Washington Post writer Roberto A. Ferdman has decided to take a stand for all right-thinking restaurant customers everywhere. Hark his words, for he is sick and tired of enduring that most insufferable of tyrannies: a server dared attempt to pre-bus his table.
For those of you who are not familiar with the term, pre-bussing refers to the practice of removing plates—or any other item the customer is done with—from the table before they’ve actually gotten up and left, but after they’re done with them. It is this notion which Ferdman considers beyond the pale of what any reasonable human being should be forced to endure in a recent post on Wonkblog:
“Are you done with that?” the server asked, fingers already comfortable with the rim of my plate. “Can I get it out of your way?”
Yes, I had finished eating, because I am a vacuum; there was no food left in front of me. But my friend had not. His meal was only half-consumed.
“No,” I said. “We’re not done eating.”
Oh God. I can hear the smarmy, self-important tone of that statement in my head, and it’s like nails on the blackboard of my brain. I’m having flashbacks to every customer upon whom I ever silently and fervently wished Ricketts. Deep breaths.
The thing is, Ferdman’s op-ed, when it’s not busy veering off into the crotchety ramblings of someone with roughly the same understanding of the restaurant industry as a dazed gosling, is underpinned by an actually reasonable point. As a customer, you have every right to enjoy your meal in peace,* and you shouldn’t feel like you’re being rushed out the door. That is a valid complaint!**
Who Ferdman apparently chooses to blame for it, however, renders his argument painfully moronic:
Without my permission, restaurants have abandoned, or simply overlooked, a classic tenet of service etiquette (I’m talking about entrees, not the ubiquitous small plates, which demand a different etiquette). Rather than clear plates once everyone at the table has finished the meal, which has long been the custom, servers instead hover over diners, fingers twitching, until the very instant someone puts down a fork. Like vultures, they then promptly snatch up the silverware — along with everything else in front of the customer. If you’re lucky, they might ask permission before stealing your plate.
Excuse me, I need to locate my eyeballs; they seem to have rolled out of my head and onto the carpet. We’re going to ignore the bafflingly insane “without my permission” at the start of this paragraph, because I’m choosing to believe Ferdman doesn’t seriously think restaurant culture should have to check with him every time it changes in any way (I’m being generous here). Instead, let’s focus on the poorly-chosen target of Ferdman’s ire, because it’s pretty indicative about the form into which pieces like this always seem to devolve.
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