Not to the Manner Born

Last Sunday my son Shaurya and I went out for dinner to Blini. It's a small restaurant at Anand Market that serves Russian fare. We'd been there a couple of times before. The place has four tables and a limited menu but is great on service and limitless in charm.

We reached at about 8 PM and found all tables taken. Boris the owner, Captain, cook and Maitre'de wryly shrugged and asked us to wait about twenty minutes. We decided to take a walk. Going downstairs, we crossed this couple. The guy, an Anglo-Saxon was clad in a bedraggled Tee shirt and shabby shorts. Shabby had this creature clinging onto his arm who was maybe far-eastern (Fern). Fern was expressing her undying love vocally and physically….and very publicly. We smiled by way of greeting, which this modern-day Romeo-Juliet were oblivious of.

Fifteen minutes later we were back at the entrance when I saw with some dismay that Shabby and Fern were also standing outside. I walked in and looked at Boris. He smiled this time and said, “Aynother tayn meenutes”. When I told Shaurya this, he laughed and said the food would be worth the wait. Shabby now notices us and questions me.

“Uhh, ummm uh what’d he say”?

I say “Who”.

“Boris, off course”.

I say” Oh another ten minutes”.

“Aaahh”.

Silence thereafter was punctuated by Fern’s giggles and groans. “He’s always rude y’know”, grunts Shabby. I can’t agree so I say “Not really”. Fern finds this hilarious. But soon she’s all over Shabby and they promptly ignore us.

That’s when the door opens and the waitress beckons us. Shaurya walks in. I am about to follow them when Fern lets go with a shrieking yell. “How dare you, we are before you, the table is ours”. I stop. I am mumbling, about Boris, about the wait, about us crossing them on the stairs. Fern is having nothing of this. Shabby now turns Neanderthal, “We are going to take that table”. The vision of a quiet, peaceful dinner has gone puff. The Alpha in me is subdued by the desire to be polite. I call Shaurya. That’s when Boris steps in. He appears to have had enough. “Zey wer heeyer beefore you, the table is theirs, you want to eat, you wait”. Shabby mumbles something under his breath, Fern as lady-like as ever bows theatrically and says the F word. We stumble in now very unsure.

Just then another table is vacated. Boris gestures at Shabby who clambers onto it. Fern is still going yackety-yack.

Dinner continues. I play around with my Lamb Stew with Rice while Shaurya valiantly attempts to finish his fries, chicken steak and coke; all at once. “Wonder why the beer tastes bitter, should we order some dessert”. Shaurya smiles and says something about the manner in which it’s made, the manner in which it’s served.

Manners- to which some are never born.