remember why we do this. 

If you work in this business, you have a chance every day to create something meaningful. It doesn’t take much. Just show up with presence. Stay open. Stay human. And if you’re a guest, bring your own hospitality with you. Be kind. Be patient. Say thank you. We’re all in this together. 

Hospitality isn’t dead, but it’s waiting to be remembered