The dining establishments we frequent are pretty tame institutions. Not so much this past Saturday night, though, when we stopped into what turned out to be a fairly rowdy spot in Phoenixville for dinner before the Al Stewart concert at the Colonial Theater. The restaurant was busy -- it was 7 p.m. -- and we stood in the lobby waiting for a table as waitresses scurried by carrying trays of food and drink (this place had several dining nooks and crannies scattered around). The couple waiting ahead of us declined, with ill grace, to take the table they were offered -- there was a family with young kids at the next table -- so we took it, gratefully.
As we ordered, the scene got even more amusing: a half-dozen revelers entered and crowded around the bar. They had reached that boisterous stage of intoxication when they were singing (badly), gesturing wildly and howling with laughter -- in other words, sloppy drunk. They were such an assorted bunch that we had fun speculating how they knew each other and what they were doing out on a Saturday evening pub crawl: a tall woman in a black leather jacket, high-heeled black boots and a punk hairdo drinking a Heineken; a suburban-looking woman; some middle-aged guys you'd see in any office. We were a little disappointed when they left after only a few minutes -- apparently the place wasn't to their liking or they weren't getting served.
Our dinners arrived and we ate with pleasure. Meanwhile, the ornery guy, who'd finally gotten an acceptable table, went up to the beleaguered hostess with what appeared to be another complaint before he and his wife left the restaurant. The waitress (we'd told her we were in a hurry) dropped off our check, and just as we were about to leave the ornery guy walked back in complain some more!
The whole episode was like pre-show entertainment for us, but certainly not for the staff. I've said it before: Every kid should have to work in a restaurant and in a blue-collar job for part of their life.
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