Nina in New York: Hostess With The Mostess
A young professional's take on the trials and tribulations of everyday life in New York City.
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This weekend, I spent an incredible amount of time looking at photos from the royal wedding. It was great. I don't feel badly about it one bit.
But that's not all I did! The husband and I also took advantage of this gorgeous weather and took Gus for a very long walk, winding up in the Meatpacking District. All three of us were ready for a seat, a snack, and a beverage. Admittedly, this was not great planning, as we were in the heart of tourist/scenester/leisurely, fabulous daytime drink-land, and we wandered past restaurant after restaurant packed with people doing what we wished we could.
Tired and hot, our tongues lolling with thirst and exhaustion, we were cautiously elated when we came upon a place with an entire outdoor dining area open! Tables were invitingly set, umbrellas were up, chairs were mercifully empty. Of course, we had to wonder why no one was there when the rest of the neighborhood was severely overpopulated, so husband and Gus waited on the sidewalk while I went inside to inquire.
A very pretty hostess and handsome host were waiting at the desk.
"Hi, we're two for an outdoor table?"
"Sure!" said the man, at exactly the same moment as the woman frowned and said, "Um, let me check."
She stomped off and he smiled apologetically. "I just got here," he shrugged.
When she came back, she carried with her the unmistakable scent of superiority.
"I'm sorry, but those tables are closed." She smiled the most hostile smile I have ever seen. She was practically baring her teeth. I felt a shiver run down my spine.
"But if it's closed, why are the tables set?" I asked.
Her smile remained plastered on her face. All she did was shrug, shooting Mean Girl laserbeams out of her eyes.
At this point, I had already added the restaurant to my mental lifelong boycott list (it's pretty easy to get on and almost indelible). I had absolutely no intention of giving them a cent, let alone sitting and eating. But I had to push. It was a matter of principle. "I'm just confused as to why you'd have all the tables set if the area was closed," I pressed.
"I'm sorry," she purred. "Those are the orders of my general manager." She said "general manager" as though invoking her boss's title would immediately cow and intimidate me. The self-satisfaction flamed on her face and I fought the overwhelming urge to reach over and flick her on the forehead.
I stood and stared at her. I wanted to say that I knew if I were twelve feet tall and smelled like I'd just come off the slopes of Gstaad, I wouldn't be getting this insultingly thinly veiled viciousness. I wanted to say that if she had just leveled with me and said, "we don't have enough staff to wait on one table outside," I would have happily moved along. I wanted to say that I do not appreciate being treated like a chump, and that she should enjoy her life as a power-tripping doorman to the rich and famous. I wanted to tell her that "Sex and the City" ended many years ago, and the walk-on part of Obnoxious Vapid Hostess #3 was long gone.
Instead, I said "thanks a lot" and walked out in a huff. There are some battles that are just not worth fighting. There's a reason why I avoid certain scenes in the New York nightlife, but I never thought lunch would be an issue.
Well, I feel better already. Share your stories and join me!
Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I'm always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.
Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.
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