Prefer to read this in Spanish? You can find the full Spanish version here
"What an idiot!" I heard them say behind my back as I carried plates to the kitchen with one hand.
I had just arrived in London. Year 2000. My first job. A Cypriot restaurant in Muswell Hill. My waiting skills were legendary — from bringing a customer their coat when they had asked for a Coke, to confusing the bill with a beer, my early days looked like an over-the-top episode of Fawlty Towers.
But the restaurant owner — a spoiled young son of Cypriots with a permanent deer-in-headlights expression — and his Yemeni cook (who made a hummus to die for) found me amusing. Their favourite sport was sitting back to watch my next disaster, laugh at me, and threaten to fire me.
They never did. I think it would have deprived them of the best entertainment of their shift. And since customers showed patience and sympathy towards me, I probably never cost them any money.
That particular night my belt had broken, so I was doing the one-armed waiter routine — one hand working, the other holding up my trousers. "What an idiot," I heard them say, pointing at me and laughing from the kitchen.
Months later, after passing my English qualification, I landed my first office job at Pearson. And I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my first pay cheque.
I booked a table at the restaurant — Bar Mezé — and went alone to order the star of the menu: the King Prawns. I wanted to rub my success in the faces of those who had looked down on me. The "idiot" was back to show them what they had failed to see. I went to savour their reaction.
And sure enough, my plan worked. They came over to greet me. I could see the admiration, the completely different way they treated me. However, it did not give me the satisfaction I expected. In fact, it made me sad. Not for them — for me. For the importance I had placed, for months, on the opinion of people who held no value and no relevance in my life.
At the same time, the waiters came to say hello too as did the manager who had guided and protected me. The colleagues who were genuinely happy to see me doing well. All those people who had helped me during those months without asking for anything in return — out of nothing more than camaraderie and basic human decency.
I had focused on impressing Deer-in-headlights and his sidekick, and forgotten about the people who actually deserved my respect and friendship. That night I waited for them to finish their shift and bought them a round at Café Loco — the place we always went after work. Now that I enjoyed.
But this doesn't only happen in restaurants. How much time have you spent in the past year trying to figure out who screwed up? How much time justifying that it wasn't you? Digging through your deleted folder for the email that proves it was Robert from accounting? Or the message that shows Sandra from HR asked you to do it?
How much time do we spend collecting evidence that we are not inadequate, that the mistake was someone else's? How much do we need to prove our worth — and to whom, exactly?
Ego is one of the biggest opportunity costs in any company. It is extraordinarily expensive. And here is the best part: 95% of the time, nobody cares except you. The problem remains unsolved, but at least we know who caused it. What a relief.
The people who truly matter don't need you to impress them. They already see you — even when you don't see them.
Drop the ego.
It is a waste of time trying to impress a boss, a Cypriot with a deer-in-headlights face, or a client who treats you badly. Do your work and enjoy those people who quietly have your back — and who will still be around long after you have moved on.
So — are you ordering King Prawns to impress the wrong people, or are you at Café Loco with the right ones?
I'm listening,
Santi
Learn more about me and what I offer on www.santirva.com