A Restaurant Encounter

We met a friend for drinks at a popular south Florida restaurant last week.  Maria had half a martini left when we arrived.  "Good thing I got here early," she said.  "It's Happy Hour!  I'm going to try to hold this seat for Steve, but I think Derek might come, too." 

Charley and I perched on high stools across from Maria in the middle of the room.  The bartender was hustling along the length of a granite slab behind us.  Two women sat across from each other on the right end of our island.  Someone whose head was barely visible over the granite top stood waiting next to them, with her husband.  Those end stools would be vacant for maybe thirty seconds after the two women had licked their last drops.

A couple nursed Margaritas to our left and another couple cut into their appetizers across from us, next to Maria.

Steve came in, leaned in to give Maria a peck, and claimed the empty chair she'd saved.

Derek came in, cradling his pekingese against him like a babe.  The two women at the end got up to leave and Derek moved in. 

"Oh no,"  said Bobblehead from somewhere near the floor.  "We've been waiting for these seats."

"But I'm with this group," Derek said.

"Too bad," Bobblehead said, raising her haunches toward the bottom rung of the stool.

Derek came behind us. "Guess they're in a rush," he said, while I searched Lily's long hair tied into  bows, trying to find ears to scratch.   She was swaddled in a green jacket.

"Oh my God, it's a dog!  Dogs aren't allowed in restaurants," the woman next to Maria yelled, spitting some of her appetizer toward us.

"Yes they are, if they're service dogs," Derek said.

"I'm allergic!  You've got to get that dog out of here," the Spitter said.

"I don't have to do any such thing!  It's a service dog.  See the green jacket?"

"What kind of service could that pipsqueak perform?" Spitter asked Maria.

"I really don't know.  But they're allowed.  If you don't like it, write the Governor."

Maria turned to speak to us but didn't get a word out.  "Get that f______ dog out of here!" yelled the Spitter's husband from the left end.

"There's no need for that kind of language," I said.

"Everyone calm down," Charley said, pushing his palms downward in slow motion.

"I'll go outside and see if there are any tables where we can finish our drinks," I said in an attempt at peacemaker.  I still had half a Bloody Mary to finish.  No seats outside.

Mr. Foul Mouth wasn't finished.  "My wife is allergic!  Get that f______ dog out of here!"

Steve found his way to the hostess.  He and Derek had a dinner reservation, and Steve motioned to Derek the table was ready. 

Lily went along for the ride, and maybe for leftovers.   Maria, Charley, and I drained our drinks and found a quieter place to eat, as three women jumped in to take our stools.