The Fly In The Soup

There is a growing menace in restaurants these days, and it's time we took action. It's not salmonella outbreaks in the kitchen, air conditioning at subzero temperatures or lighting so dim it wouldn't hurt to come with a Seeing Eye dog. It's an onslaught of overconcern. Suddenly, patrons are in danger of being questioned to death by hypersolicitous staffs.

The other night, our party was interrupted no fewer than four times during the meal by our waiter or his assistant asking us a variation of the question "Is everything all right?" The waiter, an otherwise normal-looking young man, appeared during each course (appetizer, salad, entree, dessert) eager to know how things were going, how we were doing, did we have everything we needed. That was in addition to his banter while he was serving those courses. Even the busboy inquired about the state of our satisfaction over coffee.

Now, I'm for concern as much as the next person. I know that a common complaint these days is indifference: salesclerks looking the other way or chatting to a friend on the phone while you are desperately trying to find out if the shirt you like is available without a lipstick smudge. We are accustomed to supermarket checkout clerks deciding to count every last penny just as we have unloaded a cartful of groceries, and we dread even entering the Department of Motor Vehicles. So I suppose I should be thrilled to know that every employee of the restaurant where I'm dining truly cares how I feel about the black bean soup. But surely there are limits.

It is to be expected, I suppose, n those elegant establishments that grant reservations only after you provide both social and bank references. An army of help-waiter, maitre d', sommelier, busboy, water-glass filler--takes turns at your elbow, giving you your money's worth of obsequiousness. Fine, for those who like that sort of thing. If you don't, it used to be no problem. Eat elsewhere. But now there's no escape. Family style. Chinese. Italian. Mexican. Morn and Pop. North. South. Urban. Rural. Everybody has to know how you're doing. Often.

You can tell a great deal of training has gone into the timing. At the very moment you are struggling to transport a forkful of squirming pasta to the tip of your tongue or you're dousing the flames ignited by a mistakenly ingested chili pepper, up pops the waitress with a perky "How's everything going?" Is this a plot? Can it be some kind of class thing? Are they getting even in some way--Nancy, Jean-Louis, Pedro, Luigi? If you try to ignore them, they assume it is your hearing and ask again, louder.

Why do they do this? What makes them think we enjoy being grilled along with the salmon steak? Even the most dangerous criminal has a right to remain silent.