I want to introduce to you an analogy that I think best describes the interaction between restaurant and patron on any given night: The restaurant is a landlord and the customer is a tenant. The tables are simply real estate, and diners agree to "pay rent" for the opportunity to sit at a table for a while and enjoy their meal.
Some of these tables are Manhattan penthouses. The banquette for 8 at a Michelin-starred restaurant is plush, pristine and luxurious. Make no mistake, it's going to cost you. On the other hand, some restaurants are slumlords. Waffle House, I love you, but your tables are cold, hard, and ugly. I'm not going to pay a lot of rent to dine at WaHo.
Of course, it's not just the physical table that the customer is paying for. There's the food, the ambience, and yes, the service. It can be hard to find a balance between these things and the correct amount of rent that a guest is willing to pay. Finer restaurants are trying hard to give guests their money's worth while also paying their bills. When we make a misstep in any given category, we hear about it, or we lose revenue because that customer isn't going to come back.
But let me tell you, there is a flip side. Sometimes it's the guest that doesn't pay enough rent. You have your drunks, or your slobs, or your rude people that make it so hard just to get through the night. No amount of money makes up for bad taste.
Which brings me to a table that my co-worker recently had on a Saturday night. It was past closing time, and as she was asking them if they needed anything else from her, one of the ladies ordered a chocolate souffle. My friend politely reminded the woman that this particular dessert requires 25 minutes to prepare, to which the guest replied, "That's okay, we're going to play a game!"
My co-worker's heart sank. A game?! It was almost time to go home. All the other servers were busy doing closing sidework. But, being a landlord possessed of the utmost grace and hospitality, she dutifully got them the pens, paper, and giant bowl they requested. Minutes turned into hours as they proceeded to play several rounds of some charades-like game as we all intermittently walked by, praying they would FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GO HOME. Finally, our prayers were answered as they asked for the check and got the heck out of there.
Listen, y'all, after closing time, rent spikes. It's past midnight. We've been on our feet all day. The other customers are all gone. You're keeping bartenders, servers, management, dishwashers, and other staff from a relaxing drink, their bed, their families. At a certain point, it's just rude. The amazing thing about these tables is that every time, one of the guests will say, "We're not keeping you here, are we?" EVERY. TIME.
IF YOU EVER FIND YOURSELF ASKING THAT QUESTION OF RESTAURANT STAFF, PLEASE TAKE YOUR MARTINI PICK AND SHOVE IT IN OUR EYE INSTEAD. IT WILL HURT LESS.
Because really, how do you want us to answer? The truth is that, yes, you are keeping us. Our job is to tend to the customer and you're the only customers left. We have nothing else to do and we can't leave because you won't leave. Our entire life right now consists of watching the clock tick by and walking by your table once every 5 minutes. We loved you. For several hours, we had a beautiful thing going. But it's over. There is no longer an "us." You are evicted without further notice.