Monday, March 12, 2007
Goddamn You, Jonathan Lethem
Tonight, my friend and I were enjoying a nice, quiet dinner at Bar Tabac, our usual date spot. The host crammed us next to another two-top, instead of giving us some space, because they were obviously reserving a six-top for someone. Fine. We try to order the "cheapest bottle of red" and end up with the next-to-cheapest bottle of red. Fine. We order dinner and before I've even finished my goat cheese salad, our waiter asks us to move to a table in the other room because they need ours for "another party." I look over and fucking Jonathan Lethem has filled the six top with his writer friends, and apparently has more coming. Who knew he was that important? Who knew that the ridiculously-aloof Bar Tabac staff had any idea who Jonathan Lethem is? We move to the other table in the other room. Does anyone at Jonathan Lethem's table thank us for giving up our table mid-meal? No. We try for fifteen minutes to get a dessert menu, and after the busboy gives us new bread (as if we've just been seated for dinner) we talk him into sending our waiter--who has decided since Jonathan Lethem & Co. are in--that we no longer exist. We order a flourless chocolate cake, thinking "he'll of course comp us; he moved us in the middle of our dinner for Christ's sake." We order another piece. I have to wave my candle in the air to get the waiter to notice that we want the check. It arrives. Finally. No comps. Goddamn you, Jonathan Lethem. You owe me chocolate cake.