Separate Checks

Twenty one ladies, the waiter protested half heartedly, Twenty one separate checks! Where's the justice?

We had to smile at his frustration. In contrast to the restaurant which was filled to capacity and beginning to sound more like a sports arena than an upscale dining establishment, the bottle shop was deserted, the lights dimmed to a mellow level on this Thursday evening. The restocking was done, the empty wine cases removed, the bottles dusted and the counters cleaned. We were, as we do most evenings, hoping for the occasional customer and killing time. Other than making change for a few cash tickets and filling a few requests for a particular bottle of wine, we were idle while the restaurant looked like a coordinated but futile effort to herd ants.

It was then that we noticed the cat, a good sized orange tom, casually strolling past the section of Reislings and headed for the dining area. This was so unexpected that it took a moment or two to comprehend, then remembering that we were governed by health department rules, we sprang into action. Regrettably, our hesitation had given the cat the advantage and with a defiant over the shoulder look, he broke into a brisk trot and was nearly to the hostess stand by the time we caught up. Abandoning any hope of discretion, we unceremoniously scooped him up and made a hasty retreat back to the bottle shop. Table for one? a customer at the bar asked as we passed, Check his id! another yelled from a corner. No shirt, no shoes, no service! yet another called, hospitality industry humor being somewhat limited. The Lord protects fools and drunks, I thought to myself as I carried the unwelcome guest to the mall's outer door and deposited him on the sidewalk with a firm command to scat. He gave me a look that managed to convey contempt, resentment and injured pride all in one very cat-like expression then turned and sauntered across the parking lot. Your loss, I imagined he was thinking.

By nine the crowd had thinned out and only a handful of tables were occupied. The twenty one ladies with twenty one separate checks had come and gone, their evening out completed, their server disgusted by the scant tip they had left, tempted to follow them into the parking lot and say that they had forgotten their change. Instead, he shrugged, cleared the table and like the cat, moved on.

You just can't shame a cat or a bad tipper.