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Talking in a restaurant
Apr. 12th, 2006 10:45 pmRuss and I went out to celebrate his new job tonight. We went to one of our favourite Drive restaurants, Tio Pepe's. As always, the food was rich and cheesy and delicious, and we both ate too much.
It is a small restaurant, so the tables are very close together. Our table is divided from the neighbouring one by a small screen. I can't see the people on the other side of the screen, and I don't even know if the second person at the table is a male or female, because only one of the two of them spoke.
"So I got home, and the maid had taken the surface right off the table!" she tsks to her companion, "I’m going to have to get it refinished! I don't believe she didn't know that she shouldn't use that cleaner on my table..."
Russ and I get comfortable at our table and begin looking at the menu. I have all the vegetarian choices memorized from past visits and takeout orders, but I still read them over and over, trying to make the right choice for this meal.
"This music is terrible!" the woman whines.
Russ snickers behind his menu. The song ends. Another innocuous pop song comes on. It isn't particularly loud.
"I can't stand it!" the woman slams her fork to the table, shoves her chair back into the aisle and marches haughtily to the back of the restaurant where the few Wednesday night staff members are working. The pop music shuts off abruptly, to be replaced with music featuring accordion and bouncy 3/4 time.
Russ and I talk about our food and drink options while simultaneously carrying on the kind of silent conversation long-time couples get good at.
Russ' eyebrows ask me: "Can you believe this woman?"
My eye roll responds: "What a pain in the ass!"
The one waitress working tonight, a shy woman who has served us many time before, comes by with warm tortilla chips and homemade salsa for us, then asks our invisible neighbours how everything is.
"Fine," the woman grumbles in a way that means "not fine, but go away".
The waitress politely takes her at her word, and heads back to the kitchen.
"This salad dressing is so salty. This food is so greasy. The salsa is too spicy..." the woman's list of complaints goes on and on. Russ and I discuss current events.
Russ, with a hand gesture: "What a drama queen!"
A responding movement from me: "I can't believe she's making such a fuss. We should be extra nice to the waitress who has had to put up with her."
Russ nods agreement, and dons his considerable charm. When she comes by with our drinks, he tells the waitress how wonderful the food is and how much we enjoy every meal we have here. I suspect his exuberance is partially to rub the lesson in to the whining woman: people like this restaurant. Just because it isn't to your taste is no reason to be rude.
Russ adopts people as "his", and if anyone gives his people trouble, they will have Russ to contend with too. It seems that Tio Pepe's and its staff are now Russ' too.
The whiner and her silent companion leave about halfway through our meal, allowing us to finally laugh at them freely. And then our dinners arrive (shrimp enchiladas for Russ and cactus pads for me), and all talk ceases while we gorge ourselves. There's no need for even a conversation of facial gestures; the rate at which the vast quantity of food disappears speaks for itself.
It is a small restaurant, so the tables are very close together. Our table is divided from the neighbouring one by a small screen. I can't see the people on the other side of the screen, and I don't even know if the second person at the table is a male or female, because only one of the two of them spoke.
"So I got home, and the maid had taken the surface right off the table!" she tsks to her companion, "I’m going to have to get it refinished! I don't believe she didn't know that she shouldn't use that cleaner on my table..."
Russ and I get comfortable at our table and begin looking at the menu. I have all the vegetarian choices memorized from past visits and takeout orders, but I still read them over and over, trying to make the right choice for this meal.
"This music is terrible!" the woman whines.
Russ snickers behind his menu. The song ends. Another innocuous pop song comes on. It isn't particularly loud.
"I can't stand it!" the woman slams her fork to the table, shoves her chair back into the aisle and marches haughtily to the back of the restaurant where the few Wednesday night staff members are working. The pop music shuts off abruptly, to be replaced with music featuring accordion and bouncy 3/4 time.
Russ and I talk about our food and drink options while simultaneously carrying on the kind of silent conversation long-time couples get good at.
Russ' eyebrows ask me: "Can you believe this woman?"
My eye roll responds: "What a pain in the ass!"
The one waitress working tonight, a shy woman who has served us many time before, comes by with warm tortilla chips and homemade salsa for us, then asks our invisible neighbours how everything is.
"Fine," the woman grumbles in a way that means "not fine, but go away".
The waitress politely takes her at her word, and heads back to the kitchen.
"This salad dressing is so salty. This food is so greasy. The salsa is too spicy..." the woman's list of complaints goes on and on. Russ and I discuss current events.
Russ, with a hand gesture: "What a drama queen!"
A responding movement from me: "I can't believe she's making such a fuss. We should be extra nice to the waitress who has had to put up with her."
Russ nods agreement, and dons his considerable charm. When she comes by with our drinks, he tells the waitress how wonderful the food is and how much we enjoy every meal we have here. I suspect his exuberance is partially to rub the lesson in to the whining woman: people like this restaurant. Just because it isn't to your taste is no reason to be rude.
Russ adopts people as "his", and if anyone gives his people trouble, they will have Russ to contend with too. It seems that Tio Pepe's and its staff are now Russ' too.
The whiner and her silent companion leave about halfway through our meal, allowing us to finally laugh at them freely. And then our dinners arrive (shrimp enchiladas for Russ and cactus pads for me), and all talk ceases while we gorge ourselves. There's no need for even a conversation of facial gestures; the rate at which the vast quantity of food disappears speaks for itself.
