During the summer we frequent a fabulous restaurant in Ocean City, Maryland called “Fishtales.” Its location directly on the bay coupled with its kid-friendly atmosphere make it very popular and therefore very crowded. During the summer it’s not uncommon for them to have 2-hour waits and, notwithstanding their pirate ship-in-the-sand playground, it’s a humbling experience to wait 2 hours with children.
One summer after I fought my way through the crowd to the hostess stand toting my then-4-year-old on my hip, I gave the hostess my name and the number of folks in our party. She jotted down the information and, as she handed me the “your table is ready” buzzer which would lie silent for 2 hours, she told me that they would need “collateral” such as a driver’s license or car keys to hold the table.
Without missing a beat I hoisted my son onto the hostess’ counter as collateral, thinking delightedly that this was a win-win situation: they have their collateral, and I have 2 hours of peace.
The hostess frowned. Alas, this form of collateral was apparently not acceptable. Without any sympathy whatsoever (how empathic can an 18-year-old be toward a tired mom?), she informed me: “you’re not the first to do that.” Bummer. I thought it had been pretty clever….
Defeated, I meandered over to the bar to order a margarita on the rocks with salt.
One summer after I fought my way through the crowd to the hostess stand toting my then-4-year-old on my hip, I gave the hostess my name and the number of folks in our party. She jotted down the information and, as she handed me the “your table is ready” buzzer which would lie silent for 2 hours, she told me that they would need “collateral” such as a driver’s license or car keys to hold the table.
Without missing a beat I hoisted my son onto the hostess’ counter as collateral, thinking delightedly that this was a win-win situation: they have their collateral, and I have 2 hours of peace.
The hostess frowned. Alas, this form of collateral was apparently not acceptable. Without any sympathy whatsoever (how empathic can an 18-year-old be toward a tired mom?), she informed me: “you’re not the first to do that.” Bummer. I thought it had been pretty clever….
Defeated, I meandered over to the bar to order a margarita on the rocks with salt.
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Girl, you shoulda ordered TWO! What a funny story. Isn't it weird how there are some people who think you're not that funny when actually the truth is you're HILARIOUS?? That happens to be all the time. :D
ReplyDeleteOn the rocks with salt is the only way to go!
ReplyDeleteWendy...I can't really broadcast how many I drank, can I? This is a family friendly blog... And yes - I can totally relate. My brother was saying to me the other night: "sometimes I read your blog and I think - 'you're not funny' - and other times you are."
ReplyDeleteWe are funny, dammit!
Natasha - glad you share my good taste in Margarita styles.... although in a pinch I wouldn't be picky...
ReplyDelete