Soob

The newest craze in restaraunteering seems to be a policy of not taking reservations, instead relegating patrons to a cattle like herd behavior of milling about and waiting for the next available table. I'm inclined to believe that such practice is directly adhered to in hopes that the wayward hungry will imbibe in an alchoholic libation to stave off intense waves of impatience as they stare hopefully at a UFO looking device that will blink erradically in celebration as the prospect of eating becomes a reality.

And it was we sat in the lounge of a restaraunt awaiting our table, dutifully imbibing and watching the soundless television over the bartenders head. 60 minutes was on and seemed to be playing a well deserved year end remembrance of the recently departed Ed Bradley. And so it was that I overheard the following conversation from a couple seated next to us at the bar:

Him: (points to television) "He's dead, isn't he?"

Her: "Yeah. What was his name? ...Wallace... Somebody Wallace, I think."

Him: (nodding sagely) Yeah. Wallace. Uhhh, George. George Wallace. That's his name."

Her: (nodding sagely) Right, that's it.

Me: "Exactly. Sad to see him go. Good man that George."

Her: (affecting a pained and compassionate expression) Yeah, sad.