When dining out and asked by the host “Is this table okay?” have foreknowledge this isn’t a rhetorical question for me.
There are many reasons the table might not be okay. It could be proximity to the restroom or an ex-gf or the bar or a bratty free-range child with parents who won the Nobel Negligence Prize six years running. It’s all immaterial. When asked for my seating preference I’m going to state my seating preference while out spending my entertainment money.
And I feel not guilt nor obligation to explain my preference. And your disgusted expression like I just farted the entire Star Spangled Banner (including pitch perfect high note) in the midst your nuptial vows for your wedding you insisted be held in the crowded elevator at the Des Moines Airport Ramada Express because that’s where you and Bryce met just three months ago when you were keynote speaker at the Biannual Greater Midwest Pokemon Furry Enthusiast Symposium … yeah, you can save that expression for your inevitable divorce, you insufferable Matriarch of Harpies.
Okay, I’ll admit, that’s a bit much. Still, when asked “Is this table okay?” I’ll excuse the rhetorical intent and express my preference as if my patronage and money is incentive enough to ensure I enjoy my time at your restaurant.
And honestly, I’ve had many pet peeves in many service jobs over the years and my guiding principle to get me through the peeve is the understanding I only have a job because customers choose to spend their money where I’m working. So I kept my peeve and sour expression to myself, I collected my paycheck, and life didn’t collapse upon itself because I was mildly inconvenienced at work. Life finds a way.