Let me just open this correspondence, Mr. Owner, by informing you that I have enjoyed an excellent meal in your establishment on many an occasion. But never-the-less I have a two-part question for you: 1) Why are the seats in your booths so darn low? and . . . 2) Do you have boobs?
The reason I'm asking, Mr. Owner of the Pricey Restaurant, is that last night my husband and I went to your restaurant because. . .well . . . because today is my birthday and I had a gift certificate. (You see, I never actually pay for my own meals in your restaurant , Mr. Owner, 'cause you're far too expensive for me, but I quite often find myself there at the behest of other people.) And as we were oh-so-graciously escorted to Table 166 by your Maitre d', I could see that we were heading to a beautiful booth in a corner of the main dining room.
A dream come true, you might say. . .
Now, in all fairness to your employees, the Maitre d' cleary motioned that I should sit on the side in the further-most corner (for no doubt he was already aware of the peculiarities of this particular booth) but you know me, Mr. Owner. . . always thinking of others. . . so- birthday or not - I immediately decided I would give the better seat to my husband and proceeded to shimmy into the other side of the booth like a lamb to the slaughter.
The first red flag should have gone up when I hit my knee on the table leg in so-doing.
And when I came to a complete stop and the Maitre d' tried to put my menu in front of me, Mr. Owner, it became painfully clear that there was no place to put it.
That's right, the distance between the back of the booth and the beginning of the table totaled somewhere around eight inches. (That's equivalent to about 20 centimeters for you readers from foreign countries.) And the distance from the seat bench to the table was. . .well, I'm not going to bother running and measuring the distance from my derriere to the bottom of my boobs in both inches and centimeters right now . . . but let it just suffice to say that the table was exactly breast-high.
Now A Mom on Spin has been accused of being many things, Mr. Owner, but I have never been accused of being petite. Or flat-chested. Or slight. Or thin. Or, better yet, concave - which was what a female sitting on this side of the booth needed to be. . .
And there was Drip Dry on the other side, sitting comfortably with room to spare.
A quick measurement of the paneling on the wall confirmed my suspicions that the table was clearly not equidistant to each side of the booth.
A quick shake of the table confirmed my suspicions that it was firmly anchored into the floor.
And a quick glance at the look on Drip Dry's face confirmed my fear that my problem was evident for all to see.
You see, as fate would have it I was wearing my Victoria's Secret Incredible Bra. . . the one Trigger measured me for when she worked there this summer ('cause it's a bra for like large-breasted women, Mom . . . ) so my top-secret-pushed-up-incredible-boobs (their word, not mine. . . ) were all-but laying on the table like the first course in a five course meal. And to make matters worse, Mr. Owner, because your establishment is so elegant I wasn't even given a second to adjust myself, for suddenly the waitress, the sommelier, and the - I don't know what you call him, but the - water-filler guy. . . all swooped down on us like vultures on fresh roadkill.
Sacre maroon!
What to do?
Luckily for you, Mr. Owner, my knee-jerk reaction when faced with any emergency is to head straight for the wine, and so your fleet of employees was deftly dispatched - leaving me a nano-second to put my problem-solving skills to work once more.
And so it was that by the time the waitress returned with that wine, I was comfortably seated on the other side of the table enjoying the view of the dining room.
And Drip Dry? Although he may not have been quite comfortably seated, he at least was able to view his menu.
