At the Dinner Table, A Comedy of Manners

By Phyllis Richman
Special to The Washington Post
Wednesday, September 3, 2008

One of an occasional series of rants about dining out.

For 25 years I was what might be called a restaurateur's pet peeve. In other words, I was a restaurant critic.

It's a cathartic job: You get to complain a lot. When the receptionist put me on hold and forgot, I not only had a beef, I had a column. And I had particularly juicy fodder the week the maitre d' stuck his thumb in my espresso to verify my claim that it wasn't hot enough. Thirty years later, that maitre d' is still protesting that it was his waiter's thumb, not his.

In my decades of dining out nearly every night, the irritants became repetitious and predictable. One stood out, quickly became all-pervasive and lately has developed increasingly elaborate forms.

It's the new competitive sport of plate-snatching.

This is a game played against the clock, with the diner racing to clean the plate before the server manages to clear it. It's a contest that would have been unthinkable way back in the 20th century.

Dining is a communal activity, and table manners were designed to reflect that. Just as it is considered impolite for one person to start eating before everyone at the table has been served, it traditionally has been seen as rude for a waiter to remove one diner's plate before everyone at the table is through.

But manners change. Or in this case, restaurateurs are trying to change them. Servers are removing dishes one by one, as soon as they are emptied -- or even before. Rest your fork for a second, or lean back for a moment's stretch, and your dinner will disappear. The slowest eater is left with her plate a lone island on an empty table. The justifications are lame: Either the kitchen staff wants to pace the dishwashing, the dining room staff is trying to keep the meal moving along, or the busboy is trying to look busy. By now, a few diners are so accustomed to it that they've started to feel offended if their plates sit empty before them.

Some servers have honed their skills to Olympic levels. Recently I encountered a master. She was a charming waitress, enthusiastic and hospitable in her greeting, efficient in her order taking. And sly in her pursuit of our plates.

First she started to sweep our half-full pan of cornbread from the table, but my husband thwarted her. She retaliated brilliantly: As he put a piece of corn bread in his mouth, she grabbed his dinner plate. With his mouth full and his hand occupied, her success was assured. I couldn't resist grinning at her victory. That was before she turned on me. I lifted my coffee cup to take a sip, and she made off with my saucer.

Checkmate.

Here's the irony: When people dream of opening a restaurant, they're usually thinking of hospitality, of bringing pleasure to hungry friends. Once they're running it, though, those hungry people turn out to be strangers -- demanding strangers. The job doesn't feel like giving a dinner party; it's grueling work. The romance is gone, replaced by rules. No substitutions. No reservations. No credit cards. No seating incomplete parties.

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?"