REMEMBER A TIME when you’d go out for a meal, and leave without having the faintest idea what was going on in the lives of those who dined at neighbouring tables?
Simpler times.
These days I’m more likely to know what Orla at the next table said to Sandra in HR than anything that happened in the life of the person at my own table because newer restaurants will seemingly only serve me if I’m sitting on the laps of fellow diners.
And naturally, this isn’t a Dublin phenomenon; most cities these days have an abundance of restaurants whose main goal it seems is to ensure a wholly awkward experience among its diners…oh, as long as you’re a twosome, that is.
A couple, a pair of friends or two colleagues; these places don’t discriminate. In other words, you may have thought you wanted a table for two, but it’s a table for 22 you’re getting.
Oh, and if you and the person you’re eating with aren’t asked to join a long dining table featuring pairs of people desperately trying to pretend they can’t hear every word of the conversations going on around them, then you’re guided to a real-life table for two… which boasts an entire milimetre of space between its edge and that of the one next to it.
In fact, this set-up has become so commonplace that I’m often stunned when I can move my glass in a restaurant without up-ending the stranger’s next to me or signal a waiter for more water without feeling compelled to mention that the strangers next to us have yet to get their extra portion of chips – something they’ve (rightfully) been raging about for the guts of ten minutes.
It takes a much braver person than me to truly relax into conversation in these scenarios. And the worst part? You feel more compelled than usual to make conversation with your dining partner just to prove you’re totally comfortable with the idea of openly sharing your thoughts while Neil at the next table involuntarily hears every word as he waits for Saoirse to return from the bathroom.
I’ve found that in these places tables fall into one of three categories, the talkers, the bluffers and the need-to-know-basers.
Let’s take the talkers; while technically you should applaud this couple for naturally refusing to let their proximity to every other diner restrict their conversation, you can’t help but feel that every sentence they utter only further highlights the lack of words being uttered at yours.
Then you’ve got the bluffers; the bluffers do their level best to mimic the talkers, but it’s fairly obvious to everyone around them that they’re simply trying to play ball, and generally breathe an audible sigh of relief when a waiter approaches their table and they can give up the jig, if only momentarily.
And then you have the need-to-know-basers. This pair are generally in a long-term relationship, and knew what they signed up for when choosing this particular restaurant, but will happily forego conversation for 90 minutes based on their admiration for the sides alone.
I’m a talker by nature, and yet this relatively recent approach – let’s say five to ten years at very most – to the lay-out of restaurant dining rooms reduces me to little more than a mime lately.
I struggle to walk and chew gum at the same time, so to be expected to maintain my own conversation while trying (and failing) to avoid eavesdropping on the one taking place milimetres away from me is more than I can handle.
Over the weekend, I was guided to a table by a waitress in a popular breakfast spot in Amsterdam, and in order to get into my seat – an eight-person bench against a wall – the American diner beside us had to physically lift her table with both hands in order for me to squeeze through and sit down beside her.
I was close enough to smell her perfume, while my partner’s thigh on the other side of the table brushed against her partner’s thigh for an agonising period of time as they attempted to do the impossible – create any semblance of space.
“Wow! This is weird,” she exclaimed as she lowered the table back down to the floor.
And she’s right, it was.
