Valentine’s Day lunch. Crazy day at the restaurant. People may be in love, but they are also hungry and surly, or surly because they are hungry. In comes a couple clearly not from my city–these folks look very West Coast. He–sunglasses, tight designer jeans, expensive T-shirt. She–the same, minus the sunglasses.
We are just coming off a wait. I make the out-of-towners wait in the foyer while I try to find a table that’s re-set. I return a few minutes later, and ask them to follow me, seating them in one of the quietest and least public areas of the restaurant. I chit chat about the weather, the holiday, whatever. He keeps his eyes downcast. She glares at me. Okay, I can take a hint. No chit chat.
Within minutes, a steady stream of waiters, host staff, and one patron with pen and cocktail napkin in hand are wandering by the couple’s table. Turns out, he’s some big R&B singer, or at least used to be big until a falling out with a movie star wife.
I have to plead with the host staff not to ask for photos (one girl got a busser to go down the street to buy a disposable camera!), autographs, or ANYTHING. “You can thank him by name for coming in, that’s it,” I say. Which the prettiest girl on the staff does.
He looks her right in the eye and beams. “Thanks,” he says. She nearly swoons.
And I made him wait in the foyer for a table. Hey, it’s all good.