Hospitality's Greatest Hits Are Never Scripted

I’ve always loved pop music from the 1970s and 80s. Not just liked – loved. As a kid, my friends could have a song playing in the background and barely noticed it, but I couldn’t do that. I had to know the words, sing along, and feel every line. Pop music has never been just wallpaper for me; it’s the whole damn house.

Even now as an adult, I can’t listen to these tunes while I’m trying to work because I will get nothing done. My brain just won’t let me treat it as background noise. If you try to talk to me while “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around” is playing, for example, I’m sorry, but I will not hear a single thing you say. Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty will take precedence over you and your meaningless words every time.

Now, while there are hundreds of songs that were popular when I was growing up, this time of year there’s one that I tend to hear more than many others: Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Auld Lang Syne.” Released in late 1980, it tells the story of the singer running into an old college girlfriend in a grocery store on Christmas Eve. They end up sitting in her car, sharing a drink, talking about their lives, and for a short time, they slip into the warmth of what used to be. Then, after they part ways and she drives off, he sings, “Just for a moment, I was back at school.”

And right after he says that line, there’s this pause. And the pause…well, it’s magical. It gives you a chance to breathe, to remember, and to let your own memories fill in the silence – people you knew, places you’ve been, and lives you once imagined. It’s not just about lost love, but it’s also about time, and how sometimes a single encounter can make the years between then and now feel paper-thin.

When I get to that part in the song, my mind always drifts back to being with my own friends at college – playing Joust on the Atari way past midnight, driving to the Viking Twin to see a movie, or walking the Birnam Wood Trail to the Western Washington University campus. None of those experiences felt extraordinary while happening, yet they stayed with me. And if they stayed with me, I imagine they stayed with my friends, too. It’s a funny thing about these connections: they weren’t practiced or expected, and they seemed so ordinary at first, but they are the ones that last the longest. The simple, unplanned memories that quietly take root and resurface years later, sparked by a song or a scent or a familiar face, reminding me that what felt ordinary was anything but.

What strikes me now is how those small, unassuming moments resemble the experiences we should be aiming to deliver in hospitality. Most of the actions we take in our hotels and restaurants aren’t designed to last forever: a greeting at the counter or front desk, a quick refill, a brief laugh shared over a mix-up. But sometimes, one of them will land just right. It will stay with a guest, maybe for reasons we’ll never know, and become a memory they carry forward.

That, to me, is the heart of our industry. We operate in a world of systems, checklists, and metrics, but the real power exists in the unscripted spaces between the steps. It's the same kind of space Fogelberg leaves in that song: a breath where emotion fills what can't be measured. Our role as leaders is to help our teams recognize that those instances aren't wasted time, but rather they are where genuine connection happens.

So what does this mean for those of us who train teams? How do we help our people create those unmeasurable moments that become someone's "Same Auld Lang Syne?”

I think it starts with understanding that we can't manufacture these experiences, but we can foster two qualities that make them possible: presence and sincerity.

Presence is about teaching our teams to slow down enough to really see people, even when the pace demands otherwise. I know what you're thinking: "We don't have time for pauses. We're slammed!" But that's exactly when presence matters most. A guest doesn't remember that you were busy; they remember whether you made them feel invisible or seen.

In training, this means moving beyond the transactional steps of service and helping staff members tune into the person in front of them. You might consider asking questions like, "What did you notice about that guest's mood?" or "Was there anything in their body language that told you something?" You could also practice scenarios where employees must balance efficiency with attention and show them that they can transform an interaction with a five-second pause to make eye contact, to really hear what a guest is asking, or to offer a genuine smile. And here's the key: it's not about slowing down service; it’s about being fully present in that brief exchange. That's how we teach the kind of hospitality that gets remembered.

Sincerity is even harder to teach because genuine care can’t be faked, and too often we get in our own way by over-scripting everything. In our zealousness to deliver ‘perfect’ experiences, we give employees exact phrases to say and precise steps to follow, and then we wonder why interactions feel robotic. We train new hires to memorize procedures and not mess up, adding pressure to perform flawlessly, and sometimes force them to do so using a personality that isn't theirs. The result? Team members who burn out fast, and guests who sense the artificiality immediately. When everything is scripted, there's no room for the authentic human connection that makes hospitality memorable.

What should we do instead? Simple – give employees the permission to be human at work. Teach the ‘why’ behind our standards rather than just the ‘what,’ and then trust our teams to honor that intent in their own way. We should make it clear from day one that we didn't hire them to become someone else; we hired them because of who they already are. When we trust people to bring their humor, their empathy, and their own style of making people feel comfortable, that's when their sincerity will emerge naturally, and that's when they can really start connecting with the guests.

The real legacy of what we do will never be found in the data or the dashboards, and it won’t be found in the charts or the checklists. It lives in the guests’ memories that echo long after the moment has passed, like a chorus that keeps playing in your mind after a song ends.

So the next time you’re training someone, ask yourself: am I just teaching them to complete tasks, or am I also teaching them to be present and sincere and to create something memorable? Because five or ten years from now, I don’t care if Ivar’s guests recall if their transaction took two minutes or three, but I would love it if they could remember how it felt. Perhaps when the smell of fried clams drifts by on a summer evening, I hope they’ll reminisce about their favorite cashier who always had the extra tartar sauce ready without being asked, or the host who remembered their favorite booth by the window and happily saved it for them. That’s hospitality’s real encore.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think Stevie and Tom are singing again, and you know how I feel about ignoring them.