Unwritten Rules

Sometimes I get all wrapped up in pondering unwritten social rules. You know, the ones that we all follow and don’t think too much about until someone breaks them. They’re very culture (and sub-culture) specific. Anyway, I’m thinkin’ about them today ‘cause I broke one. On purpose.

It was a little past noon when I walked into the restaurant, sipping on a ‘travel mug’ of coffee that I had bought at my favorite coffee shop (before I realized the gourmet deli -which was my first choice for lunch- was closed on Tuesday). The hostess greeted me cheerfully. “A party of one.” I could see her puzzle, “Where to seat her?”

I could tell she had been directed to seat lone diners in the bar area (which, addition to seating at the bar, had a number of high tables and chairs), and so she first offered me that option. “Or we could certainly seat you in the dining area....” she continued. I could tell she was doubtful that I would choose to sit at the bar. It’s an unwritten rule, you see, for unaccompanied women to sit in the bar area of a restaurant. For some reason the bar is a man’s realm. Whatever restaurant it happens in, there are always a couple of TVs tuned in to nothing but sports channels, and always more male patrons than female.

Nevertheless, a seat at one of the high tables near the window, in the seemingly empty area near the bar looked inviting to me. I entered and took a seat. The lone male patron seated near the door checked me out as I entered. Seeking eye contact. Which I withheld. The room was staffed by a bartender and a waiter. A waiter with attitude. He questioned whether I was by myself, and then gave me a look of mixed puzzlement, distaste, and annoyance when I indicated that I was. Then he threatened to throw my coffee away. Really.

I noted that he wasn’t nearly as brusk with the older couple whom he served a little while later. I’m not sure why he took an instant dislike to me. Not that it really bothered me. The salad I ordered was delicious, and I finished every bite. That’s against some sort of rule, too, you know. I invariably get an amused look, and usually some sort of flippant comment, from waitstaff when they see a profoundly empty plate.

I’m not sure if that would be the same if I were a man. I mean, about the matter of the empty plate, Women aren’t supposed to be voracious.

Anyway, I left Mr. Cranky Waiter a tip. Even though it was debatable whether his service merited it.