There are two types of restaurants: those that will transfer your bar tab to your table and those that will not. Those in the former category send a confident signal that they have their stuff together. Those in the latter are admitting defeat before you even see a menu. I have never understood the rationale behind requiring a customer to settle up at the bar before moving to a table. It invariably hints at deeper, systemic problems within the restaurant’s chain of command and always seems a tad distrustful.
This happened to me last night at Magnolia, and it was not only annoying, but socially awkward. My date was already at the bar when I arrived. She had just ordered a drink, a drink I would’ve happily paid for had I been next to her. But at the exact moment I entered, the hostess walked to up to escort us to our table. She informed us we would need to settle our bar tab before being seated. After entirely more conversation than was needed, and after the uncomfortable moment of deciding if I should pay for her drink, even though to do so when I didn’t order one just seems plain weird, we managed to cancel the drink before the bartender had made it (like that should matter) and opted for a bottle of wine at the table.
It was roughly around the second glass of reasonable Pinot Noir that my date informed me that she couldn’t sleep with me that night because she had a “houseguest” in from out of town–a guy. A straight guy. A tall straight guy–who’s sleeping not in her guest room, but in her bed.
“Then why in the world are you out with me?” I asked. A better question, where the hell is he tonight? Did he have a date too? Mind you, I didn’t ask to have sex with her, nor was I expecting to. It was just rather obvious, because, well, that’s what she and I usually do with each other.
I was mortally offended, not that I wouldn’t be getting laid, but at her reason–and that she decided to tell me in the first place. And that she hadn’t cancelled, which would’ve been fine. And that she hadn’t come up with a better excuse than the truth. A wave of anger started to rumble deep within me. How glad I was that I hadn’t paid for that damn drink.
The drink. The bar tab. What were we talking about? Ah, yes–a restaurant that makes you settle up at the bar before being seated.
I can think of no legitimate reason why this should ever happen.
Are drinks slipping through without being paid for? If so, find the crack and fix it. If there’s a dishonest server or bartender in the mix, fire him. If there’s some glitch in the computer software or tracking process that won’t allow this type of transfer, then chuck the outdated, ineffectual system and get an upgrade. If the problem arises from infighting among the staff over whose tips are being taken or not taken, stop the bickering and grow up. Gratuity distribution should never, under any circumstances, be the customers’ problem.
And this customer was having his own problem. The woman across the table from me saw the look on my face. She heard the tone in my voice. I’m a progressive guy. My bed sees its share of boys and girls and, when it comes to sex, I’m about as judgmental as tooth decay. But this was just too 21st Century, post-gay, all-four-girls- from-Sex-and-the-City-morning-after-gabfest for me.
She’d screwed up and she knew it. She apologized. But the idea of picking up the check, which I was about to do out of some long-standing but in this moment completely irrelevant social construct, just made me feel like the biggest sucker on the planet. That’s when she grabbed my hand.
“I’ll get this,” she said. “Please, it’s the least I can do.”
And so I let her, wishing I had ordered a drink at the bar, preferably a nice 16- year Lagavulin with a large Chimay Grand Reserve as a chaser. She had a half-ass restaurant to thank that I hadn’t.
As we left, I started to feel bad. I’d let her have a good half hour of “how could you treat me like this” punishment. My self-pity was red-lining. I suggested we hit the bar next door for a drink. My treat. Besides, a nightcap would make her even later for her hook-up with the tall, non-gay asshole.
We drank together at the bar and laughed, remembering how much we like each other, but that we aren’t really cut out for a relationship. Just for fun I asked the bartender if we could move to a table and still keep our tab open. He looked at me like I’d fallen out of a tree.
“Yeah, of course.” He shrugged.
My pretend-date and I went back to my car and made out for ten minutes before saying our goodbyes. All seemed right with the world. I’ll bet her houseguest is back in New York by now.
I should really give her a call.
Magnolia – One of God-knows-how-many-restaurants that charges A.O.C. prices for Applebee’s-like service. Located near Vine on either Sunset or Hollywood Boulevard, I can never remember which. Expect to be treated with as much trust as at a check-cashing place.
Posted by Aaron Black at 9:43 AM