On an average Manhattan Thursday night, no luck in the world and intercessory powers-that-be can get you a seat at any well-to-do restaurant without a reservation.
Unless you're Kim K.
Or, in some cases, "Super" Me.
In a town where there's no shortage of executive dining, there's one fine dining spot that has a hearty seafood risotto, and a delectable tartuffo with my "she's a regular" name in the owner's mind.
I even have a booth. It's the same booth that's reserved by plaques for the Executive Producer of a major ABC News program, the mayor of the Apple, a certain real estate mogul who "Trumps" all others. Oh, and some woman named Jane Seymour.
Dinner is everything in New York City (second to brunch, of course).
The unspoken yet known golden Apple rule of dining out with others: don't ever be late to dinner. Evah Evah. Especially when you know someone who can successfully sneak a non-reservation reservation.
That's where my dilemma comes in. The golden Apple rule directly contradicts the genetic code of Arab standard time.
And that's exactly what happened to me a few nights ago, when I sat at the Seymour/"Super"/Trump booth on my non-reservation reservation time, only to find that I had to kill time with smiles to the owner while waiting for that Arab timezone to align.
If there's a lesson to be learned here, I still don't know what it is. Maybe smile more?
Luckily the wait was over before my cheeks fell off.
To reconcile my adherence to Apple etiquette as well as the genetic code of my friends (and myself most times), I've now decided to use my non-reservation reservation locations with more discretion.
Sorry ladies. It's not that I don't love you. It's just that I can't imagine ever having to call ahead for tartuffo.