At the Dinner Table, A Comedy of Manners

Who's being served here? Certainly not the customer.

Sometimes it's the waiter, who views the diner as his audience. Instead of feeding the customer, the waiter is feeding his ego.

The showoff waiter is a stock character by now. He interrupts conversations to ask how everything is ("It was fine before you interrupted," I'm tempted to say). He bends your ear with his life story, gossips about his job, makes your dinner revolve around him. I've had waiters pull up a chair and sit down at my table -- uninvited.

One evening when I was dining alone, my bread basket caught fire. The waiter had placed it too close to a low candle, unfolded the napkin that covered it and then disappeared. When I realized the napkin was ablaze, I had nothing to douse it with (he'd forgotten to bring my water) and was pinned into the banquette. Another diner alerted the waiter, who came to tamp it out. I was left shaken but got neither sympathy nor apology.

"This was all I needed," whined the waiter. "You couldn't believe the day I've had." Poor boy. Should I fetch you a glass of water?

It's rare that a waiter would ever forget water, which has become such a sore subject in restaurants. First, there's the question of choice. Sparkling, still or "iced"? (Translation: expensive, still expensive or free?) Although some environmentally minded places don't offer bottled water anymore, at other restaurants, waiters show scorn for a diner who opts for city water and dares to utter the word "tap." They're often the ones who commit another of my pet peeves, opening (thus charging for) extra bottles without asking, sometimes filling glasses near the end of the meal when they will be left undrunk. Even worse is the waiter who tops off your sparkling water from his pitcher of tap. Or the one who pours the white wine into your glass of red.

Rarely would I say anything to a waiter about his error. I'd be reluctant to embarrass him, not out of pity, but because he might avoid my table. Nothing is more frustrating than sitting hungrily before your entree while it cools for lack of a fork, with no waiter in sight.

Finally, nothing extinguishes the glow of a good meal faster than a waiter who disappears when you want to settle up and call it a night. There is a never-fail solution, though. Slowly and deliberately stand up, gather your belongings, put on your coat and begin to leave. If someone hasn't stopped you by then, walk up to the bar, cashier or kitchen door and announce that you'd like the chance to pay before you head out.

Better yet, do what I've always dreamed of doing: Pull out your cellphone at the table, dial up the restaurant and ask for the check.

Now, that would be cathartic.

Phyllis Richman was the Washington Post's food critic from 1976 to 2000. She is the author of three mystery novels, the most recent of which is "Who's Afraid of Virginia Ham?"