My uncle Frank was a complete and utter horror in restaurants
he’d grab the waitresses, wave his coffee cup in the air, yelling for a refill,
demand the lunch menu at dinner,
make loud racist comments in ethnic restaurants
‘so solly!’ was a favorite in Chinese places
he had his usual haunts, and staff knew him.
He insisted on picking up the check, and leaving 10%.
My usual self imposed duty was to run around with small bills, apologizing to everyone.
once, in a Red Lobster I think, they put us in an otherwise closed section, I mean,
they actually pulled back an air wall and turned on lights. For a table of three.
and we observed a rather spirited conversation amongst wait staff, at the end of which a server
dutifully approached our table.
‘What the hell was that about?’ Uncle demanded.
‘Only an argument sir, over who was going to have the pleasure of serving your table.’
‘Ha!’ said uncle Frank.
‘A private room, and our own waiter! I told you they knew who I was around here!’
There is no point to this story, no moral, no lesson either for diners or for the people that
serve them. except, perhaps, that in this small shared world that we call the dining zone,
nah, who am I kidding.
There is no point to the story.