Ladies Who Lunch

“That’s my car!” shouted the guest, one of six ladies who’d made a late afternoon reservation and then arrived late.

Ladies who lunch.

I remember my most favorite teacher ever–my 6th grade teacher–who later turned up as a substitute teacher to my kids in elementary school, who turned out to be only nine years older than I was; who said, when I asked her to have lunch with me, “I don’t lunch.”

My former counterpart used to describe these guests as “ladies who lunch and split salads.” He routinely sat pain-in-the-ass servers with them. They never tipped well, and they generally complained about everything.

And now I had one in my midst, scrambling to get out of her chair, scurry through the dining room, and dash out the door. The other five ladies at her table turned as one to stare out the window to watch as their friend ran across the street and tried to cajole a city parking official not to boot her car.

Somehow, ladies who lunch and booted SUVs didn’t seem to mesh.

Apparently, they do. Because nothing my lunch lady could say or do could stop the parking lady from bolting a bright orange boot on the front wheel on the driver’s side of my guest’s car.

“Oh no, they’re doing it,” lamented one of the lunch lady’s friends.

“She’s right there and she’s still getting booted!” moaned another, as though the lunch lady’s mere presence could stop the parking lady from doing her job. (If I wrote the blog for the parking lady who boots cars….)

“Uh, uh, uh,” clucked another.

Now we all watched, as if viewing a silent movie through the plate glass window. After much discussion and gesturing back and forth with the parking lady, my guest crossed the street and returned to the restaurant.

“Do you have a computer I can use?” she asked, breathless. “If I pay the parking tickets online right now, they’ll take the boot off this afternoon.”

A computer? To use? Right now?

Oh, you mean the only computer in the back office, where I routinely throw childish tantrums in order to toss a sous chef, the bar manager, or my coworker off the keyboard so I can answer the private-event email that piles up every day?

That computer?

“Certainly,” I smiled. “I’ll go back in the office and see what’s available.”

And I am thinking, if she has to use a computer before she can sit down to lunch, she–and we–will be here through dinner.

But divine intervention played a trump card, because there was Chef, back in the office, pounding away at his laptop.

Genius.

“Hey, Chef,” I smiled through the partially opened door. “Could you lend your laptop to a guest for just a second so she can pay her parking fines and get a boot off her car?” As if this was a guest service we routinely provided.

He stared up at me for a second, sort of comprehending, frowned, hesitated, then caved–as if this was a guest service we routinely provided.

“Yeah, okay,” he grumbled. “Hang on.”

And out he trundled to the bar, his chef coat mostly buttoned up, the laptop under his arm, where my anxious guest waited.

“Oh, you brought the computer to me! Thanks,” she said, as if this were a guest service we routinely provided.

What followed was a half dozen attempts by Chef and my lady who lunches to navigate the city government’s Web site in order to pay the bill in precisely the right way to ensure the boot would be removed within hours. It seemed to take forever.

Chef typed while the lady recited ticket numbers and credit card details. I looked over both their shoulders, half afraid to see the grand total my lunch lady owed in fines.

It was less than $250.

Wow, my city means business with the boots! Who knew?

Finally, the deal was done, and Chef printed out a confirmation.

“Now I don’t have any money to eat,” pouted my lunch lady, sounding very much like she wasn’t kidding.

Great. This lunch was doomed. And her friends still waited at the table.

It went downhill from there. The server didn’t bring straws for the iced tea, “I can’t find anything I can eat on this menu,” sniped one, and all the while the boot remained in place, glowing neon orange in full view of the ladies.

“They are getting on my last nerve,” complained the server.

“They are such pains!” snapped the server who was acting as the back waiter.

“Tip, what tip?” quipped the server.

“Not another word about it on the floor!” I admonished, fearful the ladies would hear all.

But the ladies eventually found something to order, and when we served their food, they nodded appreciatively.

And then, with soft jazz playing in the background, they acted again as one, this time bowing their heads as my lunch lady led them in prayer.

And not a short prayer.

She spoke a heartfelt, meaningful prayer–for their friendship, their wonderful meal, their blessings on this earth.

Please understand, I do not reside in Texas, the South, or any other place resembling a place where people pray in restaurants before meals.

I live in a city filled with self-important, arrogant, tunnel-visioned big-wigs for whom praying in a public restaurant–at lunch, no less–would be incomprehensible. Laughable.

But no one laughed as these ladies prayed. As if ladies who lunch routinely prayed in our dining room.

They also ignored the “Gratuity Included” message we stamp on every check for six or more guests, and tipped some more.

“That is not necessary,” said the chagrined server.

“No, you all were so helpful to me,” said my lunch lady. “It’s the least I can do.”

And as they left, the orange boot was still firmly in place over the driver’s side of my lunch lady’s car’s wheel.

“Do you want to leave me a cell phone number, and I’ll call you when the boot is gone?” I asked, assuming the ladies would go shopping or something to pass the time.

“No, no,” laughed my lady. “We’ll just wait in the car until they come take off the boot.”

Which they did.

I glanced outside an hour later and my lady’s SUV was gone.

All had worked out.

On a wing and a prayer.