I like small restaurants. Not so much the fancy ones with linen napkins and quiet lighting. I mean the little neighborhood places – the ones with eight tables and a bar that might seat four people if nobody breathes too deeply.
You go there because it’s familiar and comfortable. A place to sit down, eat something decent, and have a conversation. Or at least that’s the idea. However, every now and then, you walk into a place that feels less like a restaurant and more like the inside of a malfunctioning jukebox.
Let me explain. First, there’s the death metal. Yes, death metal. Blasting out of the kitchen. The door is wide open, so the sound pours into the dining room like a freight train made entirely of screaming guitars and drums that sound like someone attacking a pile of sheet metal with a hammer or using a chainsaw. Now here’s the thing: the clientele in this restaurant is older than I am by a good margin. Most of the people here likely remember when Frank Sinatra was still releasing new music. Death metal is not exactly their demographic.
You look around and see people chewing their sandwiches while a vocalist in the background sounds like he’s being eaten alive by wolves.
But wait. That’s just Layer One. Layer Two arrives from the restaurant speakers. The place has piped-in music, which is perfectly normal because many restaurants do. Except now we have two competing soundtracks, both on high volume: death metal roaring and grinding out of the kitchen, and loud country music drifting through the wall speakers in the dining area.
But we’re not done. Layer Three: the television mounted on the wall. It’s the news channel with the volume turned up so everyone can hear it (yes, it’s ironic, isn’t it?). Turn up the TV volume so it can be heard over the loud death metal and country music. It’s the news channel looping endlessly. This is the 28th time this hour we’ve heard about the government’s budget shortfall this year. The same headlines are repeating every few minutes like some kind of informational Groundhog Day.
Now the room has three different audio tracks competing for dominance: Death metal. Restaurant background music. Television news.
Oh, we’re not done yet. Somehow – incredibly – this still isn’t the loudest thing in the room. Because we have Layer Four.
The owner. This owner provides a running commentary on everything she does, at a volume that suggests she believes the restaurant is roughly the size of an airport terminal.
“I’M JUST GOING TO PUT THESE PLATES HERE!”
“OH – I NEED TO GRAB THE SALT!”
“I’LL BE RIGHT BACK!”
“NICE TO SEE YOU FRANK AND CHLOE, YOU CAN SIT ANYWHERE, I WILL BE RIGHT THERE!”
You don’t need to hear it, but you hear it anyway. You hear it because it is not spoken, it’s announced. She doesn’t talk to customers as she says her hellos. She yells at them even though she is four feet from them.
So now the dining experience sounds like this: Death metal from the kitchen. Restaurant music from the wall speakers. Television news from the wall. And a live play-by-play commentary from the owner describing the thrilling task of carrying condiments.
All inside a room the size of a modest living room. The amazing thing is that people keep eating here and coming back time after time.
They lean closer across the table to talk. They nod politely, pretending they heard because they don’t want to say, “Can you repeat that?” for the fourth time. They chew their sandwiches while a man in the kitchen appears to be screaming about the apocalypse. And you sit there thinking something very simple.
Restaurants used to understand one basic rule: People come here to eat and talk.
That’s it. Not to attend a multi-channel audio experiment. Not to watch cable news while death metal provides percussion. And have a conversation without needing to shout over four different soundtracks.
Apparently, that memo got lost. Probably drowned out by the music.
johnberkovich.com 