Sit the fuck down!
So you want the best table in the house? You are not alone. Everyone in this entitled culture feels they deserve the best tables. Never been here before? Why right this way to table nirvana. Going to order $10 bucks worth of salad? Let me fall over myself while I kick Christy Turlington out of her table. You asshole.
The best tables are for the best customers. People who spend cash and know how to behave in a restaurant. The couple that spends the cool hundred and tip twenty is going to beat your tap water and garden salad every time. It’s like the real world. Want a pricey address? Better show up with cash in hand.
The worst offenders are women. Usually at lunch
They walk in, often without a reservation, and demand to sit in the nicest spots. Some of these bitches have an anatomical anomaly that allows their heads to spin a full 360 while scanning the floor for a choice spot. If you say that the table is reserved they demand to speak to the manager (which always elicits a smile from me since I am the manager). I have actually had women storm out even though there was a reserved sign on the table they wanted. It’s a lot of fun watching the expressions of anger trying to play out on their faces, but all the botox renders every forty plus woman from Westchester incapable of frowning. Even if I can give them the table they want (Hey if its slow its yours, I am not an ogre,) I know they will order nothing and spend the next four hours talking “about their lives as women.” Prattle drone prattle.
Other assoholic moves are people who want a table for four although there are only two of them. What? If the place fills up what am I supposed to do? Turn people away because your purses are warming two perfectly good chairs? That’s a mismanagement of resources and the owner is entitled to seat people in a way that maximizes the profitably of his establishment. Deal with a small table.
Also people who want to move their table because they feel slighted are fucking everything up. The seating arrangement on a Saturday night is crafted with the same meticulousness as the plans for the Gulf War. Everyone gets a table with an allotted time to eat. Remember that shit about how a butterfly beating his wings creates a tsunami a world away? It’s the same principle. Move one table and the whole war plan falls apart and the hostess becomes a psychotic bitch while she tries to reroute traffic before the whole place turns into traffic accident.