I thought we had moved beyond the stigma of judging people by the way they look and dress when they go to a restaurant. I thought it didn’t matter as long as you paid the bill.
I was wrong. I learned we still have a very long way to go.
I took two friends to Ocean Prime to celebrate one of their birthdays. Two of us wore jeans, the third wore slacks and a blouse.
When we got to the door, the doorman looked away. We ignored that offense and walked in anyway. “Can I have a table?” I asked. No one answered. I asked twice more. Silence. Our presence was acknowledged only when our professionally dressed friend echoed my request.
After we were finally seated, a man came to the table. I thought he was our server; he turned out to be the busboy.
“Tap water or bottled?”
“Tap,” I said. We never saw him again.
Then we waited for our server. And waited. And waited. Like the busboy, he never showed. Twenty-five minutes later, the bartender took our order.
A bit later I started to ask the bartender where the restroom was. “Are you leaving?” she asked before I said two words.
“No, I just want to use the restroom,” I replied.
The food was good. But, no one came to the table and asked whether we were enjoying ourselves, whether we needed anything else — the usual questions attentive waiters ask customers in restaurants that care. I felt so strange. It seemed to me they wanted us to leave.
And I almost did. What made me stay was to show them I had the money to eat there. I paid the bill with my credit card and left a cash tip for the bartender. “Is the cash part of the bill?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “You saw me pay for it.”
Will I go back there? Not likely. I’d rather go to a restaurant that doesn’t judge my friends and me by how we look or how we dress