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My wife and I recently ate dinner at a lovely restaurant in Vancouver. Excellent food. Fabulous view of the sunset over the water.

Our server, Beth, attentively took us to our table, chatted us up in a friendly way and discussed the pallet of options. Very nice woman.

The manager, Scott, stopped by to pay a cordial visit, explore our preferences and take charge of the menu — after all, it was my birthday and I deserved some special attention.

Scott was great, visiting our table often, to wax romantic at each course, talk about the chef’s pedigree, suggest things to do the next day, and treat us to a most convivial evening.

Not so with Beth, however. She got off to a great start, but her enthusiasm waned throughout the night — toward the end she was even slightly curt. Same story for the other wait staff attending our table.

When we left, I still considered the evening a success, mostly due to Scott’s incredible warmth and ability to take care of us, but was dismayed at the disconnect between his service and his staff’s.

It was only later that I put the pieces together.

You see, Scott wasn’t just treating us like royalty, he was treating all the other diners like that too, flitting from table to table, taking command of the experience, ensuring each guest had a most joyous meal — and, at the same time, disenfranchising each and every one of his wait staff.

Now I’m sure, if you asked Beth, she’d tell you that Scott’s a great guy, incredibly knowledgeable, really loves his work, is nice to the help, etc.

But I bet she starts out most evenings ready to go and eager to please, only to wear down before the night’s end, thinking “Sure, the tips are great, but this place is getting old.”

Who can blame her, when Scott steals all the fun, all the accolade, and all the purpose?