On Saturday night Rachelle and I went to a restaurant in Toronto called Colborne Lane. It’s an expensive, special occasion kind of place and we went there to celebrate our fifth anniversary. The restaurant has a beautiful, industrial kind of grandeur, giving it an impenetrable, exclusive feeling that make you feel as if you’ve suddenly stepped into a city and life not your own.
Similarly, the food is astonishing. The servers, arriving in billowing clouds of dry ice, reveal plates that are alternately delicious, inventive and flawed pieces of art that in many cases are ready-made satire. No matter, it’s a hell of an experience, and Rachelle and I were excited about spending our evening there.
The Maitre D’ was a handsome black guy wearing a gingham shirt and vest. He didn’t seem overly happy to see us, and instead of giving us the table we had reserved a month earlier, coolly asked that we take a seat at the empty bar, where we waited for the next 15 minutes.
It was a big night for us– we were spending more money than we could really afford– and I wanted us to feel special. Feeling ignored and frustrated, I asked the Maitre D’ if he knew when our table would be ready.
“I haven’t forgotten you,” he said, dismissively, quickly looking down at his podium.
This pissed me off. “I presumed that, what I was asking was if you knew when our table would be ready.”
This pissed him off.
“I’m working on that right now,” he displayed his teeth in a faux smile.
I stood there watching him.
“So, roughly, just a ball park figure, how much longer do you think it will be?”
As if he was slowly counting to ten to control his rage.
“Just. Give. Me. A. Minute.”
“Oh, I see, it bothers you that I’m standing here. Fine. I’ll just sit back down so you can better concentrate.”
A moment later he took us to our table.
I worked as a waiter for years, and it was clear that our table had been ready the moment we walked into the place. The Maitre D’ had kept us waiting merely to establish a theatrical air of exclusivity to the place or to give us an opportunity to spend another $50 on cocktails.
About ten minutes after we’d been seated, a waiter appeared and presented us with two complimentary glasses of sparkling wine. I presumed this was from the Maitre D’ who might have wanted to smooth things out after our little confrontation, but no.
The drinks were from a friend. Knowing that it was a special occasion for us, he called in earlier and requested to buy us a round of Champagne, just so we knew that he was thinking of us.
The irritation that the evening had started to generate in me immediately vanished, and I was filled with an immense gratitude. There I was, struck by the generosity of my friends, the generosity of opportunity that nourished each day, and across from me sat my beautiful fiancé, with whom I, the luckiest man in the world, was able to toast life and love.