There are certain things in life I will never understand: why printers jam only when you’re late, why the grocery store has only one cashier during rush hour, and why — in a restaurant full of empty booths — someone always chooses the table right next to me. It’s like a gravitational pull. The universe sees me settle into a quiet corner with my coffee and my laptop and says, “Send in the couple. Yes, that couple. They look hungry. And loud.”
Now, most days I can handle the proximity. People are people. They sit where they sit. But there is one behavior that sits firmly at the top of my personal list of Dining Red Flags: the phenomenon I call The Noisy Finger Lick.
Let’s cut to the chase: chicken wings are messy. Ribs are messy. Anything that requires a stack of napkins is messy. I accept that. But what I cannot wrap my head around is the performance some people put on when cleaning their fingers. Somewhere along the way, a segment of the population began licking sauce from their fingertips with the enthusiasm of someone trying to siphon gasoline from a lawnmower. It’s less of a lick and more of a ceremonial slurp, complete with sound effects that could wake a sleeping bear.
And here’s the thing: there is a perfectly quiet way to do it. Insert finger. Swipe slowly as you bring it out. Done. No theatrics, no audio track, no impression of a shop vac trying to pick up the last Cheerio under the couch. Just a simple, silent, socially acceptable gesture.
But for some reason, many people go straight to the loud version, the version that suggests they’re about to win a medal for “Most Audible Consumption of Sauce in a Public Setting.” I’ve sat near folks who lick one finger at a time like they’re starting a five-part series. They pause between each one, inhale dramatically, and then smack and slurp to the next. And the worst part? They always look so pleased with themselves afterward, like they’ve just executed a flawless sommelier-level manoeuvre.
Maybe it’s cultural, habit, or blissful obliviousness. But sitting there, trying to write or think or simply enjoy a quiet meal, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been unwillingly drafted into someone else’s sensory experience. There I am, mentally composing an article for publication or a sports rant or a blog entry about the nature of confidence, and suddenly my train of thought gets derailed by the unmistakable sound of someone trying to vacuum their own hands.
And it always seems to happen in clusters. One loud finger-licker finds the booth next to me, and before long, it’s like the universe has opened the floodgates for every single decibel-loving eater within a 10-mile radius. The wings arrive. The sauce begins its journey. The soundtrack begins. Some days I swear I can hear it echoing off the tabletops.
What fascinates me is how unnecessary it is. You can be as messy and enthusiastic as you want — that’s between you and the napkin — but there’s no requirement that you announce each step of the process to the rest of the restaurant. Nobody in the building needs real-time auditory updates on how well the sauce is sticking to your hands.
But here’s the upside: I’ve learned to turn these moments into material. These little human quirks — the booth-choosers, the loud finger-lickers, the people who talk on speakerphone in a public house — they’re all part of the never-ending buffet of slice-of-life absurdity. And packaged properly, they become stories, observations, and rants. The small, relatable things that make people nod and laugh and think, “Yes, I’ve seen that too.”
So if nothing else, the next time someone settles into the booth beside me in a half-empty restaurant and begins their own personal rendition of The Finger-Licking Philharmonic, I’ll remind myself: it’s all content.
John Berkovich Talks 