Where my Paparazzi at?

Last weekend Andrew and I went to Longhorn Steakhouse (a step up from Chili’s, in his estimation) and the place was packed! I'm talking 80-90 minute wait times for a table (longer for a booth). Happily we called ahead so our wait was only about ten minutes, but in that span of time our evening took a turn for the weird, and kept on going down bizarre street.

Let's face it, waiting for a table is a dangerous game... Just one mis-paged electronic coaster and pandemonium could ensue! Hungry diners get possessive of their place in line, they approach the hostess every five minutes to assess their wait-time, and they aren't afraid to make a scene if it will increase their chances of being seated earlier.

When we first arrived in the waiting area, the family across from us gave us the look. You know, the one that says: "Your evening is about to get a whole lot worse, so prepare for hunger-induced arguments, jealous rages when it seems like everyone around you - even people you swear arrived after you did - are seated first, and, while we feel badly for you, there's nothing we can do because we are going to be seated long before you will! Too bad, so sad."

Imagine their surprise and outrage when our buzzer went off just a few moments after their patronizing, prideful glance. Then imagine their frustration as they tried to figure out who we are, who we might possibly be related to or "relating with" to get service like that. Needless to say, the glare got a little more menacing as we high-tailed it over to our table.

What's so weird about that? Nothing, really. But that's just the background, I'm setting the scene. The really weird part of our evening came after we had finished eating and our waitress packaged up our leftovers. Like most servers, when we asked her to wrap up the rest of our meals, she took our plates behind those mysterious swinging doors and emerged with a plastic bag containing the two boxes of our leftovers. Still nothing weird about that, I agree. Here's where it gets, umm, different...

After she put the doggy bag on our table, the guy at the table across from us stood up and cornered the waitress in the middle of the restaurant.

"Who are they?!?" He demanded, pointing in our direction. Our waitress, as confused as we were, replied that we were customers (obviously).

"Are they better customers than I am? Are they special customers?"

Still confused, our waitress assured him that all her customers are equally special.

"Then why did you treat them better than me? Why do they get better service? When I asked to take home my leftovers you brought me a box and I did it myself at the table. When they asked, you took their plates to the back and did it for them! And," he added, as his voice carried over the other diners in our area and they all stopped eating and stared at us, "you gave them a bag! A bag!! I didn't get a bag! So who are they that you treat them so much better than me?"

Realizing her "grave" error, our trusty server apologized, offered to bring him a plastic bag, and explained that usually for one box of leftovers (his), a bag isn't necessary, but for multiple boxes (ours), most customers liked getting a bag. Then the *ahem* gentleman informed her that it was too late for that, that the slight had already occurred, that he was very upset with her and the whole dining experience. And with that, he stormed out (after giving Andrew and I an evil stare for good measure).

To top off this ridiculous display and further brighten the spotlight that mercilessly shined on us, the over-confident family from the waiting room were seated next to us as this fiasco went down. They heard and saw the whole debacle. Shaking their heads at us for causing more trouble at the Longhorn, Andrew and I knew they finally understood the price of our fame. Or learned some other lesson, like: avoid busy steakhouses on Saturday nights, or never make eye contact with lunatics, or if you're gonna be accused of using your (real or imagined) fame, you'd best bring your own paparazzi!

~Sarah