From the Vintage Archives:

Somebody's watching you.

Playing Ring Around the Waitress

By Rick Horowitz

The popcorn should have been the warning. When they put the kibosh on the popcorn, we should have known we were in the wrong place.

The place we were in was the mall, and the particular piece of the mall we were in was the restaurant -- the new suburban offspring, in fact, of an in-town place we'd been to and liked. "Why don't we do it in the burbs?" we'd said this time, so we loaded up a half-dozen appetites and hit the road.

Don't get me wrong: I've got nothing against malls. Let me put that another way: I've got plenty against malls, the same kinds of things everybody else has against malls. Antiseptic. Cookie cutters. You never see the sun. On the other hand, they're convenient. They're clean. (How clean, we hadn't even imagined.) And who cares about the sun? It was nighttime.

There was a line, and there was a list. Would we like to wait in the bar? the hostess wondered. Did we have a choice?

We grabbed some seats, ordered up snacks and drinks, and looked around. The bar looked great; I'm no interior-decorating whiz, but I'm guessing Early Hunting Lodge. Lots of plain old wood everywhere, and hanging from the walls and the ceiling, traps and nets and other such tools of the trade. You could see how perfect it would be for people wandering in after a hard day on the trail, tracking down designer jeans.

Finally our names were called; we settled our tab and headed toward the dining room, unfinished drinks and basket of popcorn in hand. You can't take that in there, the hostess informed us -- not the popcorn, anyway. In the bar, the popcorn had done its job: salt, thirst, more drinks. But now that we were going for real food (and spending real money), no way. They're crafty, these restaurant types.

But that wasn't it at all, according to our friendly waitress. We couldn't bring our popcorn with us, she said, because the owners were afraid we might drop some on the carpet. The dining room had a carpet.

Our friendly waitress told us all this while she was carefully putting paper napkins under our drinks. The tabletop was a simple block of wood -- unpolished, untreated -- and our friendly waitress was putting paper napkins under every one of our drinks and every one of our water glasses. The owners, she said, were afraid we might get rings on the table.

How afraid were they? Afraid enough, apparently, because every time our friendly waitress appeared, she went through her little ring-prevention drill. If one of us had -- who knows why? -- actually taken a drink from one of those glasses, and had neglected to put it back properly, our friendly waitress would do it for us.

The first few times, it was amusing. Then it was a bit of a pain. And then it was a challenge. If you really set your mind to it, it turns out, you can actually miss the napkin every single time you put your glass down. (Well, one of you can, anyhow. I won't name names...)

This is a restaurant, yes? People might be talking, or sharing a story and smiling at a friend. Precision glass placement just isn't going to be a priority.

And what about those tabletops? Who puts unfinished wood in a place like this and then loses sleep over rings? You don't want rings? Spring for some polyurethane! Or better yet, hand out pocket knives.

Pocket knives?! Why not? If you're going to go with Early Hunting Lodge, then go with it. Let the customers whittle while they burp. Let them carve their initials, their favorite sayings, right into the wood. And while you're at it, pull up that carpet and let the kernels fall where they may. Give the room some character -- or is a mall the wrong place to be looking for that sort of thing?

The shrimp was pretty good, though.