Sunday. Evening. Restaurant talk.

When the waiter launched into his third coughing fit, I was already halfway out the door of the lunch place. The food hadn’t even arrived yet, but I could tell my friend wasn’t comfortable either.

Why didn’t the waiter step outside for some fresh air – or at least duck into the dish room – instead of coughing his lungs out right before serving our lunch?

Apparently, he didn’t get the memo about my becoming squeamish with age. These days, I genuinely feel nauseous when strangers cough or blow their noses near me – or worst of all – clear their throats so you can actually hear the phlegm floating around at way too close range.

I’ve even reached the point where I turn away when someone barfs in a movie. I do have a friend, though, who you can’t even mention stuff like that to without triggering a sequence of dry heaves.

The restaurant business has changed a lot since I worked as a bartender, DJ, and waiter more than 30 years ago. Not surprising. A lot has changed. Not least myself.

Most restaurants I’ve eaten at in Malmö in recent years have been more or less meh. Sure, the staff do their jobs and the food is often decent – but there’s no presence, no pride, no pizazz, no genuine joy. It’s all mechanical and transactional.

At least until it’s time to tap your card and you’re encouraged to tip 5, 10, 15, or 20 percent for a mediocre meal carried from the kitchen to my table by a charmless individual over the course of about 30 seconds.

Because that’s when these zombie servers suddenly come alive – smiling broadly, turning on the flattery, yet still with an attitude. As if they want me to feel grateful for the privilege of spending the last of my cash there.

Contradictorily, I usually still leave a 5% tip, even though I’m not entirely sure why. Probably some warped sense of solidarity I still feel toward strangers working in a business I once made my living in.

Sometimes I wonder if Swedish restaurateurs, like their American counterparts, are quietly shifting part of their staff’s wage costs onto us guests. We truly live in a shameless age.

During my ten years in the business, it was almost all cash. So simple and smooth. Sure, some people had bank cards, and occasionally a yuppie would flash a silver or gold Amex.

I remember once serving a beer to a guy whose last name was Cash, who carried a Platinum Amex rumored to have no spending limit. Ironically, Mr. Cash never paid with cash.

Back to tipping.

In those days, when a large beer cost 48 Swedish kronor, nine times out of ten you’d get two kronor as a tip. Mostly because the guest didn’t want to stuff the loose change back into their pocket. But maybe also because you’d actually made an effort and been kind from order to bill.

I remember working on the wobbly canal boat Åtta Glas in Göteborg in the early 1990s, where they served fillet mignon Black & White and a large beer for 95 kronor.

There, tips were always rounded up, and we pooled them among everyone working that shift – cooks, servers, dishwashers, and us behind the bar. I worked there with brother Nick, and for some reason, most of the patrons were British construction workers.

After a long day and night (a 15 hour shift) at Åtta Glas, I could often step ashore with a thousand kronor cash in my pocket. And how much of that did I save? Exactly. Zero.

Looking back, I realize how lucky I was working in hotels and restaurants in the 1980s and early 1990s. It helped finance my vague artistic ambitions, and it gave me the chance to work with solid role models: Mannerström at Johanna, Lenta at Munken, Alexandra Charles at Änkan, Nolle at Hotel Riksgränsen, Ulf and Lalle Johansson at Lionis in Gothenburg.

Later in life, I’ve worked with many excellent restaurateurs and hoteliers, too – though then in a creative capacity.

But when I was younger, I was a dedicated seasonal worker, hopping from place to place like a restless butterfly, soaking up everything I could learn before moving on.

I learned something from everyone I worked for or with. Above all, I learned that guests should leave a restaurant full, happy, and inclined to come back – and to tell others about their good dining experience.

For me, the restaurateur’s presence has always mattered more than what they decided to name their place. They’re the star, the ringmaster, and the air-traffic controller all in one.

Their aura should figuratively flutter over the dining room – not just infuse what comes out of the kitchen, but everyone who works there. I’ve always felt that meeting the owner adds something extra to the visit.

I wrapped up my long, winding restaurant career by working as a lecturer at an international vocational college for the hospitality industry, GIHC in Gothenburg (thank you, Lars Olemyr).

Now, as a guest, consistency is what matters most to me. Wherever we travel, I want to quickly find a solid restaurant that reliably delivers good food every time. We have a couple in Malmö, and in most places where we’ve stayed for longer periods.

If I have a positive first experience, I’m happy to return with the expectation that it’ll be at least as good the next time. If it is, I’m hooked.

A restaurant in Athens we tried in early February last year offered us a shot of raki before dinner. Did we go back? Four times in three weeks. Not because of the booze, but because of the gesture. The food was fantastic, too. I’ve loved Greek cuisine ever since my first Interrail trip to Corfu in 1983.

It’s amazing how simple it can be to surprise a guest with a small but noticeable gesture.

This last Saturday evening, Mrs. Raboff and I went out to eat at a simple neighborhood place we’ve enjoyed seven or eight times over the past year.

I chose what turned out to be a heavenly lamb loin with a crispy, creamy gratin. Charlotte had a lovely mushroom risotto.

Shortly before the food arrived, the owner came by to say hello, exchange a few words, and wish us a pleasant meal. When the waitress served our dishes a few minutes later, with a genuine smile and wishing we enjoyed our choices, the intro to Peg by Steely Dan came on.

The restaurant’s playlist was curated, not random. Someone – maybe the owner himself, about my age – had taken the time to put together a thoughtful playlist.

A whole string of songs followed that anyone with halfway decent music taste would appreciate hearing quietly in the background while enjoying dinner and a couple of hours away from everyday obligations.

Aside from my belief that cheese has no place in a classic gratin, we left the restaurant satisfied, full, and ready to return sometime soon.

The lunch place I mentioned at the start, however, I don’t think I’ll ever visit again. Not really because the waiter coughed so much, but because he didn’t realize that it’s simply not okay for a server to repeatedly cough in a dining room.

In my world, that behavior says more about the person who hired him than about the cougher himself.

I’ve long realized that most “restaurateurs” lack a genuine interest in serving good food and making guests feel that their hard-earned money is well spent.

Most restaurant owners have clearly identified that people occasionally need to eat out and have grasped an opportunity to make money from this need. Any real interest in cooking is moderate at best – if it exists at all.

And that’s fine, at least when we’re talking about pizzerias, hot-dog stands, burger joints, or a falafel place. Expectations are adjusted accordingly.

At 62.5, I’ve probably eaten at more than 4,000 different restaurants (100 per year for 40 years) in nearly 70 countries. Probably more than that.

And I did spend ten years working in restaurants. So it doesn’t take long for me to tell a good place from a bad one. I see it in the staff’s jargon, the interior, how the menu presents the food, and how my reasonably well-trained taste buds react to the first bite.

Often, it’s obvious that the owner sees guests as a necessary evil and staff as a cost. When the environment screams poor judgment and the servers lack humility or have a cocky attitude, I know deeper problems are simmering.

Yes, I’ve probably become something of a snob when it comes to restaurants. I have neither the time nor the patience, and I definitely don’t want to spend my money on places where “not good, but expensive” is the unwritten tagline.

The above image was taken by someone, sometime in the summer of 1989, somewhere on an island in Lofoten, Norway.

Go Greenland, go!!!