A European Quiz
I went into the nice European restaurant and asked for a table for one. Or two, that’s fine, the question at the end of this has nothing to do with how many people were at the table. We hung our coats on the backs of our chairs, sat down, and waited for the menus. When they came, we thanked the waiter who brought them, then chose our food. I held the menus upright in my hands to signal we were ready, and when the waiter eventually came back, we ordered.
The restaurant was filling up, and I looked at the two empty seats at our table for four. I love the idea of inviting strangers to share a table, and when it happens in beer halls and the like it’s either a non-event or a good one. Perhaps nothing reminds us that we’re guests on this planet like being guests at a table. But no, I didn’t invite anyone to sit.
The restaurant got warmer and louder as it filled up, and before long I was leaning in and half-yelling my side of our conversation. All that energy in the room, I had to take my sweater off, and I hung it over the back of my chair. But people kept knocking it off as they walked past, so I started holding it in my lap. Maybe if I hadn’t done that, it all would have gone differently.
I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it was someone’s perfume or a gust of pollen on the wind, but a beast of a sneezing fit hit me, right there at the table. Three, four, it may have been five. People were giving me that tight-necked lack of looks, but I had a bigger problem. My nose was a leaky gutter. My bounty overfloweth. But I had no tissues, just my sweater in my lap. And my napkin. So yes, I blew my nose in my napkin. A giant honking blast. Gooshy.
But that wasn’t it. Four more sneezes swept through. Oh man, no fair, can’t a guy catch a break? The gutter was still leaking, but my napkin was sodden. So I did what I had to do. Right into my sweater. A big nasal explosion into the fine weave. When a guy at the next table over rolled his eyes, I told him his sweater was next, especially if it was his perfume that had set me off.
I’m tempted to go on with my fictional dinner party, but I think it’s time for the question.
At what point had I first behaved rudely, in this scenario?
I’m not sure of the answer, but it’s a hell of a humourous story!
Perhaps it would have been an idea to retire to a bathroom?
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I was tempted to keep going from there, believe me!
The surprise I recently learned is that most Europeans find it quite rude to remove a garment at the table, even an outer layer easily taken off. Those poor civilized folk will just sit and sweat, unless they can excuse themselves to the bathroom to take off that sweater. I can’t help but picture the British guards in their giant fur hats, passed out facedown on the gravel…
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No idea. In Australia the only way to get the waiter to come is to close the menu and put it down.
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I think we need a post about how to get the waiter’s attention in various countries. I’ve tried stacking the menus and leaving them half falling off the table in an attempt to grab their interest. But I’m curious, the answer I recently learned is that most Europeans find it rude to take clothing off at the table, even an outer layer. Is that true in Australia, or are you uncouth barbarians like me?
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Never encountered a concern about clothing, although I think nudism in a restaurant would be discouraged.
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Don’t worry, I didn’t think it was THAT interesting over yonder. I think you’d have to go back in time to reach a place so accepting.
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I’m going to guess that not offering your two empty seats in a crowded restaurant was the first rude act. I’ve been invited to sit at a shared table many times while traveling.
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That’s what I would have said too, but (unless it’s a beer hall or such, anywhere with trestle tables, basically) the answer was taking off the sweater at the table. To most Europeans, undressing at the table is rude. When I learned this I had to wonder how many times I’d stripped off an outer layer without every thinking about it. Apparently you’re supposed to go to the bathroom if you need to take something off. I’m such a barbarian!
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