Tonight I was feeling especially like an Independent Woman of the 21st Century. So to celebrate, I decided to treat myself to dinner at a fancy restaurant. I asked Yelp for advice about where I should eat, and it suggested I try out a Turkish place near my apartment called Hasir.
The restaurant’s host seated me at a humongous booth, where I made myself right at home and ordered number 41, a monstrous plate of food to go along with the aforementioned giant table. I know I should’ve ordered number 42 because it’s the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, but it was more expensive, and an Independent Woman of the 21st Century’s gotta be somewhat frugal, yeh know.
My food came out in about two minutes’ time, and I set to workin’ my way through most of the delicious food, except for the tomatoes which were gross because tomatoes are gross. Then I started thinking about maybe leaving in the next two hours, because in Europe you don’t just eat, pay, and leave. You sit in your expansive booth and contemplate dranking more dranks and eating more food; then you drank more dranks; and then you order more food. After a minimum of four hours have passed, it’s probably okay for you to leave, but don’t even think about it before then.
As I was just getting nice and settled into my post-meal introspection, the server came up and asked me if a couple could share my booth with me. I wasn’t really sure what he meant, but said sure because I did have quite a lot of booth space to spare and Europe is getting kind of overcrowded so who really cares about personal space anyway? So the couple joined me in my booth and proceeded to act like everything was just as normal as the noonday sun.
At this point, I distracted myself by eating the scraps of what I had previously planned to abandon on my plate, since now I was definitely committed to staying in the booth for at least another hour. Because in this predicament you can’t be like, “I know we were getting to be such good boothmates and all, but I must confess that I just feel really uncomfortable with this whole situation and like why are you sitting here again just please let me out right now unless you want to see a full on panicked conniption because y’all this is just weird.”
The couple talked to each other in German for a good five minutes, then I decided it was time for this tandem-bicycle-with-a-training-wheel situation to metamorphose into a full-on tricycle situation. So I butted right into their romantic dinner conversation and asked, “Do you speak English?” They both did, and they both very politely talked to me about their jobs, their kids, and how America is apparently the Land of the Free and the Home of the Horrible, No Good, Awful Infrastructure.
I then decided that it was okay for me to start making subtle moves to leave, but the man noticed and insisted that instead I try one of the restaurant’s desserts, so he ordered me a round-cheese-baked-in-crispies-bathed-in-honey-and-sprinkled-with-pistachios sumpin’ or other. Then they payed for their dinner and my dessert and immediately hightailed it out of there, never to be seen again.
I guess they didn’t know the rule about lingering in European restaurants for years and years on end.