A line of customers waiting for tables snakes out the door and into the street. As my first round of tables finish their desserts, the frustrated people milling around the front entrance glower at the lingering customers with impatient hatred. Sensing the negative energy being transmitted their way, my remaining patrons hurry up and slow down—taking their sweet time to sip the last dregs of their coffee. I love passive-aggressive shit like that. “Can you tell these people to hurry up?” one of the waiting customers, a shrill woman with a baked-in tan, asks the hostess. “We’ve got reservations for seven o’clock. It’s seven-ten now.” “I’m sorry, madam,” the hostess replies primly. “I can’t control how long people take to eat.” The woman obnoxiously taps the thin, expensive watch strapped to her wrist. “I was guaranteed a table at seven,” she yelps. “I’m a friend of the owner!” I sigh inwardly and shake my head. Fluvio wouldn’t recognize this lady if his life depended on it.
