As excited as I was to finally meet Matthew Williamson, my most favorite designer, I obviously needed to figure out where to eat after the party. I am sure that most fashionistas attending the party were not bothered with such concerns, but food is always ahead of fashion for me. I happened to be in the Meatpacking District early on the day of the party, and I decided to pop into the Standard to see about a dinner reservation- it is around the corner from the Matthew store and I was in the mood for chicken. Itook my hair down from my pony tail, shaked it around to a perfect dishevel, and walked up to the two hostesses, at the host desk, which obviously has a computer.
Me: Hi, I would like to see about making a reservation for dinner tonight.
Asshole: Yeah, we don’t take reservations, you have to call the reservationists.
Me: Really? I live in the neighborhood and thought that maybe you could just see what you have available.
Asshole: Here is the number, you have to call them, we like can’t do that.
Me: I don’t need the card, I know how to use the phone, thank you for nothing.
Are you fucking serious?? What exactly is your job if you can’t take a goddamn reservation? What is on that computer screen- Snood? I should have taken the fucking card and called the magical reservation land (which is probably downstairs or like five feet away) while I was standing there.
That is just an asinine system- what is the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t just pop in and talk to people face to face? Even the Waverly, the most exclusive venue in terms of reservations, welcomes people to come and talk to the hostess. Idiots…I guess it would have been above and beyond to actually expect them to call themselves, them being so busy just staring at that computer screen.
