Subtle Warpage

My baseball hatted handsome TAB

The Amazing Bob and I went into a fav tavern of mine for lunch the other day. When Jen and I go there, we sit in the bar section. With Bob, we sit in the dining room, in a booth. The joint’s nice (for suburbia) but I wouldn’t say that it’s posh -- not a be-sure-to-dress-up-real-purty kind of a place.

We walked in, wearing shorts, Ts (it’s searingly hot, ‘member?), Bob in his baseball cap. The hostess gathered a couple of menus and started walking us toward a booth in the near empty cantina. A suit wearing, balding and officious, 50-something scooped the menus from her and, with a big aren’t-I-swell smile, walked us to a corner table in the bar section.

I thought nothing much of it but last night, Bob brought this up. Turns out he was offended and hurt. He felt we were redirected to the pub seating (which he doesn’t care for) and an out of the way table because we weren’t grand enough to be seen amongst the lunchtime suburban men/women-about-town sorts.

This has happened to him frequently -- he’s always been a blue jeans/blue collar type, not a suit. The boys and girls workin' the line don't score the better seats.

I allowed that, the next time this happened, he should let me know right away. I tend not to pay much attention to where I’m seated in a restaurant. If he doesn't like the table, I will get us one that he does.

Me and Burne at the Wampanoag Nation Powwow

Then I told him the story of the time my buddy Burne and I went for a post work, late lunch at Harvard Gardens (a nice enough place but, again, not posh). Burne was in an attractive, cerulean blue biz suit and I was rockin’ the biz casual look -- my hair was even combed.

The bistro was practically empty yet we were seated in the back near the restrooms. Even I noticed and had a prob with this.

Burne was, well, burning. As it turns out, this sort of thing happens all too often to her and her friends. You see, Burne’s Wampanoag -- def not pasty white like yours truly.

I was stunned. Naive me, I thought this sort of thing doesn’t happen, at least not at joints that I regularly frequent. We were on Beacon Hill not in Southie, for Bast’s sake. I stood to find and inform the maître d' that we would require a different table, a nice booth fer instance, when Burne protested ‘No don’t. I’m used to this. we can sit here.’

My reply, ‘No. No we can’t. I promise I won’t make a scene.’ And I didn’t. I walked over to the asswipe who seated us and, in my bestest condescending tone, with a very nice goodness-aren’t-you-a-lovely-peasant smile on my face, I said ‘We don’t like our seats. This booth over here will do. We’ll sit here.’ And we did.

How can you enjoy your meal if, upon entering the place, you’re treated like an inferior.

Can you imagine the pain of experiencing this in one way or another every single day?