14 May 2022
Saturday. The busiest night of my week, and therefore the night I am least willing to set a table for two.
On a Tuesday a pair is charming. Intimate. One may talk across the table without raising one’s voice. On a Saturday, with the whole of Northbridge out on the town, a table for two is a waste of linen, and the management agrees with me, which is rare enough that I am writing it down: four or more on a Saturday.
There is a loophole, and I approve of it the way one approves of a back door into the kitchen. A pair or a trio may ring the venue on the day, or simply turn up, and if a Saturday sitting is sitting empty, they may have it.
Tonight a trio did exactly that. I had laid six places. Three stood in a row like a reproach. I was out buying a better mustard when they came round, and by the time I got back they had gone, leaving the three empty chairs exactly as I had left them, which I found unexpectedly considerate.
Six seats here, I remind myself. Not seven. The fire officer has been quite firm about the seventh chair.
— B., your host
