Digital feedback for human interactions
5 restaurants, 5 feedback prompts, and 5 apologetic servers over 48 hours in New York City
After deplaning in Newark on Saturday evening, I raced to my old Brooklyn neighborhood to meet my best friends for dinner. I’d booked our table on Resy weeks before, looking forward to a long dinner at a neighborhood spot with good vibes and great reviews. After greetings and hugs on arrival, we were seated in the back corner with a view of the tiny but loud dining room. We spent two hours, three rounds of drinks, and a couple burgers laughing and catching up. It was perfect.
At the end of the meal, we asked to split the bill three ways. “No problem,” said our server, running the first of three credit cards through a handheld device from point-of-sale and payments company Toast, then handing it to my friend for tip and signature.
“Ugh, I hate these!” my friend announced, glaring at the bright screen in front of her.
I looked over her shoulder to see a prompt. How did we do? it asked, offering the choice between a retro, Facebook-esque thumbs up or thumbs down.
“Oh please don’t worry about that,” the server said apologetically, reaching for the device. “Just tap ‘skip.’”
By the time it was my turn to pay, we’d already spent more time discussing the intrusive prompts than tapping to dismiss them. It was my first run-in with the Toast satisfaction survey, but it wouldn’t be my last.
“Everyone hates it,” the server said, dropping it back into the pocket of their apron and turning away.
We stepped outside and my phone pinged with a notification from Resy: Thanks for dining! it said. The restaurant wants your feedback.
Really?
According to Toast’s research, under a quarter of restaurants reach out directly to guests who choose to give feedback.
It’s a surprising stat, especially given how many times I’ve heard (and probably repeated) the importance of responding to reviews — positive and negative — as a way to boost guest engagement.
Toast’s sales website promotes its handheld feedback feature as a way to gain insight into what guests love and how you can improve. Its help pages for restaurants sell it as a way to address negative experiences before disgruntled guests air their frustrations on Yelp. (Both are correct, of course.)
The tech itself is customizable for restaurant managers. Prompts can be disabled or tweaked; they can receive real-time notifications for reviews — or just the negative ones. Guests can share contact info if they choose; restaurants can engage post-meal. It’s a “talk to the manager” experience without having to talk to the manager; a powerful tool and prime example of using tech to deepen the guest relationship. But it felt very different in practice.
Then, it happened again.
At a solo dinner on Sunday evening, an apologetic server once again offered to take the handheld out of my hand when the thumbs-up screen showed up. I obliged, though was happy to tell her, with words, in person, that I had a lovely time.
By Monday, I finally felt ready to declare the prompts ubiquitous and intrusive. I sat with a friend for an hour, enjoying swanky cocktails1 in a gorgeous space decked out with impeccable lighting and furniture clearly designed to look beautiful, perfect even, in Instagram photos. The service was hushed, kind, and attentive. It was a delight… capped by a clunky tech intrusion.
I once again tapped through the now familiar payment flow, my eyes adjusting to a harsh screen from the soft and warm glow.
“Just push ‘skip,’” our server said, reaching again for the device. “And sorry about the bright light. We can’t turn it down.”
ed. note: Good news for my fellow elder millennials, cosmopolitans are back on cocktail menus!