Blind Date

My psychology professors won’t admit it, but to truly understand people, try spending some time as a waitress. 

            As a “busgirl” in my college dining hall, I learned to spot freshmen trying to hide an eating disorder and upperclassmen planning to break up with an unsuspecting girlfriend that evening. During school vacations, I worked at Gino’s, a popular Italian restaurant in my hometown, where I learned to identify seemingly happy couples who really hated each other, teenagers afraid to tell their parents the truth about their sexuality, and other types of family dysfunction. Today, I supplement my meager graduate fellowship working the weekend shift at Bistro Benét, one of the few old-time French restaurants left in Boston. At Benny’s, as the staff calls it, I learned pretty quickly how to tell if an out-of-town businessman is dining with a professional colleague or his Boston girlfriend, not to mention whether the two sophisticated gentlemen enjoying an after-dinner cognac are sharing a post-prandial or pre-coital moment.

            I often share my observations with Mindy Jackson, the weekend shift supervisor. Mindy’s a year ahead of me in the MSW program and also planning to become a therapist. She’s worked at Benny’s for a few years and has good ideas about both waitressing and therapy.

            “Always keep your eyes open,” Mindy says one afternoon when our shift is winding down. “We’re here to help our guests in more ways than one.”

            Her warning really shocks me. “What do you mean?” I ask.

            “Sex traffickers.”

            I never thought something like this could happen in an upscale place like Benny’s, but to my horror, just a few weeks later, we noticed a frightened young girl, no more than in her mid-teens, clearly being bullied by her “father,” who kept running his hand across her back and up her thigh. Mindy alerted the manager, who told her to slip a note inside the menu telling the girl to cough loudly if she was afraid. The girl coughed so long and loud that everyone turned around to stare at them. The manager called the police, who took the girl to a shelter for abused women and arrested the “father,” who turned out to be a well-known local lawyer. The pubic never heard about it—it didn’t make the local news.

            Tonight, I recognize one of our guests as soon as he walks through the door, his date trailing behind him. He’s Professor Herbert L. Feinberg, the well-known psychologist, often quoted in the newspapers and a featured guest on many daytime talk shows. Also widely considered most arrogant and condescending faculty member in my entire university.

            Mindy recognizes him too. “The worst tipper in Boston,” she whispers.

            His date is a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman with short brown hair and a big, friendly smile she flashes at me when I approach their table with the menus. Professor Feinberg doesn’t even glance at me. Even if he did, he wouldn’t know who I am. He never recognizes any of us outside the advanced psych seminar last semester, although there were only six of us who met twice a week for 12 weeks.

            “Professor Feinberg?” I say politely.

            He beams. “Yes, my dear?” He is famous. Someone has recognized him, even if she’s only a waitress.

            “I was in your Case Studies in Crisis Management seminar last semester.”

            “Oh,” he says and stares at me. “And this is the best you can do with your university education? Waitressing?”

             “It’s a part-time job,” I say. “I’m a PhD student in clinical psychology.” It’s actually an MSW program, as I said earlier, but the doctoral track sounds more impressive.

             “Well, that is to your credit,” he says. “And now my guest and I have important things to discuss.”

            I get the hint and politely back away.

            “These kids,” he says to his date. “These adorable kids. They are so wonderful, these young people. Too bad women lose their spark so quickly. It’s over so early for women, isn’t it?”

            “Chicken and rice,” Mindy whispers. “He’ll order the chicken and rice.”

            It’s our standard safety dish for guests who are risk-averse. And cheap. As predicted, he orders the least expensive glass of white wine, to be followed by consommé and the chicken. The friendly date orders the house red, followed by two moderately priced dishes, onion soup and flank steak. He sneers politely at her choices, intimating she is not sophisticated enough to appreciate a high-quality restaurant like Bistro Benét and what is he doing dating down like this, a man of his accomplishment and pedigree.

            I nod a little too enthusiastically when the date places her order and say, “Those are two of our signature dishes. I think you’ll really enjoy them.”

            The date flashes her friendly smile. Professor Feinberg glares at me.

            I keep a close eye on them as I work my other tables. I know his act; I saw it all the time in class. He’ll talk over any comment his date makes, just like he does to his students. He’ll be totally uninterested in anything she has to say, turning the conversation—if I dare call it that—into a monologue about his own importance. I wonder if he’s telling her about the celebrity clients he sees in his private practice. Mentioning their names would be unethical, of course, so he can only give hints about them, providing just enough information for his audience to figure out who they are. I wonder if she’ll be like one of my classmates, who took the bait and asked, “Do you mean to say you treated—-?”

            Professor Feinberg interrupted him scornfully. “What a naive and inappropriate question. You know I cannot violate patient confidentiality.” His tone was sneering, but a slight smile played around his lips as he nodded discretely. 

            The date does not fall for this. Clearly unable to get a word in edgewise, she’s retreated into silence. She orders a second glass of wine, this one significantly more expensive than the first. Then she flags me and orders some additional side dishes to accompany the entrees, I recognize the trick she’s playing, running up the bill by ordering increasingly expensive courses of food and glasses of wine.

            “Why don’t we try the caviar and potato special?” the date says. “It sounds divine.”

            “Caviar? It is so plebeian,” Professor Feinberg sneers.

            “It’s one of our most sought-after sides,” I say, interrupting.

            He glares at me, but the date smiles conspiratorially.

            “And please consider a cheese course,” I add. “It’s one of our house specialties.”

            “Oh yes, let’s! And a glass of Burgundy,” she says, pointing to the most expensive wine on the menu.

            Most of my time is taken up by a large party at a nearby table, but I keep my eye on the date, observing her body language as she changes from the pleasant, eager-to-please woman who first walked into the restaurant into someone by turns bored and then increasingly angry.

            It’s when I start to clear their entrees that I begin to worry. Instinctively, I reach to remove her steak knife.

            She covers it with her hand and says, “No, please. Just leave it.”

            As I serve the cheese course, I notice that she’s wrapped her napkin around the knife and is smoothing it over the serrated end. Very strange.

            “Would you like a dish of our special Chilean strawberries?” I ask.

             She smiles. “Are you allergic to them?” she asks the professor. “I’ve heard people have died from allergic reactions.” She sounds hopeful.

            Professor Feinberg pays no attention. He is still talking, but she is no longer looking at him. Now she’s focused on the coffee stand against the wall a few feet behind him. Maybe I should offer her some coffee, but she’s clearly not looking for something to drink. Then a slight smile coming to her lips, and I think, perhaps this is what Mindy was talking about. I might have a customer in trouble and it is my job to help him. Does Professor Feinberg even know his bored and frustrated date is thinking about picking up the urn and pouring the boiling coffee over his head. Perhaps I should pass him a note saying that if he’s afraid she’s going to attack him, he should start coughing loudly.                                                                                                    

BIO                                                      

Kathryn Ruth Bloom is a retired public-relations professional based in Boston.