A Night Out

"Somebody else could declare war with less trepidation and uncertainty than a Jew picking a restaurant. Which is the best one, and how to find it, and how much they charge, and what is the main dish compared to the other ones. This one is good, but I don't like their appetizer. This one has a good chopped liver, but I don't like their soup. You watch Jews selecting a restaurant, it's like a family that's choosing a bride."  Jackie Mason on NYC Jews
Picking a restaurant is one thing.  Getting seated is another.  Last night, hubby and I met our friends Andy and Kathi at a cute little French restaurant in Sherman Oaks, emphasis on little.  Hence the name: Le Petit Restaurant.  We should've known we were in trouble when we saw the sign on the front door:  "We reserve the right to ignore you un peu."  That's right.  The SJG speaks French... badly. (Ask hubby.)  Now, as everyone knows by now, hubby is not, repeat not, a waiter, and I'm not talking about the kind who takes your order (assuming you ever get seated).  Hubby does not wait.  Waiting goes against his core religious beliefs.  To make him wait is to piss off Mr. SJG.  Don't go there.  How many times must I remind you?

"Hi," I told the maitre d', after shoving my way through the crowded purgatoire of would-be diners.  It was raining and these people smelled like wet dogs.  I needed to get past them rapidement.  I may have jabbed a few (accidentally) with my drippy  umbrelly.  "Schneider, party of four, 7 p.m."  The maitre d' eyed his list, then moi. "You made a reservation?"  (Uh-oh.)  I repeated the pertinent info, sensing a cluster @#$% on the horizon.  Again, he checked the reservations. "We have two Schneiders.  One at 7, one at 7:30."  Hmm.  Major coinky-dink, or a soupcon of b.s.? 

"We're the 7 o'clock Schneiders."  I gave it my best dramatic reading, yet it moved him not. "I've already seated the 7 o'clock Schneiders."  It's important to note that hubby stayed out of this exchange.  (Convenient.)  He leaned against the wall, trying to disengage.  Andy and Kathi were stuck 12 people back. They were no help at all.  It was up to the SJG to sort through this impending disaster on my own.  I'd made the ill-fated reservation, so clearly, it was my freakin' fault.  (Why can't it be somebody else's fault for a change?)  "Could you point them out to me?" I asked.  "They just might be the same Schneiders who owe us money.  Wouldn't that be a hoot?"

The maitre d' tilted his head in a northerly direction, and off I went to meet the a-holes who were seated (unknowingly?) in the booth I'd reserved, because Kathi told me to reserve a booth.  I approached the table, flashing my meanest, most intimidating look.  Think Medusa, with a little Golda Meir thrown in.  Not pretty.  "Pardonez-moi. Are you the Schneiders?" I asked, unpleasantly.  They looked at each other, as if to say, "Who's the little bitch interrupting our meal?" "No.  We're the Bloombergs," Mr. Bloomberg said.  "And we're the Klempners," Mrs. Klempner said, with plenty attitude. "So.  Not the Schneiders, then?" the SJG said, suddenly British.  "I believe we've established that," Mrs. Bloomberg said.  "Sorry to disturb," I said, and trotted off.

The rest is a blur.  I'm told I beat the sh*t out of the maitre d' with my brolly, was arrested and taken to Sherman Oaks County Jail, where I'm posting this blog.  Hubby, Andy and Kathi are still trying to raise bail, but they're taking their sweet time.  It's up to you, my real friends, to get me out of here.  In other words: help.

Oh, fine. Parts of this story may be slightly exaggerated, but Andy told me I had to write a blog about this incident, so I am.  Does it matter that we left in a huff, went next door to the Great Greek and drank ourselves under the table?  Does it matter that Kathi, who's hosted two Bar Mitzvahs, pretended she didn't know how to do the Hora when a waiter tried to get her out of her chair to join the other inebriated fools dancing by our table?  Does it matter that Andy made the entire restaurant sing me happy birthday when it's not even my birthday?  Does it matter than I enjoyed the attention?  'Course not.  What matters is this:  Last night, we were four Jews out on the town, not taking sh*t from anyone.  You don't mess with the SJG and her homies.  You just don't.  Comprenez-vous?