Someone thinks we're special

There is a waiter at our local Bob Evans restaurant named Jeff. He is 50-ish, slim, not tall, is married, has worked there a long time, and waiting tables at Bob Evans seems to be his only occupation.

He is friendly and efficient, willing to suggest a slightly different menu combination to save the patron money and magically appearing at just the right time to take an order, bring a drink refill, or remove dirty dishes. He will engage in innocuous conversation about, say, the weather, but he doesn't hover.

Jeff provides good service to all customers, but he definitely has his favorites who warrant special attention. My wife and I have become members of this group.

After one particularly enjoyable meal served by him, my wife left Jeff a sizable tip along with a short note of thanks that she signed, "Judy and Jan." The next time we went there and were seated in Jeff's section, he called us by name as he approached. When we asked him how he remembered our names, he replied that he had taped the note to the inside of his locker.

When preparing those menu items for which the wait staff is responsible, Jeff is generous -- the salad is huge, the soup about overflows its cup, and the specialty bread is cut thickly. If she asks for a take-out container for the uneaten slab of toffee almond bread, the little styrofoam box Jeff brings to the table will have another slice already inside.

And then there is the matter of the drinking straws. Whereas others are given Bob Evans' standard clear plastic straw in the white paper wrapper, for his special customers Jeff pulls from his apron an array of straws encased in clear plastic so their bright colors can be seen and from which we are to choose our favorite. (Blue for her, purple for me.).

Obviously being good tipper will reap benefits at Bob Evans. If Jeff waits on you.