Rush Hour, Culinary Edition

Here's a kvetch I'm sure most of you can relate to--being rushed through your dinner at a restaurant that overbooks their reservations and allots each diner a total of 32 minutes to enjoy their over-priced meal.

Last night the Literettes got together for book club at Artisenal, a very tasty albeit stinky-cheese-smelling establishment on Park Ave. Now anyone with frommage experience knows that cheesy lactose-y fondue takes time to enjoy. So let a girl enjoy it while she chats it up about Eat, Pray, Love. Instead our hovering waiter practically pulled up a chair at our table, he was there so often. "Have you decided? Have you decided? Know what you want yet?" This guy was more in our face than Brad Pitt in Fight Club. I suppose it's possible that he was envious of our interesting and very highly intelligent literature discussion, but I am guessing that's not the reason. So as our $12 a glass, noticeably-underpoured wine showed up, we savored every drop. We savored every drop of our drippy stinky fondue, even as the waiter tried to snatch the pot out from under our fork picks. And we feigned naivety when he came back to retreive our signed credit card bill (which as everybody knows should be politely left untouched until after the guests depart from the table) and proceeded to read the tip amounts while standing at the table.

And then just for shits and giggles, yours truly went to the bathroom and the rest of the Literettes stayed hovering at the table until I had peed (not poo of course), checked my teeth for cheesy bits, re-applied some kiehl's lip balm, chatted it up with the prego lady who had spilled some of her own cheesy bits on her way-too-expensive maternity shirt, and washed my hands twice. And then returned to my crew, whereunder the watchful and scrutinizing eyes of the waiter, the Literettes slowly gathered handbags, coats, scarves, shopping bags, hats and gloves, chatting the whole way as we slowly exited from the table perimeter.

I love food. I love enjoyable dining experiences, soup to nuts. From the temperature and spreadability of the butter you place before me to the weight of the silverware to the culinary delights you place before my hungry eyes. I expect that you will keep your distance, dear waiter, until I call for you; at which point you remain accommodating and respectful. None of this prying eyes and rushing. Or you will have very unsavory kvetches coming your way. And everyone knows the weight a kvetch holds.