I dined with my husband at a restaurant on the east side of Kansas City’s Brookside neighborhood the other night. It’s restaurant week in KC, so staffs are on their best behavior, prepared for an influx of people who don’t dine out as often, seeking new experiences at ostensibly more affordable prices. I’ve found this not always to be the case, especially with lower ticket participating restaurants. But that’s another story for another day.
During this particular meal, a medium-large group arrived and was directed by the host to a large corner booth. It’s one that has booth seating on four sides, with one of the sides half open to the walkway, so people can get in and scooch around.
Is scooch not a word? How is it not in my dictionary? Have I spelled it entirely incorrectly? Weird. Anyway.
Four people arrived initially, and the oldest of the ladies (let’s call her Maude) asked how many people could be seated at the table. The waitress told her it could seat six to eight comfortably.
“How many does that one seat?” Maude asked, pointing to a standard, long dining table with four seats on each side.
“Eight to ten,” the waitress replied.
“Well we only have six, so if this seats six…”
The guy who appeared to be her son-in-law excused himself to the restroom and probably to take a few deep breaths while rolling his eyes in private.
“Oh, no, if you say it seats up to eight, we’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, said the waitress,” heading off to get the group their waters, as they load in to the booth.
The remaining group members arrive, except the son-in-law who is still in the bathroom.
Maude greets them.
“They say you can sit up to eight people at this table, but we only have six, so I guess it’s just supposed to work.”
The rest of her family made conciliatory sounds and worked together on some sort of seating arrangement that would allow for Maude’s clear discomfort at the situation, by seating her at the edge. They all start settling their coats in and pulling their place settings close, while Maude just stands there.
They began peppering Maude with questions to discover exactly what her objection is.
“Do you want to sit on the end?”
“Would you rather sit next to Frank?”
“Are you concerned you will have trouble getting back up?”
“Is there a draft?”
“Is the lighting not good?”
She lightly brushed off each of the potential concerns, standing there, repeating “We’ll figure out how to make it work.”
Her daughter asked why she was standing.
“Well, John’s in the restroom, and I don’t know how that will affect the seating?
Another young female asked, “Maude, we can go to that other table if you’d like.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’ll figure out how to make this work,” she said. “I’m just concerned John won’t like it.”
The group shot glances at each other, communicating silently, as the girls started offering up gentle complaints about the seats while Maude stood quietly over them.
My husband tried to ask something of me, and I had to shush him, because there was something interesting happening behind him, and he was totally unaware. This is often how our dining experiences go. I pick up on some drama – a breakup at another table, back-of-house arguments, difficult conversations intentionally brought to a public space – while he’s obliviously slurping some French onion soup.
Behind him, the women were starting with things like “We are close to a window. It could get drafty.” And “if someone needs to get up for a restroom break, a bunch of us will need to move.”
The men hadn’t caught on: “It’s actually really warm in here.” “I don’t mind moving if someone has an emergency need.” They were very accommodating and supportive in their addressing of the women’s sudden imaginary needs.
When John, the likely son-in-law, got back, he was greeting with a table of seated family and Maude, standing and staring at him.
“Is everything okay?” John asked.
His wife said, “Well, we were thinking of maybe taking that table over there.”
“Oh, I mean if you want to get up and resettle over there that’s fine. I’m happy either place.”
“Oh,” said Maude. “You don’t need to move on my account. I just wanted to give you the choice, John.”
“Oh, well, everyone’s settled. Let’s just sit down.”
John sits down, while Maude starts finally removing her coat to be seated. The women exchange glances. The women stare daggers at the men, who finally catch on – except for poor John.
The men start making noises about discomfort. The seats are too cushy. Maybe there IS a breeze. That other table does look pretty nice.
They begin packing their things up and shuffling off to the other table. Maude continues her seating prep motions, while most of the group makes their way away from the large booth to the large table with chairs. John lingers a bit, clearly confused about what has transpired.
Maude falls into her seat as though all of her coat and purse futzing had commanded all of her attention through the commotion and she had finally approached the natural conclusion: to seat herself on the end of the now-empty booth.
“Well, I guess everyone decided that table was better, John,” said Maude. “I’m sorry, but you can’t always get your way.
Maude waddled off to take the head of the more traditional table, and John took a seat by his wife without complaint.