Sir. You wearing the beret. Standing directly in front of my podium. I see you, and I assure you I know you want a table. Fanning a menu in my face is not necessary to gain my attention.
Madam. My hearing is quite keen. When I tell you I don’t see your name in our reservation book, there is no need to slowly and deliberately shout the spelling of your first and last names. I will find you a table, regardless.
Eleven-year-old young man. I quite understand that dining out with 15 adults is nothing short of torture for you, especially 15 adults who don’t have a reservation and expect to be seated right away. You must settle down, however, and cease taking matchbooks from the basket at my podium and throwing them at the mural-sized, original oil painting in our foyer.
Very important executive. Rapping your knuckles on my podium forces this maitre ‘d to consider starting a half-hour wait, just for you. But then, you’d still be there in front of me, continuing to play an annoying, live game of “Knock Knock.”
Group of teenagers on spring break. Tell your parents they raised you right. You looked me in the eye, said please and thank you when appropriate, and waited patiently to be seated. Even better, we exchanged a look of “understanding” about the guy wearing the beret. Dessert is on me.