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He says it largely as a joke, to disarm guests who feel awkward about being waited on with such consummate dutifulness and respectful obedience, but he really does live to serve; his day job and his night hobby—well, his night job and his late-night hobby—are so similar as to be indistinguishable.

Okay, sure, you can distinguish them: he gets paid for one, not for the other, and the uniforms differ—while both dark black and with a preponderance of fastenings, one’s Italian silk, the other Italian leather.

But his job is one in which he’s required to answer every request with a “yes, sir” that isn’t merely deferential, but that implies that there was never any question as to whether his assent, his consent, would be given. It’s a job that requires him to care only about someone else’s needs, and wants, and desires, and never his own. It’s a job that requires him to stay silent and in the corner until his service is needed; it’s a job that requires him to prepare himself, to always look his best as he stands at attention.

And when he’s anticipated a man’s needs before a man even knew he had them, when he’s left that man sated, and happy, and relaxed, the feeling he gets when he’s given a gentle smile of thanks—thanks for his having done well, for his having been pleasing and having pleased—is exactly the same.

Yes.