6 restaurant red flags that reveal someone wasn’t raised with manners

We learn a lot about people when there’s a menu on the table and a server by our side.

Food brings comfort, stories, and choices. It also reveals habits that don’t show up on a Zoom call or a curated feed.

As someone who spends a fair amount of life in restaurants—post-run breakfasts, work lunches, and the occasional date night—I’ve noticed a pattern.

Certain behaviors are tiny, but they shout.

I don’t expect anyone to be perfect.

Nerves happen—so do off days—but these six red flags consistently show a lack of consideration, and they’re fixable if we’re willing to look in the mirror:

1) Talking down to staff

How someone speaks to a server says more than any résumé ever could.

Do they snap their fingers? Do they call out “hey!” across the room like they’re summoning a pet, or do they ignore the person who greeted them and start issuing orders?

That’s not confidence; that’s entitlement.

When I left finance and started writing, I grabbed a part-time gig at a neighborhood café. It taught me more about character than spreadsheets ever did.

The folks who said “please” and “thank you,” who glanced up to make eye contact, who asked how our morning was going—they stood out.

The ones who treated us like background props did, too.

Some people blame “standards.” They’ll say, “I’m just particular.”

There’s a huge difference between being clear and being cruel.

You can send back an undercooked dish without sending someone home in tears.

If you catch yourself with a sharp tone, pause.

Try one line: “Excuse me, when you have a moment…”

It signals respect for someone else’s time and labor.

Manners aren’t about showing off; they’re about showing care.

2) Making everything a special request—without compassion

Yes, I’m vegan. I know my way around modifications.

But there’s a respectful way to ask for what you need and a bulldozer way.

The respectful way sounds like, “Would it be possible to swap the feta for avocado?”

On the other hand, the bulldozer way sounds like, “Take everything off. No, not like that. Like this,” followed by a sigh when the kitchen is busy.

I once had dinner with a guy who treated the menu like a suggestion and the chef like his personal assistant.

Eight changes later, he sent the plate back because “it didn’t taste right.”

What didn’t taste right was the attitude.

Need accommodations? Totally fair as allergies and values matter.

However, lead with empathy.

Check the menu online, and ask the server, “What does the kitchen recommend for dairy-free?”

If the answer is “not much,” be gracious—and maybe choose a different spot next time.

Your goal is to collaborate, not control. That shift alone turns a minefield into a conversation.

3) Being glued to the phone

We don’t need to banish phones to the car’s glove compartment.

I use mine to pay, split bills, and text someone I’m running late—but there’s a difference between using a tool and making everyone else at the table compete with it.

If your screen is face-up on the table and lighting up like a slot machine, you’re not really there.

When you take calls at the table—speakerphone, really?—you’re telling your dining companions and the surrounding tables that their experience is optional.

I ask myself a simple question: “If I were the other person, would I feel prioritized right now?”

Most of the time, the answer nudges me to flip my phone over or slide it into my bag.

I’ll even say, “I’m expecting a call from my contractor—mind if I step out for a minute if it comes through?”

Setting that expectation upfront keeps it from feeling like a sudden disappearance.

Presence is a habit, so is distraction.

One feeds connection; the other starves it.

Which do you want to practice?

4) Treating shared spaces like personal property

Restaurants aren’t living rooms; they’re shared ecosystems where dozens of people are trying to have a good time in limited square footage.

Some quick tells that someone missed the memo: Blasting videos with no headphones in the waiting area, letting children sprint through aisles while servers carry trays, sprawling bags and jackets across neighboring chairs, or rearranging furniture without asking.

I’ve done my share of long runs that end in a ravenous brunch.

I’m tempted to spread out like a starfish too, but I remind myself that my comfort shouldn’t cost someone else theirs.

If you need something—an extra chair, a quiet corner, space for a stroller—ask.

Most staff will move mountains to help if they’re asked with kindness.

If the answer has to be no, accept it without making the host feel like they ruined your week.

Respect for shared space shows up in smaller moments, too: Pushing your chair in when you stand, keeping your voice at a conversational level, and walking empty plates to the edge of the table so the server can safely clear them.

None of that requires an etiquette manual—it just requires noticing that other people exist.

5) Making a mess and assuming someone else will deal with it

This one’s not glamorous, but it’s telling.

Spilled water happens, breadcrumb avalanches happen, and napkins migrate.

The problem isn’t the mess; it’s the attitude that follows.

Does the person pretend it didn’t happen and let puddles inch toward the next table, or do they catch the server’s eye and say, “We had a spill—could we get a towel?”

A small effort to tidy the space you used is a big signal of how you operate in the world.

I’m not suggesting you buss the table but stacking plates neatly, corralling straw wrappers, and not leaving a craft-project’s worth of shredded napkin confetti behind is basic courtesy.

I once watched a couple leave after what looked like a DIY tasting menu.

Four sauces, multiple share plates, and a battlefield of lemon wedges remained.

The server surveyed the wreckage and whispered, “We close in ten minutes.”

That scene sticks with me because it was so avoidable: Two minutes of mindful cleanup, a sincere “thank you,” and the night could have ended lighter for everyone.

How we do anything is how we do everything.

If you treat a table like a temporary dumpster, chances are that disregard spills elsewhere.

6) Making money the main character

Money matters.

I spent years in finance; I respect a budget and a bottom line.

However, when the check becomes a performance, manners leave the building.

Watch for three moves:

• Nickel-and-diming the server over prices printed on the menu, as if they personally set them.
• Interrogating the tip line like it’s a moral referendum while announcing, “They didn’t do much anyway.”
• Turning the split into a courtroom drama: “You had a bite of my fries, so that’s $1.25.”

None of these are about fiscal responsibility as they’re about control and scorekeeping.

There’s a graceful way to handle money at the table. If you’re watching costs, say so before orders fly: “I’m keeping it low-key tonight—mind if we each handle our own?”

If you can treat, treat without strings; if someone else treats, receive without guilt.

Unless the service was truly disrespectful (rare), tipping generously is less about calculation and more about recognizing the invisible labor that made your night possible.

Truthfully speaking, there is no shame in ordering only what you can afford.

The courtesy is doing it without shaming others for their choices—and without camping at a table for hours on one glass.

Manners over meals

Manners are about choosing respect in real time.

They turn a meal into hospitality, a transaction into a shared moment.

They’re quiet, but they restore the room.

Next time you sit down to eat, ask yourself: What story am I telling with my choices? Am I making this easier or harder for the humans around me? Am I leaving the space better than I found it?

If the answers trend toward kindness, you’re practicing the kind of everyday leadership our world is starving for.