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We’re pretty sure how we’ll die.
We’re going to be cut down in a fusillade of automatic weapons fire sprayed by a terrorist about halfway through a Reuben.
It’s not the terrorist who’ll be into the Reuben. It’ll be us. The terrorist is the one who will burst into the sandwich shop where we’re eating. We’ve come to this conclusion because we enjoy terrifically going for lunch in a place like that, one packed thick with local workers, bustling with the activity of eating. We score a table in a corner, unfold (or unlock) the reading material we’ve brought, and we leisurely work our way through lunch absolutely absorbed in the food and the reading. We’ll look up and see that people have come in, ordered, and are eating, and we were completely oblivious to them.
And one day, one of those people is going to be a crazed terrorist, one hell-bent on destroying America by attacking its soft underbelly. Those places where the pastrami’s just the right kind of fatty, the mustard spicy, the pickles with just that delicious, firm snap.
So, we’ll die. Face down, our last breath filled with the lovely aroma of freshly sliced rye. But we’ll go down happy. That’s how much, anyway, that we enjoy dining alone. We think Nubar Gulbenkian put it best when he said “the ideal number of dinner is two: me and my headwaiter.”
We mention all this because there has been of late a lot of folderol about the arrangements at Table (below), a place where the seating could best be described as “dormitory style.” Long tables are laid end to end. It doesn’t matter if you’ve got reservations or if you’re seeking an intimate setting for a tête-à-tête with You Know Who. You go to Table for dinner, you’re going to find your butt in whatever seats happen to be open.
And maybe that will be at a table with a fellow diner who turns out to be witting and charming and with whom you end up bonding and the whole thing culminates with your explaining to the kids how Mommy and Daddy first met over a plate of pork cheek ragu. And then again, maybe you will be sharing your table with a troupe of Romanian fire dancers in town with the circus who keep filching the braised pig ear off your plate while they distract you by juggling forks.
We can understand the disinclination to be close enough to a stranger that you have to ask, “Is that glass of rosé yours or mine?” And we can see where you really don’t have anything useful to add to a dinner conversation about whether your tablemates are going to spend the summer vacation in Branson or at Epcot. (Go with Branson. Dolly’s Dixie Stampede is like totes awesome.) Life may be like a box of chocolates, but you don’t necessarily want to spend an evening with a group of raspberry crèmes or maple walnuts when you’re really in the mood for chewy caramel.
On the other hand, there is a frisson in contemplating the possibility of having not only a lovely meal but an encounter with someone who could introduce you to the delights of crispy beef tongue, thereby very well changing your life. Go to any casino in town and take a look: those people aren’t just there for getting fashion tips. They’re throwing the dice—literally—in hope of getting lucky. Frankly, we like our chances sitting down over a plate of cauliflower empanadas with someone we don’t know over how the evening might conclude when we take on the dealer at video blackjack.
We’re not saying we want every dinner to be the kind of Default Dining Companion roulette of the sort offered at Table. We’ve already made clear our affection for what can be found between a couple of slices of rye accompanied by nothing more in terms of companionship than what’s waiting between the glossy pages of The Rake. We are simply suggesting you not turn down a wonderful, delicious, and enjoyable meal available at the sort of place like Table, just because you might be sharing a plate of grilled chorizo skewers with the West Indian cricket team. (Who will not, you are forewarned, buy after the first round.)
Besides, when that terrorist comes through the door just as you’re tucking into a platter of braised lamb shanks (with polenta), or those tequila mussels, well, let’s just say there’s safety in numbers.
Interior photos at Table by Kevin A. Roberts
