With the prospect of cereal and milk comprising part of my dinner for the second night in a row looming before me (and with a little encouragement), I took myself out for dinner tonight to 100 King in Old Town. It has a sophisticated menu, is a block from the water, and has gauzy drapes in the windows that made it appear both inviting and exclusive. I took a table outside, pulled out my journal, and was ready to write about this week's romantic vicissitudes (don't worry, that doesn't link to details of my romantic vicissitudes, just the definition).
Dinner was fine, but the service was some sort of inverted Mrs. Robinson arrangement. I was the Mrs. Robinson, being the beautiful older woman (no, no one has ever said I look like Anne Bancroft), but he was the inexperienced, nervously chatty Dustin Hoffman. Of course, there was no desired seduction on my part, but he was trying to charm while I was trying to rebuff, hence the inversion. It really wasn't that extreme either way, but compared to other fine restaurants, my assessment is that 100 King doesn't serve the single woman patron well. I'll be specific, but this is a more general indictment of restaurants' abysmal ability to cater to solo patrons. This single diner doesn't really need a chatty waiter, with her convoluted romantic brainstorms using plenty of brain power that don't want to be diverted to his fumbling up of specials on the menu or inquiring into my appetite or promising that the artichokes appetizer is delicious when it's one $9 artichoke.
My complaint gets to the larger point of it not being understood by some waiters that the event of dining out is considered by some to be a sacred event; to others (who go alone), it's an opportunity to sit quietly with one's thoughts, enjoy watching the passers-by, and eat without having to worry about cooking or cleaning. My waiter wasn't obtrusive, but I felt like I was at Applebee's...and I would have preferred the gross of mozzarella sticks my $9 would have bought me compared to the ridiculously small bowl of clammy-looking braised artichokes.
For "dinner" (it was an appetizer soup) I had seafood stock, which was quite delicious: two shrimps, four mussels, and lots of cubed tomatoes and onions in a thick broth, garnished with a grilled piece of toast with a crab spread on top. Everything else was overpriced, including dessert, so after filling up on another half roll, I wandered home to enjoy some free Ben and Jerry's. Classy, huh?
You can stop reading now, if you want, because the food talk ends and the girly drivel begins. However, I realized tonight that the way I treat waiters is amazingly similar to how I treat men, and both have followed a parallel trajectory. I'm much more comfortable to jest with both, just as I am more comfortable in being indifferent if I feel the need. However, my expectations for men have increased in parallel to what I expect from waiters. I want a waiter/man who lets me be when I'm involved in an attention-intensive event like dining out (waiter: watch for cues when/if I want to chat, man: give a girl a few minutes to decide on what she orders before asking questions), I want a waiter/man who let's me be independent (waiter: don't get too nervous that I'm alone or writing in my journal, man: don't erode my independent sensibilities), I want a waiter/man who pays attention to detail (waiter: fill up that glass without asking, man: know which details--like opening up doors--are important). It's comforting to know I operate comfortably in both waiter/man realms, but disconcerting that even a good waiter is so damn hard to find.
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