A British waiter would have been sulky all the afternoon.
The waiter who insists upon mistaking you for the heir of all the Rothschilds used to cost me dear when I was younger.

I find the best plan is to take him in hand at the beginning and disillusion him; sweep aside his talk of '84 Perrier Jouet, followed by a '79 Chateau Lafite, and ask him, as man to man, if he can conscientiously recommend the Saint Julien at two-and-six.

After that he settles down to his work and talks sense.
The fatherly waiter is sometimes a comfort.

You feel that he knows best.
Your instinct is to address him as "Uncle." But you remember yourself in time.

When you are dining a lady, however, and wish to appear important, he is apt to be in the way.