It’s time for my weekly rant, which, like all the others in this series, is based on experiences I’ve had more than once over the years.
On my way back to the hotel from a day of sightseeing during a two-week vacation, I parked my rental car and walked into a quiet, seat-yourself restaurant for dinner. There were twenty-four booths, a bar, and zero customers because it was still too early for the dinner crowd. I figured I would have at least twenty minutes to myself; it was peaceful, and I was looking for solitude and pre-hotel room unwind time. I slid into a booth at the far end of the establishment with my back to the entrance, ready to enjoy my beverage, my chicken salad wrap and soup, and some time for reflection.
And then … they arrived. A group of four walks into the restaurant, and out of all the booths available, they choose the booth right behind me. Out of all the real estate they could have claimed, including at least a dozen booths with a better view, they decided: Right. Behind. Me. Why? Just … why? They had options. They had a sea of clean, untouched booths, a corner booth on the vacant other side, or four tables on the empty, small patio on a deliciously warm and sunny afternoon. But no. They saw a lone diner at the back and collectively thought, That’s the exact proximity we want. Close enough to share germs and body spray molecules and close enough so that the lone diner can hear us eating our chicken wings like pigs and slurping our beverages.
This isn’t assigned seating; it’s common sense and universal. The rule is simple: maximize the space. We’re not in a mosh pit. You won’t hear any secrets from my booth because I am dining alone. Somebody’s head is now a foot from mine. Your group sat down, and suddenly my personal space shrinks by 84 percent. A laminated board and a thin layer of regret separate us. If I lean back, my head touches someone’s backwards cap. I now know who uses Axe Dark Temptation body spray; frankly, I didn’t need to.
You’re not just too damn close — you’re annoyingly loud. You didn’t come in for a relatively quiet dinner, or even a moderately noisy one. No, your group is loudly and proudly sharing every lip smack, every detail of a root canal, co-worker drama, new girlfriend someone finally slept with, and vacation photos and videos. Meanwhile, I’m trying to enjoy my meal without learning about the unfortunate shape of your cousin’s latest tattoo. Were you folks hoping to engage in conversation with me? Maybe you saw me and thought, He must want company. I don’t. And it’s too late to move, nor should I have to. I’m sitting where I am and with my back to anyone who comes in because I want to just relax and eat before the evening rush. I’m in a great mood, at least I was until you sat where you did, but if I wanted a community dining experience, I’d be at a food court. If I wanted conversation, I’d chat with the bartender. I came here for a booth to myself, and possibly even dessert. Not for your group to narrate your lives and loudly suck on your fingers near my ear canal.
There is a reason the server looked at you funny. They saw your group bypass every other booth like you were on a mission, and they saw me roll my eyes with a You gotta be kidding me! look and sigh when you sat down. They’ve seen this before and they know better. Your group? You’re new to the game or just ignoring the playbook completely. Give me a two-booth buffer; three or four is better. Give me and us a neutral zone and a personal-space demilitarized zone. You wouldn’t park beside someone in an empty lot or use the urinal next to a guy when there are eight empty ones in the same row. The rules are the same here.
So the next time you walk into a quiet and nearly empty restaurant and have, besides my booth, your pick of the place, remember: just because I’m here doesn’t mean I want to guess your shampoo brand in five whiffs or less. Sit somewhere else and remember the buffer zone.
John Berkovich Talks 